#meanwhile in the distant past

[kontextcomic]

Intermission

[comradeboyhalo]

speaking about people getting mad at qbad...have you seen what qslime viewers were saying all week? im not upset, im just shocked because...wow q!bad is really on his tenth character arc and theyre still stuck on q!bad from april. two different worlds indeed.

[8cfc00]

hey guys you ever think about the implications and consequences of limbo slash a simulated reality (thinking about hit movie inception and lincoln li wilson and also heaven heist )

[emacrow]

The jealous child, Three Sisters, and Consequences of a foretold prophecy

"I was supposed to be the youngest, I trained all through my childhood to save you all and yet I wasn't the glorified prophecy child that the Three Sisters foretold." Zeus snapped as he thrown his lightning at a poor mountain icy snow top above Olympus, cracking the top of it in half.

"I was supposed to be praised to lead everyone to greatness and glory that would have mortals worshipping us for eons but yet here we are split away from the mortal realms due because Pandora and that blasted human who killed our only remaining hold on the living world!" The clouds trembled deep grey as the sounds of thunder rumbled and crack, before the rains fell hard as Zeus nearly broke the stone table with his fist as he fell onto his knees.

"But even before I knew as time past on, I had cause the very downfall of Olympic Empire that the Sisters foretold if I kept what I'd done hidden away for all these years..."

Nearly all the Gods and Goddesses couldn't believe their ears, most were too shocked or disappointed to move beside Hades who steadily walked toward Zeus.

Hades help him get up from his defeated looking form before speaking.

"You have carried this secrets since the very beginning and I have only eight things to say." He said before, grabbing Zeus by his throat and literally choking the near immortal life outta of him as his black hair nearly ignited in a deep rosey red fire.

"You Cocky Fucking Jealous Son of a Bitch!" Hades growled menacingly as he topple on Zeus helding him to the ground.

"You mean to tell me that Everything we have gone through, all the crap you put everyone through with your terrible Decision making, tragical unforseenable and judgements, most of our demigod children killed or suffer a terrible fate and being trapped along here severed from the mortal realms beside the underworld could have all been avoided if you haven't killed our youngest sibling because you were jealous that you weren't the last born." Hades nearly spate hellflames as the very air cold into negative degrees while Persephone let him take his long held anger out because even her distant mother would agree that was lower then a diseased rat to do such a thing.

Meanwhile Shazam was having the most painfully split migraine, chewing on caramel popcorn as he was writing down some notes on what he was listening on from the Gods and Goddess. To later tell the other heroes about then.

Part 5 << >> Part 7

[sharkylass]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

(It's not belated what are you talking about-) With the spooky day I bring...

---------------------------------------

--------------------------------------- There's A LOT OF ART under the cut, however it's A LOT OF SPOILERS.

ESPECIALLY FOR THE ACT 6 ENCOUNTER/TWO HATS, EVERYTHING IN THIS POST IS DEPENDANT ON THE FACT YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT ENCOUNTER.

(The dandelions are frozen in time) (...) (You envy them, but you think that's sacrilege, so you move on.)

The gif takes forever to load, please bare with me-

ALRIGHT, LET ME INTRODUCE YOU TO ROBORO.

Roboro (it/they/he) is cold and calculative. It spent so long trying to get out of the loops, that a lot of their tact and bubbliness gave way to their cynicism and bluntness.

They exhibit more of their younger traits. Extreme smarts and avoidance. However, they still carries themselves tall, and aren't afraid to speak their mind. Most of the time, they simply choose not to.

The decision to make him cold and distant, rather then manic and erratic, actually came from Loop themselves. Loop is very actively trying to be the opposite of Siffrin. They act chatty and cruel because that's how far they've been driven, that's how they choose to hide themselves now.

Roboro is the same, in the sense that it's supposed to appear the very opposite of Isabeau.

"Why is it a Dandelion?"

From what I've seen, most people lean on the space idea for the guides, and I find that super neat-

But as an exercise (before this AU was even an IDEA in my mind-) I tried to design Mira, Odile and Isa as guides.

I tried the space theme, and felt really limited with it.

So instead I decided to design them based of ways to wish

Mira was a fire (candle)

Odile was a coin (throwing a coin in a fountain/well)

And Isabeau WAS in fact a dandelion (blowing on a dandelion)

And I guess that idea just stuck around in my brain until I got to making this au.

Their Dynamic With Isa

The two's dynamic isn't too dissimilar to Sif and Loop. Isa still tries to be his loud positive headstrong self, and Roboro sees past the bullshit, and grinds Isa's gears

(Fun fact for that second one: Roboro knew Isa wanted to be called "good boy" cause it probably would have wanted to hear it too-) As time goes on, the two learn to get along if only a little. Isa starts to appreciate the bluntness of Roboro, together with the helpful tips. Roboro meanwhile, seeing Isa's descent starts to feel a spark of empathy for the guy (which sucks for ACT 5 whoops.)

Silver Coin Equivalent

The equivalent is called "Lucky Pencil". Isa is a pretty superstitious guy, despite knowing better logically. So I thought he'd totally be the type to carry around a lucky charm of sorts!

(You recall.) (Before you lost yourself to time, you tried to become a defender.) (You got so tired of being the lone kid, the one people would not see, or think about.) (You were smart, but you were invisible.) (Sure, you were quiet, but you had good grades! You were getting by!) (Even your own family didn't think much of your solitude.) (And yet, you were so scared to open your mouth, to even answer questions you knew the answers to-) (It was hard. Suffocating even.) (When teachers started giving you good grades without you even having to try-) (Something had to change. You had to change.) (And you did! You became stronger, resilient, reliable. Became the very antithesis of what you used to be.) (Left everything you were behind.) (But it was worth it! You could finally!!! Talk!!! You could bring smiles to people's faces! They'd smile when you entered a room! And each time you felt pride. Pride in who you were.) (You tried talking with your family more, being more open, loud-) (They still didn't see you.) (Smart kids turned away, uble to face you, see their fears embodied. Fears that if they wanted to belong, they had to leave their brains for brawn.) (It was better. You were happier. But you still didn't belong, either.) (In hallways filled with people, you were still just there.) (…) (You tried really hard for you Defender exam. You exercised to near faints. Only really ate and slept cause you knew it would make you stronger.) (Buried your nose in reading and studying to avoid thoughts of doubt. And when they'd reach you anyways, you'd go for a run.) (You know it wasn't the best for you. You're supposed to be stupid, not unwise. "Just until I pass" you told yourself.) (… You were exhausted on your exam day. As your nerves heightened, so did your "coping". You were ready!!! You just, needed a little help.) (So you opened your drawer, filled with old papers and textbooks and notes. You don't like looking in there too much, but you took what you needed.) (A beaten up pencil. Your little lucky charm!!! Sure, you always knew the answers, but it was easier if you believed this pencil was helping you, guiding you.) (It was silly to think it would help, but you weren't taking chances.) (…) (Even after all that time, you couldn't leave that part of yourself behind.) (You still can't.) (You're the only one that can't.)

ACT 6 FIGHT

The ACT 6 encounter would... go about as well as you'd expect. Not only did a version of you win- it's the version of you that pretends to be a meat head, the one that's preoccupied with being nice rather then thinking ahead. How did he get to win when you, you who's changed, you who's given everything you had, everything you wanted to simply get out?

Why does he get to win? Why does this loud mouth, emotional, explosive guy get to win? He's learned nothing!---

I have more stuff to draw for this encounter, including the "I'm sorry/ thank you" pictures. I leave this one off with the knowledge that Isa used to tug on his hair as a stress stim. Guess is stuck around huh.

______________________

Post Loops Roboro

Roboro, once again, Changes! This time to resemble a yellow dandelion, rather then a white one. The family is long gone by the time Roboro wakes up again, and first thing's first- It has to find clothes. It doesn't like the weird looks people give him.

So, he goes to the House, braves the looks and gasps and confusion. It's trauma be damned, it's gonna talk to that Head Housemaiden finally.

He meets up with Euphrasie, and she quickly catches on what must be going on.

She's readily willing to give Roboro one of her old dresses-

Problem being- 1. They are too big on it (he may be Tall, but not EUPHIE level tall-) and 2. It wouldn't be the most comfortable wearing a dress around.

So, they figure they should make some adjustments. Euphrasie is willing to make the adjustments, it would only take her a day or two.

However, Roboro kind of... wants to try to do it themselves. There's no rush, it has nowhere to be. Maybe... maybe learning to re-engage with an old hobby could be good for it...?

Euphie excitedly lets it stay at the House, figure out what it wants to do- to take it's time changing!

Obviously, Roboro has trauma from the House. The walls, the cramped space- it terrifies them. But they also don't want to stay at anyone's home in Dormont, the awkwardness would kill him, if feeling like a nuisance doesn't do it first.

So. Roboro stays at the rooftop.

Roboro does some sewing on a new outfit, at the top of the House. At the very end of everything.

It's a bittersweet reminder that it's over, so it's as good as it could get while staying at Dormont.

I have a whole comic about this in particular, but this is already a massive infodump so I'm gonna stop it there for now-

Roboro travels around a while. It and Isa agreed to meet up eventually, but there was no rush to it.

He went around a while, re-familiarized itself with life, with people, with hobbies, with existing-

Probably made some friendships along the way. Those are probably the people who pushed it into reconnecting with the family.

I'm not gonna go into detail about everyone's dynamics and stuff, this is too long, and I'm still writing that stuff anyway.

I can however leave you with this:

(I might change how Post Loops Isa looks in the future, I haven't quite figured it out yet)

______________________

PHEW

THAT WAS A LOT

IT'S NOT EVEN EVERYTHING I HAVE, I HAVE SO MUCH STUFF AUGH,,,

Anyways, I just wanted to thank you all for the support on the first post, I didn't expect it at ALL Just know I appreciate it :]

[selkiemoonssss]

FINALLY FINISHED IT SO I GETTA YAP

okay so in the first bit, the first bit is dark going into a lighter background to kinda symbolize how Sans views current times dark- and as he 'turns to face the past' or whatever, it grows lighter because that's what the past felt like compared to present because of how distant wingdings became

Meanwhile the lyrics symbolize like how he isn't really letting go? And how wingdings is slipping away from him so he's just going over these old memories hoping things would return to the way they were

Anyway the 'world we knew bit' is supposed to look like a child's drawing, and it's how they viewed themselves back then, the center of each other's worlds, important yk!!

(Also fun to note, but the earth looks so weird because honestly idk if monsters would actually even know what the world would look like?? Maybe there's a few maps or smth that've come through the dump but those are rare so the most monsters would really know is like 'blue circle with green blobs)

But yeah!! So cool!!

Also my art is really inconsistent in this because I had on it and worked on my artstyle a little so I promise that's why it looks so odd anyway yeah

This was pretty lazy I'll do smth better laterrrrr

FORGETTABLE AU BELONGS TO @forgettable-au

[angel5ofp0rn]

♡ part nine ♡

ExHusband!Price x f!reader

You and John have been pretty distant during the past two months, basically just coparenting in the same house.

You decided that depending on how this goes, how John and his ex wife interact, how the kids all get along, that's how you’ll decide the next step for the two of to get back together.

On the train from London to Bath, John holds your youngest in his lap and listen to her ooh's and ah's about being in a new country.

Meanwhile, you listen to every little question your oldest asks you about the new country, about the plane ride, about why everyone here “talks like daddy”.

After a while the train finally arrives at the station. John takes the lead out the door, carrying your oldest on his back as you carry the youngest on your hip.

The two of you are pretty silent, only talking to the children rather than each other.

The kids go crazy, suddenly getting a burst of energy as they explore the rental John booked for this trip.

They’re clearly more interested in the temporary house than anything else.

"So," you look at John as the kids giggle and wrestle on the floor. "When do we meet them?"

John takes a deep breath before he speaks. "Tomorrow morning. I thought the four of us could get breakfast and then head out to Nadia's house." He speaks carefully as if he’s trying not to say something that might upset you.

You just nod, turning your attention back to the kids.

He doesn’t say it, but he’s just as nervous as you. He doesn’t know what it’ll be like tomorrow, if the kids will all get along, if you and his other ex-wife will get along.

The kids definitely don’t sense any tension, that's for sure.

•••

You and John tucked the kids into bed in the larger room of the house, letting them share the king bed. It’s just John and you in the second room, separate beds, as had become the norm for the two of you.

John's quiet in his bed simply staring at the ceiling, his mind filled with thoughts of the following day.

"John..?" You sit up in your bed and look over at him.

John turns his head, a tiny bit surprised to see that you're still awake. He just gives you a small smile.

"Can't sleep?"

You shake your head. You’d been trying to sleep for the last two hours but the anxiety isn't letting you.

"Yeah... Neither can I..." John rubs his face and lets out a small sigh. He lifts his covers. "C'mon, love."

You should put your foot down or tell him off... But you don’t.

He has you. Divorce, secret family and all.

You slowly get out of your bed and crawl into his, instantly cuddling up to his warm body.

John wraps his arms around you, pulling you to his chest. He closes his eyes, savoring this moment with you.

You're in his arms, and although things between you two are still tense, you're at least here with each other.

Things are okay as long as you two are together, he thinks to himself before slowly starting to drift off to sleep.

•••

After breakfast the four of you head off. You have John park your rental car down the block hoping that the fresh air would help calm your nerves…

Or maybe you were just stalling.

John's leading the way, carrying your youngest in one arm and holding the oldest’s hand with the other.

The kids are both pretty excited to meet Theo. They took the news that their father has another child very well… That wasn’t surprising, as they're just kids and don't fully understand.

You, on the other hand, are a nervous wreck. You thought of what would happen if Nadia hates you, since John meeting you made him leave her, or what if Theo wants nothing to do with your kids, his half-siblings.

What if Nadia and John still have feelings for each other?

John looks over at you, noticing the slight panic and anxiety on your face even though you're trying to hide it from the kids. He keeps his expression calm, even when his heart feels like it's pounding out of his chest.

He knows you're going to have questions and feelings about this no matter what, but he just hopes the two of you can get through his visit with his other family without any more damage.

The four of you continue walking, the house that Nadia and Theo live in coming into full view. John's grip on your oldest’s hand tightens slightly, you could notice. He lets go of the five-year-old’s hand once you're all at the front door and he rings the doorbell.

After a moment Nadia stands in the doorway, her blonde hair pulled back in a claw clip, a small smile on her face...

Damn it, she's gorgeous.

She's older than you, John's age, with these gorgeous green eyes and the prettiest long eyelashes and full lips… She even has the cutest dimples in her cheeks.

You felt like couldn't even blame John if he decided today that he wants to go back to her.

John didn't really think much about Nadia's appearance. To him she was just an old flame of the past. She was beautiful, sure, but he had moved on years ago.

She was just his son’s mother.

But, seeing how you looked at her caused John a bit of pain. He knew it was bothering you. He wanted to assure you that there was nothing to worry about between the two of them, but he didn’t have a chance to do so just yet.

Instead, John smiles a bit as he starts to introduce you all.

"Nadia... Uh, this is Gabriel, my son.” Your oldest, just excited to see his older brother soon, waves a bit, "and this is Linnie, my little girl.” Your youngest, feeling shy around the stranger, buries her face into John’s chest.

John then gestures to you, turning his head towards you then glances back over at Nadia. "And this is Y/N... My, erm..."

"Ex-wife." You offer, blushing a bit. No need to complicate it. "It's really nice to meet you, Nadia. Thank you for letting us all be here."

Nadia smiles, genuinely. "Of course. I'm glad this is all finally happening. Come in, come in. Tea's on."

You follow behind John as we walk into Nadia's house, holding Gabriel's hand tightly.

John walks in with you and the kids, a lot of nervous energy still adiating from him. You sit at the table with everyone, holding your youngest in your lap now as your oldest sits between John and yourself.

"Where's my brother?" Your oldest whispers to John as Nadia sets tea in front of John and you, then herself as she sits across.

John looks down at your son and smiles, his nervousness temporarily gone when asked about Theo. "I'm sure he'll be out of his room in a moment."

Nadia just seems to be staring at John for a moment, her expression hard to read, before she smiles and gestures to the children. "These two are adorable."

"Thank you,” you laugh a bit. "They're a couple of little monkeys."

Nadia laughs as well, finding your description of your children funny. She takes a drink of her tea as she sets her cup down on the table. "They're beautiful. They really look like Theo when he was their ages."

As if on cue, Theo walks into the dining room.

Of course he’s gorgeous.

He looks like ten year old John.

He see's his dad and immediately runs up to him and hugs him tightly. You watch as John smiles widely, hugging his oldest son tightly.

Your oldest, upon seeing that John is now hugging his big brother, starts to get excited. He hops out of his seat and goes running towards Theo as well.

“Big brother!" The five year old’s arms immediately wrap around Theo and hugs him tightly as well. Theo hugs him back, unfazed, as if he's know him his entire life instead of this being their first time meeting.

"Oh my God…” You smile, the sight warming my heart.

Nadia seems to be having a similar reaction to you, grinning broadly as the two boys hug each other. She turns to look at your daughter for a moment, who just watches intently, taking in the sight of her brothers. She seems excited too, wiggling around in your lap to see them better.

"Do you want to meet Theo as well, little one?" Nadia asked her gently.

Your youngest nods shyly.

You put her on her feet, and the oldest child kneels down, anticipating a hug from the toddler.

Instead, the little one runs to Nadia and climbs into her lap for a hug instead. You and John both laugh, surprised by this.

Nadia smiles and wraps her arms around Linnie, hugging her tightly. Her embrace is comforting and reassuring to the bashful little one.

"It's nice to meet you, Theo." You finally smile at John and Nadia's son. "I'm Y/N."

Theo's smile grows as he sees you, his bright blue eyes studying you carefully almost like he's trying to memorize your appearance. "It's nice to meet you, too.”

"Can we play?!" Your oldest asked John’s oldest, then looked back to John for permission as well.

John nods quickly, giving him permission to play with his older brother. Nadia, meanwhile, just smiles and nods as well. "Theo has loads of Legos in his room. Go ahead. Get to know one another as well."

Your oldest smiles widely before following his “new” big brother to his room. Linnie just clings to Nadia's chest, looking between the two of you, trying to take everything in.

"I might just keep this little one." Nadia teased, hugging her a bit closer.

You can't help but smile. This isn't at all how you thought this would go.

It's so much better.

The boys are now playing in the room, building Legos and just enjoying each other's company. Your daughter seems content to be with Nadia, who's holding her in her lap, stroking her hair softly with her fingers and talking quietly with her.

You feel John take your hand under the table, squeezing it a bit as he sips his tea.

John leans in closely, whispering to you as Nadia speaks with your youngest. "Everything's goin’ well... right?"

You nod with a small smile, then sip at your tea as well. You watch as Nadia gets your little one to open up a bit, getting her to talk and giggle.

It only takes a few minutes before Nadia convinces the two year old to go into Theo's room and play with her big brothers, and to get to know Theo a bit. Now it's just her, John and you at the table.

John looks around and seems to sigh in relief, leaning back in his seat as he continues to squeeze your hand.

Nadia and you finally get a chance to have a proper conversation as the two of you continue to talk and sip on your tea.

Everything has gone so smoothly; especially now when Gabriel and Linnie seem to have just bonded with Theo like the three have known each other for years rather than just having met today.

John sighs a bit, smiling over at Nadia and you as she holds a conversation with you, seeming more than happy that things are working out.

For the first time in a long time, today he feels at ease, like everything's going just like it's supposed to go.

After spending the entire day together, You decide it's time to get the kiddos back to the rental and get them into bed.

John helps Nadia with the dishes after dinner while you help the kids clean up Theo's room after playing.

•••

You and John finish bathing the children after their long day and tuck them into the king bed once again.

John follows you into the other bedroom, shutting the door behind him as he goes over and sits on the edge of his bed. He just takes a deep breath in there, sighing as he rubs his face.

Today went well, sure. But that doesn’t exactly change anything between the two of you just yet.

You sit on John's lap, his arms instantly wrapping around your waist. It was just natural.

John just exhales. Your warmth against his chest helped him to feel at ease for a moment.

"Nadia is gorgeous." You sigh. "You didn't tell me that part."

John chuckles softly. "Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

"How can I not be?"

John rubs his thumb over the top of your thigh. "She's my past, love... We don't have... We've never had what you and I have."

You look at him, meeting his eyes. You try to find even a tiny hint of dishonestly.

That makes the next part harder.

“I don’t understand how you could have done that to them.” You start slowly. “The man I married isn’t a man that would just abandon his family for some random girl at a bar.”

You could feel John tense at your words. You stand up off of his lap now, pacing the room a bit.

“I didn’t abandon them-“

“You left your wife and child in a different country. What would you call that?” You retort.

“You don’t understand how things were between Nadia and I before I met you.” John insists. “It’s not like I left a happy marriage.”

“You still left your child.” You shake your head. “If you visit fucking Italy right now and meet a younger woman, would you leave Gabe and Linnie back in the states and only see them once a month? I always thought, ‘maybe John and I aren’t a good match, but at least he’s a good dad’… But I don’t know if I believe that anymore.”

“I’m a damn good dad. To all of them.” John defends himself through gritted teeth.

“You’ve been lying to my kids their whole lives!”

“Your kids?” John quirked an eyebrow at that.

“My kids.” You double down, arms crossed.

“I don’t wanna fight.” John sighs finally, rubbing his eyes. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“Fine.” You exit the room, going back to where the kids slept, leaving John alone.

<< prev next >>

[bitter-me]

Can I request an romantic angst with Aventurine and Malleus (Male Reader)? Like Male Reader is turning into his Overblot form because he realizes he'll outlive Aventurine and trapping Penacony in the dreamscape.

Once Upon a Dream

Aventurine | M. Reader as Malleus Draconia [Twisted Wonderland]

----------

"You'll love me at once.... the way you did once upon a.. dream.."

----------

[Name] Draconia.. the crown prince.. of Briar Valley..

No one would have thought that someone like him... could have his eyes on someone from the IPC! How!? Some money grubbing asshole?! Has the prince gone mad!? He's obviously being used!?

Meanwhile on the IPC side, it's more of.. disbelief...

How? How could someone like him have none other than the crown prince of Briar Valley?? Him? Of all people??

But if one were to stop and look for just a moment... it's not what everyone originally thinks. The prince's lover.. is far from the "money grubbing asshole" people say he is. He's surprisingly charming, and has his way with words. One could see why the prince loved him so much.

Same thing could be said to the prince. People who once saw him as a cold and uncaring person was shock to see just how caring he can be.

Some would say, they're perfect for each other. They completed each other. They're the only ones who could see right past each others mask and saw the real, true version of themselves.

----------

A music box that plays an unknown melody. Its tune sounded unsettling yet also calming. Like a tune playing in a distant dream.

It intrigues him.

Such a unique way to invite someone..

And oh how happy he was to see his beloved in that place. His beloved who was also invited into this place where others would pay millions just to spend the night in.

Penacony.

"Ah! You Highness, I see that you're also invited? I thought they might have forgotten your invitation." Aventurine joked sarcastically. It's almost comedic with how [Name] always didn't receive an invitation where he is supposed to have one. It's like fate is messing with him.

[Name] can't help but chuckle at the joke. "Yes, I am indeed invited to this grand festival."

"Well that's good, it means you could enjoy a once in an Amber Era performance."

During his visit, the crown prince had met multiple people, they're so friendly and they didn't seem to fear him. How delightful! Accepting Penacony's invitation had got to be the best decision [Name] had ever made! Not to mention, meeting the famed Nameless too! If only he could share this moment with Lilia. Those rectangular things are just so hard to command! [Name] has full respect to people who know how to use such objects. Truly, they earned his respect.

And oh how happy he was that the Trailblazer wanted to spend some time with him exploring the dreamscape. This is truly more than he could ever wish for.

.

.

.

.

.

"Please let me go!"

Drip... drip.. drip..

.

.

"Is that you, Screwllum?"

Drip... drip.. drip... drip...

.

.

Those words...

Such desperation..

Such sorrow..

Isn't this a dreamscape? Then why are they suffering? Why the sadness? Why the sorrows? Why the desperation? Those people he helped Trailblazer save.. why are they so..

It wasn't until the Trailblazer explained it that he finally understood...

...

.....

...Have humans always been this fragile..? Have they always been this vulnerable to everything around them? To the point that it'll only take a single flick from someone like him and the flames of their lives extinguished?

The sight of that girl being killed by that thing... are humans truly that fragile? That a simple and clean injury caused them their lives?

Drip... drip.. drip... drip... drip..

...

"Aventurine!" The sight of his beloved walking like he had come out of a bar or a fight. It broke his heart with how distraught he is. His beloved.. how could this happen? Who did this? Why is his beloved like this?

[Name] glanced at Dr. Ratio, expecting an answer out of him. Only to be met by silence. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as doubt and uneasiness creeps within him. But that doesn't matter at the moment... what matters is his beloved. [Name] turned his head to face Aventurine as he looked at him with concern and loving eyes. "Aventurine, are you already? Can you stand properly? I can carry you if you like."

"It's nothing serious, [Name] just a killer headache, that's all." Aventurine says with his usual smile.

As far as [Name] recalls these things called "headaches" aren't usually this.. horrible.. has these headaches always been like this? Is immense pain what they all feel whenever these headaches happen?

"It's nothing really, I'll be fine! But if you excuse me.. I have some work to do.." Aventurine says before walking towards Aideen Park with a rather large bag. [Name] watches on as his beloved practically whimpers in pain, he can't help but feel saddened by the sight. Where is his usual energetic and happy beloved? Why did this have to happen? Who did this to him? Who dare lay a hand on the [Name] Draconia's beloved?!

Dr. Ratio seems to have noticed the other's distress as he let out a sigh before saying. "It's pitiful isn't it? But I suppose that's just how it is. One day we all will be like that too. Supposed you could say, he's preparing for that day."

...

...'we all will be like that too'..? What does the doctor mean by that..?

Looking at his surroundings, [Name] could see a few elderly people walking around the Golden Hour. They look tired and worn out, with wrinkles on their faces and those white hairs...

Is that what happens to humans when they age? If he recalls, Lilia had told him something about these before. But.. never would [Name] thought he'll see it for himself. This thing actually happens. Humans age and then they...

...will Aventurine face the same too?

Will he too grow old and tired? Will he need a cane to help him walk? Will he suffer from some sort of illness or fatigue? Will he..

The thought puts a pit on [Name]'s stomach.

He's going to outlive him. [Name] would continue to live while Aventurine...

----------

'A once in an Amber Era performance'..

Oh how true those words are.. How true those words are..

Standing behind the curtains of the Theme Park, Aventurine ready himself for his upcoming act. But as his hands touch the soft material of it, his guests seems to have found him first before he could say anything else. The ground shakes like a light earthquake. This wasn't his doing. This wasn't a part of the performance! What's going on?

As much as it spoils his plans... Aventurine has no choice but to deal with this situation first and who wouldn't make a better teammate than his friends from the Astral Express? Carefully walking towards the center stage of the Theme Park. They certainly didn't expect the Prince of Briar Valley to be there. What is he doing in a place like this? Deserted. Where he stands alone with only his thoughts accompanying him.

Turning around to face the crowd, he smiles at the sight of them. "Well well... what a glamorous party. The Astral Express... the Emanator.. and the IPC's ambassador.. everyone is here. Fufufu...!"

His usual deep and velvety voice sounded just as soft as always, but somehow for an unknown reason, that tone sounded ominous, sinister even. A chill went down Aventurine's spine. Never had he heard just a tone [Name] before..

"Aventurine.. I've been thinking about this. What should I give to you.. No, what should I give you all? And I finally got the answer."

"Please accept this... It's a gift from the bottom of my heart."

They all look uneasy. A gift? What is it for? For what occasion? A gift for everyone? What is this gift? Gathering his courage, Mr. Yang spoke up in a calm and nervous tone. "Gift? Your Highness... what are you thinking about?"

[Name] can't help but chuckle at those words. "Listen carefully, everyone! I've bestowed a wonderful gift for you all. There's no need to part ways and shed tears again. We shouldn't celebrate "the end" today, it's the "beginning"!"

"Fufu.. yes. All of you will be born again today." Raising a hand, [Name] channels his magic as he smiles sweetly at everyone. His usual friendly smile looks more sinister with every word that came out of his mouth.

"To a world without sorrow where you don't have to lose your family, friends.. everything!"

.

.

The fight is not easy. Far from it. Never would they think that they'll be fighting the Prince of Briar Valley. Fighting someone as skilled as him is a nightmare in itself, but they've survived for this long.. and it seems that [Name] had enough as he engulfed the surrounding area in flames.

"Back off, you fool.. why be afraid? Even though a wonderful future is waiting for you. Now give me your hand, fufufu... hahaha!" Channeling another spell, [Name] smiles warmly to welcome this new era. One without pain and suffering.

"Spinning wheel of fate, keep pulling the thread of disaster. As King of the Abyss, I shall bestow this upon you."

"Fae of Maleficence."

.

.

.

.

.

Drip... drip.. drip... drip... drip.. drip..

The bustling life of Penacony... had come to an abrupt stop.. to embrace another dreamscape. One with no danger.. a safe heven..

A place where they all can live happily as all of Penacony is engulfed in thick thorn walls. Like a cage. "Don't worry... there's nothing to be afraid of. If you surrender to sleep, a thousand years will go by in an instant." The Prince stated with confidence as he calmly walked through the stage of the Theme Park in his new form. A form that he had embraced to fulfill his wish and grant everyone this wonderful gift.

"You all will become the main character of a fairytale."

The tune of the music box he received.. it's such a nice calming tune, yet so ominous..

"I know you.. I walked with you once upon a dream.. I know you.. that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.."

It's a tune no one couldn't possibly be mistaken. Like a lullaby. Maybe those who sent him such a thing.. has the Prince's heart in mind. As he sang a lullaby to help them have a pleasant and wonderful dream. Following the tune of his invitation to this.. place..

"And I know it's true, that visions are seldom what they seem.. but if I know you.. I know what you'll do... you'll love me at once..."

"The way you did once upon.. a... dream..."

[naehja]

AU where Shen Jiu wakes up in the past after diying from having his members ripped from his body and learning Yue Qingyuan's death.

He's not replaced by Shen Yuan but he has 8/9 years of memories of futur events so he decided to make sure that nobody bad will happen to him, he loves having his members thank you very much. And he can save...

Starting with saving Liu Qingge.

He goes sooner in the caves and start to meditate. He needs to be stronger. He needs to be strong.

And he successes to save his Shidi…and almost die in the process.

Liu Qingge brings Shen Jiu to the healers because he's in a bad state and is the one to face the demons.

Later, he's very confused and decides to bring gifts to Shen Jiu in a way to thank him. His sister jokes about those gifts being courting gifts. Bonus if Shen Jiu needs QI transfert (like Shen Yuan in the book) and he decides that his brute is the only one that he will tolerate. So they starts to speak and become closer. And he gets better physically.

(Liu Qingge would be extremely offended if someone says that his QI deviation was a murder attempt from Shen Jiu)

(Someone has tried to said it)

Meanwhile Shern Jiu doesn't know what to do with Luo Binghe. He realizes that 1) he can't kill him 2) This brat has a incredible luck like if destiny was in his side 3) if he hurts him, he will die.

So he stops hurting him but doesn't particulary pay attention to him. He's cold and distant. He's still a strict teacher but isn't especially nice or cruel neither. He will not throw him in the abyss so it'll be ok. He hopes.

Meanwhile, the changes appear in the modern world like a sequel of the original story. Like if this new story, centered on Shen Jiu, was the official sequel.

Shen Yuan is annoyed. "what do you mean the scum villain is the main character now and everything of the future has been erased?"

"What do you mean YingYing is like a daugther for him? He never did anything wrong to her?"

""Wait...how many accusation were accurates then?""

"WHAT IS THIS HORRIBLE BACKSTORY AIRPLANE? YOU FREAKING SADIST!"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN LUO BINGHE ISN'T IMPORTANT ANYMORE?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE LIUJIU IS A BETTER ROMANCE THAN ANY ROMANCE THAT LUO BINGHE HAS HAD IN THE ORIGINAL STORY?"

A lot of fans are happy because they thought that there had something between Shen Jiu and Liu Qingge.

Meanwhile Shang Qinghua: my son is happy. =) I never thought to his ship but it's perfect!

[ssa-dado]

14 - What Could Have Been

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluff, whump and alluded smut Summary: Hotch invited you to join the team for drinks, a rare gesture revealing how deeply your presence still affected him. As the night unfolded, the team noticed the undeniable connection between you two, despite the years of distance. Peter, unaware of the subtle dynamics, accidentally outed personal details about your past, igniting quiet rage in Hotch, who later confronted him. Meanwhile, Peter revealed plans for your future. Hotch, torn between happiness for you and regret over lost chances, masked his emotions, as usual. Warnings: alluded sex and outing Word Count: 7.9k Dado's Corner: I experimented stylistically with this chapter, it's all in one setting and paves the way for the future plot. It's very similar to chapter 8, this time with Hotch's POV. Ok now let's talk about the big elephant in the room: the part I decided to add was.. that. Yep. Hate me

masterlist

At the bar, Hotch sat directly across from you, it was an old habit neither of you ever discussed, but it mirrored the way your desks had been positioned all those years ago, facing one another.

It was Hotch who insisted you join the team for drinks while you were still in town, a rare invitation that had caught everyone off guard. For as long as the team could remember, Hotch had always been the first to leave after a case, racing home to spend whatever sliver of time he could with his family. There was always a hurriedness to him, a quiet desperation behind his tightly controlled exterior. His constant absence gnawed at him, feeding a guilt that never seemed to wane, as if each hour spent at work was a betrayal to the family waiting for him.

He feared, deeply and quietly, that he was becoming the very thing he swore he’d never be: his father.

Distant.

Cold.

The most irrational side of him believed, almost certainly, that once he became that, it would take barely a breath to not only become like his father, but to repeat his father’s deeds, most painfully, the ones done to him.

A man swallowed by work, only to offer scraps of himself to those who needed him most. He could already see the parallels, the way Haley’s eyes would dull when he missed dinner again, the way Jack’s laugh grew quieter in his absence. It haunted him - the thought of losing them, of being too late to realize he’d made the same mistakes.

So when Hotch suggested a night out with the team, everyone had been floored. It was so out of character for him to initiate something so casual, so personal. And when he casually mentioned that you would be joining, it became clear to the team that this night wasn’t just a rare opportunity to unwind, it was something more meaningful. This wasn’t just Hotch taking an evening off, it was him opening a window into a part of his life that had never fully let go of him.

That part was you.

As the night went on, the team exchanged subtle glances, silently acknowledging the shift in their normally reserved boss. You were someone who had shaped him, someone who still had an undeniable influence over him, even after all this time. There was a quiet gravity to the way Hotch looked at you, the rare ease in his demeanor. He wasn’t just their stern, disciplined unit chief tonight - there was something lighter in him, something almost playful.

Across the table, Hotch’s gaze lingered on you, drawn to every subtle movement, every quiet sound. Six years of distance had sharpened his awareness of you, as if time apart had made him need to memorize you all over again. The sound of your soft chuckle, the way you leaned in, eyes wide with surprise, became etched into his mind, each moment sacred.

"Wait - what do you mean you guys have a jet now?" you asked, incredulous, your disbelief pulling a rare smile from him, one he hadn’t felt in far too long, that immediately caught the team’s attention. It was an expression so unusual for him that it felt almost out of place, but in that moment, it suited him perfectly.

“Budget increases,” he said with a hint of dry humor. “I’d say we got lucky.”

You leaned back in your chair, rolling your eyes in playful exasperation. “I swear, I’m cursed,” you teased, your voice laced with disbelief. “Every time I leave something, it suddenly gets upgraded. I leave, and you guys get a jet? Come on!”

The team erupted in laughter, the easy camaraderie in the air making the night feel more intimate, more personal. Hotch’s smirk softened into something warmer, a smile that barely lifted the corners of his mouth but was genuine nonetheless. “It probably only happened because Rossi left,” he added, his voice lighter than usual, clearly enjoying the banter. “You know he used to complain every time he had to share a room with Gideon.”

The team watched in amazement, their eyes darting between you and Hotch as if they were witnessing something impossible. Hotch - stoic, unyielding Hotch - seemed lighter tonight, the weight he usually carried on his shoulders lifting, even if just for this fleeting moment. It was as though being in your presence allowed him to breathe a little easier, his usual armor cracking just enough to let something more human, more personal, shine through.

JJ, wide-eyed and still processing everything that had unfolded, couldn’t help but blurt out, “How often did you even have to share rooms?!” Her question came out more like an exclamation, half in disbelief. She didn’t expect a real answer, just like the rest of the team.

“Oh, trust me,” you began with a knowing smile, your voice carrying the weight of countless stories untold. “I’ve shared rooms more times than I can count.” You paused, letting the team absorb that, watching as their expressions shifted from curiosity to surprise.

And then, as if effortlessly peeling back yet another layer of mystery, you added the real kicker. “In fact, I was always stuck sharing with him.” You gestured toward Hotch with a casual nod, your grin widening as the team’s jaws collectively dropped.

The room fell silent for a beat, the air thick with disbelief. The team exchanged wide-eyed glances, struggling to process what they had just heard. Garcia, practically vibrating with shock, looked like she might burst. Reid’s brows furrowed in confusion, as if trying to calculate how this detail had somehow escaped him all these years. Prentis and JJ sat frozen, their mouth slightly open, while Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised, letting out a low whistle.

Hotch, for his part, remained quiet but noticeably more relaxed, as though your playful revelation brought back memories he'd long held close to the vest. He didn’t deny it, didn’t feel the need to clarify, simply allowing the moment to exist between you and the team.

Garcia, her mouth still dropped open, asked, leaning in eagerly, hanging on every word. “Wait - how long are you in town?”

You smiled, but there was a trace of melancholy beneath the warmth. “Just for the weekend,” you replied, your tone softening. “I’m off to Poland next week.”

As soon as the words left your lips, Hotch’s demeanor shifted. His expression, which had been open and relaxed just moments before, clouded over with something more complex - regret, perhaps, or an ache he didn’t allow himself to feel too often.

He wasn’t ready for you to leave, not again. He had barely begun to savor the brief time he had with you, and already he could feel it slipping away, the distance between you growing wider with every passing moment.

Next to you, Morgan leaned in feeling the behavioural shift of the Unit Chief, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "Think you can bribe Hotch into giving us a weekend off?" His tone was light, almost playful, but the faint glimmer of hope behind it was unmistakable.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the boldness of his request, but the smirk that tugged at your lips returned almost immediately. “Don’t tell me he doesn’t even give you weekends off?” you teased, eyebrow raised.

Morgan’s exasperated look said everything.

He wasn’t joking.

Your eyes flickered toward Hotch, who had been sitting quietly, focused on the almost emptied beer in front of him, his usual unreadable expression firmly in place. You caught his gaze, leaning in slightly, as if to coax him out of his stoic shell. “Aaron, don’t you and Haley come over for lunch tomorrow? Peter will be there, and I’d love to finally meet Jack.”

At the mention of his son, Hotch’s expression softened, just for a moment - a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise controlled demeanor. The team noticed too, their silent intrigue palpable. But the flicker was quickly extinguished as a sense of duty clouded his features. “I’d love to,” he replied, regret clear in his voice, “but we’ve got case files to wrap up. The Section Chief is breathing down my neck about last week’s reports, and we’re already behind.”

You leaned back slightly, watching him with careful eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you realized the negotiation had just begun. It was subtle, but the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. Even the others at the table, long accustomed to Hotch’s unshakable authority, could sense that something had changed.

You sat up a little straighter, your voice calm but with a hint of persuasion. “Aaron,” you said again, more measured this time, “there’s no reason the reports have to be done in the office. Your team could work from home, and I guarantee they’d get it done faster. Studies have shown remote work boosts productivity. Less stress, fewer distractions.”

Hotch’s eyebrow arched, his skepticism evident. “Remote work? For a federal investigation?” His tone was as even as ever, but there was a sharp edge to it, as if he were already calculating the risk. “I need oversight, accountability. If something gets missed, it’s on me. And we both know how that plays out.”

You smiled, waiting for that exact response. Leaning forward slightly, you matched his tone. “Accountability doesn’t have to mean they’re sitting in an office under your nose, Aaron. Think about it. Immanuel Kant said that true moral and productive action comes from autonomy, from people governing themselves. There’s a very interesting quote of his that explains it all, ‘Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.’ People work better when they’re trusted to do their jobs without someone breathing down their necks. Give them that freedom, and they’ll rise to the occasion.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed, though a faint trace of amusement flickered in his usually impassive gaze. “Quoting Kant now, are we?” His voice remained calm, but there was a challenge in it, one that only those who knew him well would recognize. “Philosophical arguments aren’t going to change the fact that these reports need to be done. I need them on my desk by Monday.”

You weren’t backing down. “I’m not just quoting Kant. Rousseau, too. He argued that ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ If you let your team work from home, you’re giving them the freedom to do the work on their own terms, without the usual constraints. Studies show that productivity actually increases when people aren’t stuck in traffic on their way to work or dealing with office politics.”

Hotch crossed his arms over his chest, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “So now it’s Kant and Rousseau? What’s next, Nietzsche?” He leaned in slightly, his tone growing firmer. “I get what you’re doing. You’re trying to philosophically outmaneuver me, but that’s not going to work. I need those reports. Immaculate. Not just in by the deadline, but flawless.”

The air at the table became heavier, and you could feel the weight of the team’s anticipation. Garcia let out a barely audible gasp, her eyes wide as she watched the exchange unfold like a courtroom drama. Even Reid, usually quiet in such moments, leaned forward, intrigued by the battle of wits. You could feel Morgan’s eyes flick between you and Hotch, his posture tense, waiting for the outcome.

You leaned in further, your own smirk sharpening. “Flawless? That’s your condition?”

Hotch didn’t waver, his expression steady as stone. “That’s right. If they are going to stay at home, I need those reports in my inbox by 3 PM tomorrow. And they’d better be immaculate - no typos, no oversights, no errors. One mistake, and it’s not just overtime for next week, it’s the whole deal off.”

Morgan whispered under his breath, “This is getting intense.” His usually confident demeanor was momentarily rattled as he realized the stakes had just been raised.

You kept your gaze locked on Hotch, knowing this was the crucial moment. “Fine,” you said slowly, your voice calm but firm, “but if they get those reports in by 3 PM - perfect, flawless - then they get the entire weekend off. After the last case, they need it. You know burnout is real, Aaron. Aristotle talked about the importance of balance, the golden mean. If you push too hard without allowing for rest, people break. The mind needs downtime to function at its best.”

Hotch sighed, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Bringing Aristotle into it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve you’ve turned into exactly what you swore to destroy. A lawyer.”

You chuckled softly, your eyes sparkling as you locked gazes with Hotch. "What can I say? Sometimes you’ve got to fight fire with fire." you said, your voice light but knowing. “And you know I’m right. If you give them some breathing room, they’ll come back stronger. They respect you enough to deliver.”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment, his arms still crossed as he considered your words. You could feel the tension build at the table, the team watching closely, barely daring to breathe. Finally, Hotch exhaled slowly, his gaze sharp but thoughtful.

“Alright,” he said at last, his tone measured, “they can work from home tomorrow. But the reports need to be in by 3 PM. And I mean flawless. One mistake, and it’s overtime for everyone next week.”

You smiled, but your eyes stayed locked on his, knowing the weight of what you’d just achieved. “And if they meet the deadline, they get the whole weekend off?”

Hotch hesitated for a brief second, his expression softening slightly as he glanced around the table, seeing the exhaustion etched into the faces of his team. He nodded. “Yes. The weekend off. But only if everything is perfect.”

The room seemed to collectively exhale, the disbelief and relief spreading through the table like a ripple. Morgan let out a low whistle, shaking his head in amazement, he gave you a playful nudge. “Miracle worker... you sure they actually need you in Poland?”

Garcia clapped her hands to her chest dramatically, her eyes wide with delight. “This is like watching a legal thriller! I swear, next time I’m bringing popcorn.”

Reid’s eyes were wide, still processing the layers of philosophical argument and negotiation tactics, clearly fascinated. “That was… an impressive synthesis. You combined Kant’s moral autonomy with Rousseau’s ideas of freedom, and when you brought up Aristotle’s golden mean - well, that concept is actually about balancing between-”

Prentiss, sensing a Reid ramble incoming, quickly cut him off with a smile. “Reid, I think she’s got it.”

Hotch shook his head, locking eyes with you across the table, his expression a mix of disbelief and admiration. “Just don’t make a habit of this,” he said, his voice edged with familiar authority, but there was something softer beneath it.

You shrugged, the taste of victory still lingering, but a flicker of sadness crossed your face. “Don’t worry,” you said, voice quieter, “in less than 72 hours, it won’t be a table separating us, but an entire ocean. It won’t be as easy then.”

Hotch’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Then in your letters, leave Kant out of it.”

You chuckled, the emotion behind it harder to hide. “You got it, partner. But don’t be surprised if Nietzsche makes an appearance next time.”

The door to the bar swung open with a soft creak, drawing everyone’s attention: Peter walked in, his presence immediately noticeable. He cut through the low hum of the bar’s evening crowd, his tall frame moving with casual confidence.

Hotch was the first to spot him, his eyes narrowing slightly as Peter caught his gaze and raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. Peter was clearly planning something playful, and Hotch, though a bit apprehensive, respected the gesture and leaned back slightly in his chair.

Peter moved with purpose, his footsteps soft and calculated as he approached from behind you. You were still engaged in the conversation with the team, completely unaware of his presence. The warm glow of the dim lights bathed the table, casting soft shadows across your face as you laughed, oblivious to the fact that your fiancé was closing in.

In one swift movement, Peter leaned down, his body hovering close to yours as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. The sudden pressure and warmth startled you, your eyes widening for a split second before recognition dawned.

Peter placed a quick kiss on the side of your neck, his lips brushing your skin lightly, just enough to send a ripple of surprise through you. His embrace was confident, bordering on possessive, and the scent of his familiar cologne filled the small space between you.

“Guess who?” he whispered playfully, his voice low and teasing, sending another shiver through you before you could fully react.

You tilted your head, looking up at him with a mix of surprise and fond exasperation. “Pete,” you breathed out, your voice laced with a smile despite the flush of embarrassment creeping into your cheeks. “You scared me!”

The team watched the scene unfold, their collective shock from moments before now shifting into amused smiles and curious glances.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, an eyebrow raised in playful approval. “Guess Pete likes to make an entrance,” he muttered under his breath, earning a chuckle from Garcia. Peter, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice the eyes on him as he approached.

You had already begun to stand up, intending to grab a chair for him so he could join the table with the team. But before you could fully take a step, Peter caught you off guard, tightening his hold on you just enough to gently pull you off balance.

The suddenness of the movement made you pause, and before you could fully process it, he spun you around to face him. Without hesitation, Peter leaned in for a deeper, more intimate kiss.

The bar, the team, and everything around you seemed to blur into the background as his lips pressed against yours with unmistakable passion, momentarily stealing your focus from everything else.

The kiss was long enough for you to feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your body instinctively tensing. You loved Peter, there was no question about that, but you had always preferred your affections to be private, intimate, not something to be shared with the entire bar. When the kiss finally ended, you felt slightly breathless, and the weight of the team's eyes made you even more aware of the situation.

“Hi, princess,” Peter murmured, his lips still inches from yours as he spoke. His voice was soft but had an unmistakable edge of possessiveness. “I missed you. You could at least answer your phone once in a while, you know.”

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out a little shaky. “You know how bad I am at checking my phone,” you said, attempting to keep the conversation light, your eyes flicking toward the team, who were all trying to hide their laughs and amusement. “And didn’t we agree on dropping ‘princess’?.”

Peter’s hand, which had been resting lightly on your waist, now moved lower, sliding down your back until his fingers found the back pockets of your jeans. His touch was casual yet deliberate, his grip a clear display of ownership, almost as if he were marking his territory in front of everyone. His tone dropped slightly, becoming more suggestive. “You’ll find a way to convince me about that tonight.”

Hotch sat across from you, outwardly composed and focused, as he always was. To the team, he appeared calm, his usual stoic self, but inside, he was acutely attuned to every subtle change in your body language. He noticed how your posture had stiffened slightly, how the smile on your face didn’t quite reach your eyes. These were signs of discomfort he knew all too well, the kind you never had to explain to him.

For the longest time, Hotch had been genuinely happy for you, relieved even, that you had found someone like Peter. But now, watching your dynamic unfold for the first time, something didn’t sit right. Peter’s overly familiar gestures, his lack of awareness of your boundaries, gnawed at Hotch. How could Peter miss what was so clear to him? You never liked public displays of affection, Hotch knew that. You preferred quieter, more intimate gestures, the kind that carried deeper meaning.

But Peter, either unaware or choosing to ignore your discomfort, kept his arm securely around your waist. You shifted slightly, your eyes flickering to Hotch’s for just a brief moment. In that second, a silent understanding passed between the two of you. He saw how you felt - uncomfortable yet trying to keep the peace - and in return, you acknowledged his quiet presence, a grounding force amidst the whirlwind of Peter’s boldness.

As Peter finally stepped back, pulling out a chair for himself and sitting down next to you, the team exchanged quick  glances with one another. They were still processing the shift in energy, the unspoken dynamics they had just witnessed.

As Hotch watched, irritation flickered within him, slowly building into something more.

He had picked up on your discomfort immediately - why hadn’t Peter? And the more he observed, the more the realization crept in: maybe he didn’t like the two of you together as much as he’d thought. You, after all, were the type of person who believed that affection wasn’t measured in how loudly it was shown but in the care behind it. The way you would linger in a conversation, your touch light and careful, as if every gesture held meaning. The quiet moments, the unspoken words - those were what mattered to you.

You introduced Peter to the team as your fiancé, and they exchanged greetings, though the atmosphere remained tense. Only then Peter, in his usual charismatic way, greeted Hotch after six years as well. “Fatherhood looks good on you. Must be all those sleepless nights,” he teased.

Hotch smiled politely, though his thoughts were elsewhere. Peter, seated comfortably beside you, kept an arm draped around your shoulders, his thumb brushing against your arm absentmindedly. He turned his charm on the team, effortlessly engaging them in conversation. “Before she was Hotch’s partner and stole my desk - and my heart - I was his original desk mate,” he joked with a grin, leaning over to plant a light kiss on your cheek.

The team chuckled, clearly intrigued, their curiosity shifting to Hotch as they began peppering Peter with questions about their time together. Peter fielded them with ease but made it clear, “Oh, we were fine, but we didn’t click like he did with her. They were always in sync, like clockwork, it was terrifying. I used to call them ‘The Suits,’ because God forbid they ever showed up to work in anything other than matching attire.”

You laughed, nudging Peter playfully before teasing back. “At least I didn’t wear ties. My suits had some style and were timeless, unlike his. I still have nightmares about that tie with that weird triangular pattern.”

Peter squeezed your shoulder affectionately, offering a chuckle of his own, but Hotch, sitting across the table, raised an eyebrow in mock offense. "Coming from the only person who still wears vest suits?" Hotch quipped, his tone dry but playful. “Timeless, really.”

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “Better than a white eyelash,” you fired back, with a mischievous grin. The comment earned a round of laughter from the team, who had never seen Hotch teased so effortlessly.

But Hotch wasn’t done. He leaned forward slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Oh, right,” he said, voice laced with mock seriousness. “Because the height of fashion is wearing all-black, every day. It’s like working with an artfully dressed shadow.”

The team erupted into laughter, their eyes flicking between the two of you, you immediately bite back "Hey, black goes with everything, it’s called consistency."

“And monotony,” Hotch countered smoothly, not missing a beat, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reveled in the rare lightheartedness of the exchange

The conversations around the table continued, but for Hotch, they faded into the background. Laughter and voices became a distant hum, blurring into white noise as something else - a distant, barely audible melody - began to tug at his attention. At first, he didn’t even realize what was happening. It was just a faint pull, like a whisper at the edges of his mind, muffled beneath the chatter of the team. He wasn’t sure why his mind latched onto that sound, why his breath caught in his throat at the faint strains of music.

The room around him faded, and the melody became louder, clearer.

His heart stilled as the realization hit him - it was that song.

It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.

The soft notes carried him to another time, another life. His mind flashed back to that night, years ago, when you and he had rehearsed the choreography to this very song for an undercover operation. It had been the first time you’d been so physically close, your bodies moving together in perfect sync.

The chemistry had been palpable, undeniable, electric. He could still feel the warmth of your waist beneath his hands, the way your breath had mingled with his as you moved together, the quiet intensity of your gaze as it locked with his. After that final twirl, your forehead had rested against his, the space between you charged with something neither of you could quite name, but both of you had felt.

And later, back at his apartment, the air between you had become too heavy, too charged to ignore. It was as if every unsaid word, every stolen glance had built up, until the tension finally snapped. The space between you vanished in an instant, swallowed by something deeper, something primal. One moment, your voices were filled with the brittle edge of restraint, and the next, his hands were on you - urgent, trembling, like he had been holding back for far too long.

It wasn’t graceful; it was raw and unrefined, a blur of tangled limbs and breathless gasps. Your fingers clutched at his shirt as if to anchor yourself to him, pulling him closer, as though the distance between your bodies had always been too far.

His hands moved over you like he was memorizing you, fingertips tracing the lines of your skin, leaving behind a trail of heat. Your touch was just as desperate, each kiss full of unspoken longing, lips pressing harder, faster, as if you feared this moment might slip away, dissolving into something you could never get back.

He could still feel the way you had whispered his name - soft at first, tentative, as though testing the weight of it on your tongue.

But as your bodies gave in to the desire that had simmered between you for so long, the whisper turned into something louder, something hungrier. You cried his name out in the dark, your voice trembling with both need and fear. It had cut through him, that sound - like a confession you had both tried to suppress for years but could no longer deny. It echoed in his mind, haunting him, pulling him back to that night with an intensity that refused to fade.

There was something almost painful in how you touched him, like you were trying to carve the memory of your skin into his. Your nails raked softly down his back, your body arching into his as if the space between you wasn’t close enough, could never be close enough.

His hands roamed over you, slow but firm, tracing the delicate curve of your spine, the softness of your waist, the places he’d never dared to touch before. It was as if each movement was a conversation - every kiss, every breath shared between you was full of the things you’d never said aloud.

Your breath, hot against his neck, sent shivers down his spine, and the way your lips trembled as you kissed him, it felt like surrender. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, heavy and uneven, as your bodies moved together in a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar, as though this was how it was always meant to be.

And yet, it was never just desire, it was something deeper, a release of everything you’d held back. The vulnerability of it all had scared him then, and it still did. In those moments, stripped bare of the walls you’d carefully built around yourselves, you had been real, more real than either of you had ever dared to be before.

He had tried to forget it, to push that night into the farthest corners of his mind, but now it clung to him like a shadow. He could still feel the way your fingers had trembled against his skin, the way your body had fit against his as though it belonged there. The memory of how you’d breathed his name into the dark, then screamed it when the tension finally broke, was etched into his soul. He could still taste the urgency of your kisses, the way your bodies collided in a mess of emotion and need.

It was a moment suspended in time, where everything between you had been laid bare, and now, no matter how much time had passed, that memory refused to fade. It lingered, haunting him with what might have been, with the things you could never say aloud but had spoken through your skin, your breath, your body pressed so desperately against his.

But now, you weren’t his.

You belonged to Peter. And he, to Haley.

The sound of the song was drowned beneath the chatter around him, but somehow, the melody still pulled at his attention, louder than the voices just feet away. He tried to focus on the present - the team’s banter, Peter’s charm - but the past was louder, heavier. His chest tightened as his eyes flicked to you, and for a brief moment, your gaze met his.

You looked at him, your brow furrowing slightly as though you could sense it - something was wrong. You were trying to place it, to figure out why his expression had suddenly grown distant.

Then, the recognition hit you too.

The distant melody reached your ears, and you understood.

Hotch could see it in your eyes, the way they widened just slightly in acknowledgment, the way your posture shifted. For the first time, you both understood that what you had felt back then - the chemistry, the pull - hadn’t been one-sided.

It was as if, for all these years, you had been silently carrying the same secret, both too afraid to say it out loud. And now, you both knew the truth: you had felt it too.

But it was too late.

The life you each had now stood in the way, separating you like an ocean that couldn’t be crossed.

Almost unconsciously, your fingers found your rings, the movement so subtle yet so heavy with meaning.

It was an old rhythm, a quiet, unspoken dance the two of you had always shared, the kind of synchronization that went unnoticed by the world but spoke volumes in its silence. The small gesture seemed insignificant to the others, but between you and Hotch, it was everything, an echo of what once was and what could never be.

Your fingers twisted the silver engagement band around your finger, its cold metal grounding you, reminding you of the promises made to someone else, a life you had chosen. But even as you did, your touch was restless, the movement betraying the calm exterior you wore. The ring spun slowly, like time itself, like the years between you and Hotch, like all the moments that had slipped through your grasp.

Across the table, Hotch’s hand absently turned his gold wedding band, the warm metal catching the dim light of the bar, casting a soft, golden glow. It was a faint reminder of a life lived for someone else, of duty, of commitments he could never break. The glow of the ring reflected in his dark eyes, hiding the flicker of something deeper - something that neither of you dared to acknowledge aloud. His thumb traced the edge of the band, slow and deliberate, as though the weight of it was both a comfort and a burden he couldn’t shake.

In that small, shared moment, your fidgeting hands told a story. The rings - the delicate silver on your finger, the steadfast gold on his - shone like symbols of everything you had chosen, but now felt also of everything you had lost.

They were promises made to others, and yet they were reminders of the things you could never speak of, the uncharted territory between you that still lingered, just out of reach. The space between your hands felt infinite, a distance marked by time, by choices, by vows you could never break.

The team, ever observant, exchanged quiet, knowing glances. They had no idea of the weight of what had just passed between you and Hotch, but they noticed the synchronicity, the way you both fiddled with your rings at the same moment, the invisible thread that seemed to connect you two even now.

As if to break the tension, Peter leaned in closer, oblivious to the undercurrents between you and Hotch. With a broad grin, he draped his arm around your shoulders and raised his voice, cutting through the fog of memory.

“You know, when I saw you two dancing to this song back then, I knew I couldn’t let her fall for him. That’s when I realized,” Peter said, his voice filled with affection, “I wanted to marry her. I couldn’t let her slip away.” He smiled, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.

Hotch’s stomach churned as Peter’s words sank in, the weight of them pressing down on him. He forced a polite smile, but inside, his thoughts spiraled. He glanced at you just as Peter kissed you, watching the way your face shifted into a quiet smile. You recovered quickly, as you always did, but Hotch saw behind the mask. He always had.

The atmosphere around the table grew heavier, the weight of unspoken tension thickening the air. The team, sensing something but unsure of what it was, shifted uneasily. Peter, still oblivious to the undercurrent between you and Hotch, tried to lighten the mood, chuckling as he added, “I’ll admit, at first I thought Hotch was a bit too old for her - sorry, Hotch,” he said with a laugh, clearly unaware of how his words were like salt on an open wound.

Hotch barely heard him. His mind was still trapped in the past, tangled in the memories the song had brought rushing back. He glanced down at his wedding band, the gold a reminder of everything that had changed, of the life he had built with Haley. And yet, across the table, he could feel the weight of what might have been, what he had never allowed himself to fully acknowledge.

Hotch forced a smirk. “Well, I’ll try not to take that too personally,” he replied, his tone light, drawing a wave of laughter from the table. But inside, his heart wasn’t in it. His mind was elsewhere, caught between the weight of the moment and the past that seemed to linger just beneath the surface.

Peter, emboldened by the laughter, leaned in with that easy charm of his and pushed further. “But I was even more surprised when she told me she dated that lawyer right after she moved overseas. How old was she again?”

The words hit like a sudden gust of cold wind, cutting through the warmth of the conversation.

Your expression shifted instantly, a quick, forced laugh escaping your lips as you scrambled to steer the moment away from the awkwardness that now hung between you all. “Forty-five,” you said, the number leaving your lips almost too quickly, like a reflex.

The room seemed to pause, the laughter dying out as the words settled heavily in the air. The only thing you could hear now were two words, echoing louder than anything else,

she and forty-five.

It was as if everything around you had gone quiet, the team's voices drowned out by the weight of what Peter had unintentionally revealed. The shift in the atmosphere was palpable, a sudden tension stretching across the table as the team sat in stunned silence, processing what they had just heard.

Hotch’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity and confusion clear. The silence that followed Peter’s comment only made his next word stand out more. His voice, calm but pointed, sliced through the stillness. “Lawyer?”

The single word seemed to hang in the air, heavier than everything else. Your heart raced. You opened your mouth to explain, to say something, but before you could find the words, Hotch’s familiar smirk reappeared, his eyes glinting with that familiar humor he always used to disarm tense situations.

“You always gave me so much grief about being a lawyer,” he said, the smirk deepening as his eyes locked onto yours, “claiming you couldn’t stand them. And now I find out you dated one? Hypocrisy, partner.”

His playful jab lightened the moment, and you felt a surge of relief. You rolled your eyes dramatically, grateful for the shift in tone. “She was the exception, I swear,” you replied, playing along. “And for the record, she was a force of nature, youngest senior partner at one of the biggest law firms in London.”

The tension broke as the team erupted into laughter, the awkwardness melting away, though a few lingering glances darted between them. Garcia, ever playful, fanned herself with exaggerated motions. “Oh, so the youngest senior partner cancels out the fact that she was, what, two decades older than you?���

Peter, oblivious to the shift in energy, leaned in and kissed the corner of your lips, adding with a grin, “Guess that means I’m too young for you, huh? I’ll have to step up my game.”

Hotch sat in quiet fury, his expression controlled, though anger churned inside him. Peter’s careless words echoed in his mind, louder than the laughter around them. He knew how fiercely you guarded your privacy, especially with people you’d just met, and Peter had exposed it all for the sake of a good story.

Watching you force a laugh, pretending it didn’t matter, only fueled his anger. His fists clenched under the table as he met your eyes briefly, seeing the discomfort you tried to mask. Peter had crossed a line, and Hotch felt it deeply.

To ground himself from the growing urge to snap, Hotch forced his focus away from Peter’s careless words and instead became hyper-aware of his surroundings. The almost empty glasses of the team caught his eye - Reid’s water was down to its last sip, Garcia’s cocktail was mostly melted ice, and even Morgan’s beer glass sat nearly drained.

It was a small distraction, but one that kept him from letting the anger boil over. Ever the composed leader, caring as always, Hotch cleared his throat, his voice steady but with a forced lightness.

"Anyone need a refill?" he asked, his tone casual but precise, offering a small smile to the group. He stood before anyone could answer, already signaling to the bartender. Taking control of the moment was his way of regaining composure, of keeping his emotions in check, even as the burn of Peter’s thoughtlessness lingered beneath the surface.

Garcia and Morgan exchanged mischievous looks before Morgan called out, “Tequila shots for us!”

“Noted,” Hotch replied with a smirk, already recalling everyone’s drinks without needing to ask again. You had always admired that about him, his ability to notice and remember the smallest details, always quietly looking out for the people he cared about.

Peter, as if sensing an opportunity to bond or perhaps clueless to Hotch's inner turmoil, quickly followed. “Need a hand with the drinks?” he offered, his voice light and easy.

Hotch gave a curt nod, though inwardly, he was grateful for the few steps of distance from the group - more importantly, from you. Peter fell in step beside him, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering just below the surface, the kind of tension that came from years of unspoken history. As they waited at the bar, the quiet between them grew thick, and for Hotch, it was impossible to ignore Peter's earlier thoughtlessness.

After a moment of charged silence, Hotch spoke, his voice low and firm, tinged with an edge he couldn’t quite suppress. “You know, what you said back there about her past... that wasn’t yours to share.”

Peter blinked, clearly caught off guard by the shift in tone. He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, come on, Hotch. It was just a joke. I didn’t mean any harm.”

Hotch’s eyes darkened, locking onto Peter’s with a quiet but unmistakable intensity. “It’s not about harm, Peter. It’s about respect. That’s her story, not yours to tell. You don’t know the team like she does, and they didn’t need to hear it from you like that.”

Peter, clearly flustered by the sudden seriousness, let out a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I mean, they’re her friends, right?”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, the flicker of anger just barely kept in check. “It is a big deal. You didn’t see the way she reacted. I did.”

Peter hesitated, the weight of Hotch’s words beginning to sink in as he glanced back at the table. His brow furrowed, suddenly seeing the moment through Hotch’s eyes, realizing, for the first time, the discomfort he had caused you. The easygoing confidence he had worn so naturally faltered.

Hotch’s voice dropped to a near whisper, the words laced with a subtle warning. “You’re supposed to protect her, not expose her. Remember that next time.”

Peter swallowed, his confidence shaken as he tried to brush it off with a weak smile. “Yeah… you’re right. I’ll watch it.”

While waiting for the drinks, you were left alone with the team, and for the first time that night, you felt truly exposed. It was like being caged in a zoo, observed from all angles, every subtle move you made dissected by the group around you. Prentiss, ever the one to stir the pot, leaned forward with a mischievous grin, breaking the silence that had settled like a thick fog.

“So… about sharing rooms with Hotch on all those field cases. Did you two ever, you know…?” she teased, her tone playful but pointed.

You laughed, trying to dispel the weight pressing down on you, the joke coming to your lips almost automatically. “Oh, absolutely. Every night. HR had to intervene because we were so unprofessional,” you said, your voice light, hoping humor would smooth over the moment. "We're talking about Hotch... and I'm not that different" But there was a tension beneath your words, something guarded, something you weren’t quite ready to let slip through.

The team chuckled, the moment seemingly passing, but JJ, always more perceptive, leaned in with a more serious, knowing look. “Did you ever think about… something outside of work? Something more?”

Her words cut deeper, and for a moment, the table fell silent. The laughter died away, replaced by an almost palpable stillness. You hesitated, your heart racing as your eyes flickered toward the bar, where Hotch stood talking to Peter. The unspoken question lingered between you and the team, hanging heavy in the air. “Honestly? What we had as partners was important to both of us,” you finally said, your voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t worth risking that for something that might not have worked out.”

Meanwhile, back at the bar, while still waiting for a portion of fries that Reid had begged them to order, Peter leaned in closer to Hotch. “There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about, Hotch. The reason I was calling her earlier today… After that lecture at the academy, they offered her a full-time teaching position. They want her to take over Gideon’s old class.”

Hotch’s heart skipped a beat, though he kept his expression neutral. “At Quantico?” he asked, doing his best to mask the sudden surge of emotion rising in his chest.

Peter nodded, unaware of the internal storm brewing inside Hotch. “Yeah. It’s a big opportunity for her, and it means we’d finally settle down. No more crossing oceans every few months. We could start putting down roots.”

Hotch swallowed hard, the implications of Peter’s words sinking in with a weight that made it hard to breathe. You’d be back in Quantico, close by. The thought brought with it a mix of hope and dread.

He would see you again, be near you again, but it wouldn’t be the same. You had moved on, built a life that no longer revolved around him. The life you were building with Peter didn’t include him the way it once might have.

Peter, oblivious to the conflict raging inside Hotch, continued. “They also offered me a position, unit chief in the White Collar Crimes Division. We’d finally have normal hours, a more stable life. You know, time to build something together. Maybe start a family.”

Hotch felt a sharp pang of something he couldn’t quite name - regret, maybe, or longing, or something deeper that he’d never fully confronted. The idea of you starting a family with Peter gnawed at him in a way he hadn’t expected. He should be happy for you – he was happy for you - but the thought of you stepping into that future, a future he wasn’t part of, left a hollow ache in his chest.

He glanced back at the table, catching a glimpse of you laughing with the team, your face lighting up in that way it always did when you were at ease. In that moment, the weight of what could have been - and what would never be - hit him harder than he’d imagined. You were on the verge of stepping into a new chapter of your life, and he was stuck watching it unfold from the sidelines.

Peter’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. “I just hope she says yes. It’s a big change, but it feels right, you know?”

Hotch forced a smile, nodding even as the ache in his chest deepened. “Yeah, I’m sure she’ll make the right decision,” he said, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.

As they gathered the drinks and returned to the table, Hotch’s mind raced, unable to stop thinking about the what-ifs. He couldn’t shake the memories of the past, of the closeness you’d once shared, or the realization that the future you were building with Peter was slipping further and further from him. But as he placed the drinks down in front of the team, his smile remained firmly in place, masking the turmoil inside him. He had mastered the art of hiding what he truly felt, after all.

You could be back, but at what cost?

[azrielslittleslut]

"The Lost Queen" - Chapter 12

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: A magical incident causes Azriel to unexpectedly tumble through a portal into modern-day Earth. Confused and injured, he is discovered by a compassionate human woman with a hidden past. She takes care of him and helps him discover the complexities of the modern world, completely unaware of who she truly is. Meanwhile, Azriel struggles with his conflicting desires: his duty to the Night Court and his growing love for the woman who saved him.

Their journey unfolds amidst ancient prophecies and the looming threat in Prythian. As they uncover the truth about forces conspiring against them, they must confront their deepest fears and make choices that will change their lives and the world forever.

Warnings: language, fluff, slight suggestiveness, violence, death (not mc), blood

Word Count: 6.2k

series masterlist

a/n: azriel in a flower crown... that's it. that's the post.

Enjoy!

You didn’t know what to expect flying would be like. You had been on one of those rides at the state fair, the one that had you strapped into a harness, suspending you in midair by a single cable. The moment you pulled the latch, you’d plummet toward the ground, only to be swung skyward by that taut line. You’d also been on a plane before, so you wondered if flying with Azriel might feel similar- smooth, graceful, perhaps even calming.  

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

Your squeal ripped through the night air as Azriel dipped low, his wings spread wide to catch with wind, the sudden drop making your stomach flip. The sensation wasn’t like anything you’d imagined- it was wild, exhilarating, and completely untamed. You could feel the sharp bite of the wind against your cheeks, your heart pounding in your chest as the ground rushed closer, only for Azriel to rise again. He held you tightly against him, and you could feel the warmth of his body radiating through the coat you had donned earlier.

Azriel caught an updraft, his wings carrying the two of you high above the city. Below, you could see the lights of Velaris shimmering, the river winding through the city, reflecting the soft glow of lanterns. You could barely make out the couples strolling, the faint hum of laughter and conversation. You could even hear the distant strains of music floating up, weaving through the air like a gentle lullaby.

The stars above sparkled like diamonds among the inky black sky, more brilliant than any you had ever seen.  

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” you admitted to Azriel, your eyes wide as you took it all in. “The stars are so… bright.”

Azriel chuckled, his wings flapping to keep the two of you steady. “Well, it is the Night Court. The stars are kind of our signature.” His tone was light, but there was a soft reverence in it, a quiet pride for the place he called home.

You craned your neck up to look at him, completely captivated by the sight of Azriel in his element. His shadows were still swarming his body and wings, seemingly content to enjoy a flight with their master. His face was softer than you’d ever seen it, open and at ease- so different from the stoic, unreadable mask he usually wore. The stars reflected in his hazel eyes, and a gentle smile tugged at his lips as he gazed down at his city.

Back in your world, Azriel had stood out like a sore thumb. You had thought that it was because of his size, as massive as he is, but it was more than that. It was simply that he truly didn’t belong there. He belonged here, in this beautiful place full of darkness and shadows and stars.

Mama Laveau had said that you weren’t born in your world, and now that you were here, you felt a calling, as if the very core of your existence belonged here. The wind, the stars, the soft hum of magic in the air- it all felt strangely familiar, like you were finding pieces of yourself you hadn’t even realized were missing.

 Was this the world you belonged in? Was Prythian your home?

“I can see why you missed this.” Your voice was so quiet you worried that it was drowned out by the wind.

Az pulled you closer, his strong arms tightening around you like iron. “Do you trust me?” he asked, his deep voice low. It sent a skitter of excitement down your spine, causing goosebumps to break out on your skin.

“Infinitely,” you replied.

You immediately regretted your words. Azriel, with a mischievous smile on his face, wrapped his wings around you, the wings he was supposed to use for flying, and the two of you plummeted toward the ground.

“Azzy!” you screamed as the wind whipped around you, but most of it was blocked by his wings. “I swear to God if you drop me-“ But your threat was cut off by the wild excitement surging through your veins.

Even as you could see the ground get closer and closer, you couldn’t deny the thrill of it. Deep down, you could feel the call of the wind and the sky. You remembered that fleeting feeling of freedom, as those wings had ripped from your back at your parents’ house. You recalled the dreams, the ones in which you were flying across a snowy mountain range, the voices of the people below chanting.

Rise up, rise up, rise up.

You gasped as Azriel snapped his wings wide, holding you close as you glided over the tops of the buildings below. You clung to him as he landed on the cobblestones, his feet so light that you barely felt the impact of his landing.

“I told you I wouldn’t drop you, love,” he murmured, his arms still tight around you.

“Well, you didn’t have to scare the shit out of me,” you grumbled as he set you down on your feet, his hands on your shoulders to keep you steady. “Do you think- do you think I will be able to fly? Since I have wings?”

Azriel’s eyes were wide as he glanced at your back, noting the current lack of wings. “If you can summon them again, I don’t see why not.” He ran a hand through his black hair, pushing the soft curls off his forehead. “You would have to learn, of course.”

You nodded in defeat, your shoulders sagging. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we should focus on Operation Defeat Evil Queen first.” You turned around, trying to keep Az from seeing the sadness on your face, but a warm hand on your shoulder stopped you.

“If you want to learn how to fly,” he said, “I can teach you. It would be my… honor to teach you.”

You couldn’t stop the smile that bloomed on your face. “Thank you for the offer, Azzy,” you said, turning back around to face him. “If all of this… madness is dealt with, you can teach me.”

Azriel pulled you in close, his lips pressed to your hair. “Not if, love. When.”

You breathed in his scent, letting it calm your nerves. He was right, of course. Being negative about the current situation wouldn’t help anything.

“So,” you said, stepping back and turning around to look at the city. “This is Velaris. The one from Serena’s painting.”

Looking at the city now, you could see why Azriel was so shocked at the painting. It was almost like Serena came here, took a picture of it, and went back and painted it exactly like the photo. You could see the same buildings made from white marble, sandstone, and red stone. You could see and smell the river, flowing through the heart of the city like liquid sapphires.

Azriel grasped your hand in his, his scars rough against your skin. You made a mental note to ask him again what on Earth had caused such damage to his flesh. “This is Velaris,” he agreed. “Also called the City of Starlight.”

The name from Serena’s painting. “When we were at Café du Monde, you said that Rhys had sacrificed a lot to keep this place safe.” The sound of laughter and children playing innocently in the streets echoed along the walls of the buildings. “What did you mean?”

A muscle ticked in Azriel’s jaw, and his eyes darkened with anger. “Do you remember at breakfast, when Rhys and Feyre were talking about the female?” He seemed unable to say her name.

You nodded, your feet moving as Az started to pull you gently down the street. “Yes. Amarantha.”

Azriel flinched. Whoever that female was… she must have done some horrible things. “She once considered herself the High Queen of Prythian. Five hundred years ago, there was a war between humans and faeries. At the time, they lived together, but some of the faeries, particularly some of the High Lords, kept human slaves. She was a General on the enemy side, the one in favor of slaves.”

The blood rushed from your face. You didn’t want to think of what it was like for the humans who were enslaved to beings as powerful as the Fae. “Did you fight in the war?” you asked, your voice small.

Az nodded once. “Not on the battlefields like Rhys and Cassian, but I had my own part to play.” His voice was dark, and you could tell he would speak no further on what he did during the war. “The war ended when a treaty was made between the mortal and faeries. It was so bloody on both sides that everyone agreed to sign it to end it all. After it was signed, Amarantha killed her own slaves instead of freeing them.”

You shivered as his words washed over you. “That’s… horrible.” Perhaps horrible was not a good enough word, but there were not any words to describe how awful that was.

Azriel continued on, lost in the story as the two of you walked, “One hundred years ago, she returned here as an emissary to Hybern, a country west of here. She managed to charm the High Lords with trade talks, but her real goal was to take Prythian as her own.” His expression darkened further, his gaze going near vacant as he recalled the past. “A little over fifty years ago, she threw a party, and all of the High Lords were in attendance. Rhys was there alone, so he had no choice but to bow to her when she took all of their powers as hers.”

You weren’t particularly fond of Rhys, but you couldn’t imagine what that must have been like for him. You had sensed the power radiating off him. This Amarantha must have been a real force to deal with if she was able to steal power like that. “What did he do then?”

Azriel ground his teeth, rage glittering in his eyes. “He made sure she didn’t know about this city,” was all he said.

Biting your lip, you looked down at the ground. “Was she the queen Nesta mentioned?” you asked, recalling the conversation at breakfast.

Surprisingly, Azriel huffed a laugh. “No,” he said. “That was a different one.”

Damn. What’s up with this place and evil queens?

You took a deep breath to calm your frazzled nerves. “What happened to her? Amarantha?”

“She was killed.” Az’s voice was as hard as stone buildings around.

So, she wasn’t the queen that Elain had mentioned. “Nesta said that a lot has happened in the last few years. Is that all of it?” You glanced up at him, noting how the wind had moved the hair away from his face. The lights from the city softened the hard angles of his face, and you had to fight the urge to run a finger along his jaw, his cheekbone.

“Part of it,” he said, meeting your gaze. Some of the light had come back into his eyes, and a small smile graced his full lips. “Are you sure you want to hear the rest of the story? I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

You stepped closer to him, happy to feel his body against yours. “I think I need to know these things, Azzy,” you said with a smile. “You know, since I live here now.”

You listened as Azriel talked, loving the sound of his deep voice. He spoke of Hybern and the Cauldron, pausing momentarily to explain how the Cauldron controls the life and fates of the people here. He talked about the battles, the wins and losses, his rescue of Elain, and the death of the King of Hybern. His voice dropped as he talked about Rhys sacrificing himself to restore the Cauldron, only to be brought back to life by the other High Lords. He explained how although the war was over, there were still remnants of it. People were still healing and grieving, while some were unhappy that it happened in the first place.

Once Azriel finished with the story, you were silent, content to listen to the sound of the river running close by. This world has truly been through a lot in the last few years. People had died, and Az and his family had been in the middle of it. Now, there was another evil force at work, and your heart broke at the thought of them being plunged into another conflict.

“Do you think there will be another war?” you asked once you had regained control of your thoughts. “With everything going on, it seems kind of inevitable.”

Azriel sighed, his wings drooping slightly. “I sure fucking hope not,” he groaned, his eyes on the city around him. “We will do whatever it takes to avoid another one.”

The two of you were silent after that, content to walk through Velaris. The night was chilly, but it seemed warmer here in the heart of the city. Children laughed as they chased each other, while families were gathered around the various shops lining the street.

There were bookstores, flower shops, and art galleries. You even spotted shops full of different weapons. Through the windows, you could see swords and knives, daggers and maces. Did Azriel know how to use any of those?

You remembered him asking if a dagger had fallen with him through the portal, and he had been visibly upset when you had told him it hadn’t. He didn’t know this, but you had even gone back to the bayou as he had slept that night, pulling back the weeds, searching through the water for it. With no luck, you had wandered back inside, your mind forgetting about it until now.

But Azriel still wore the sheath at his thigh, no doubt the home to his lost dagger, as if he expected it to suddenly return to him.

You smiled faintly as you listened to the music from earlier- louder now- and you could see a street performer playing a fiddle, the sharp notes floating through the air.

The moment was serene, so unlike the pace of the last few days. You hated to be the one to ruin it, but you still needed more answers.

“Azzy,” you murmured, turning your body to face him fully. “You still owe me an explanation.”

Azriel’s lips pursed, his attention pulled away from the laughing children as he looked at you. “I know,” he responded. “I’m assuming you’re talking about Serena seeing you in her dreams.”

You crossed your arms and nodded, waiting patiently for his explanation.

“I cannot express to you how sorry I am for that.” He took a step forward, gently cupping your face in his callused palms. “The only reason I can give you is that I was afraid to tell you.”

“Afraid of what?”

Az closed his eyes, and you saw the dark circles under them, a sign that he hadn’t been resting like he should. “Afraid of my feelings for you. I told you, at the ball, that when I’m with you I want to forget what I am, where I come from. I saw how simple your life was, and I envied it. But I also didn’t want to ruin that for you by telling you about the dreams and visions. I wanted to protect you. You see what is happening here, and I didn’t want to pull you in the middle of this. It was a bad call on my part, and a selfish one. I pray to the Mother that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for my stupidity, Y/N.”

As Azriel opened his eyes, you saw the sadness and guilt there. He truly was sorry. You tried to think if the roles had been reversed. Would you have hid the truth from him? Would you have done whatever possible to keep him safe and happy?

Yes, you decided. You would have done the same.

“Azriel,” you murmured, reaching your hand up to run a finger across his cheek. His skin was so soft. “I do forgive you. I forgave you the moment I saw you trying to protect me at my parents’ house. But you should know that I was afraid of my feelings for you, too. I was afraid of what I would face when you left, especially once I learned that something dark was happening here.” You paused for a moment, your eyes scanning his, hoping he could see the sincerity of your words through your expression. "We don’t have to be afraid anymore. We’re here now. Together. That’s all I care about.”

Azriel let out a breath, his body trembling as he pulled you against him. His lips met yours, and this kiss was nothing like earlier at the River House. This kiss was like the one at the ball, full of passion and tongue and teeth.

You leaned into him, groaning into his mouth as his tongue flicked against your bottom lip. The world went topsy-turvy as his tongue slid against yours, his hands running up and down your body, gripping your waist, gently cupping your breasts. You didn’t care that you were in the middle of the street in a crowded city. Your mind couldn’t focus on the fact that children were around, no doubt watching this unfold before their innocent eyes.

There was a feeling in your chest, a strange one, pulling you to him, filling your senses with Azriel and only Azriel. The strange sensation was enough to bring you back to reality. Slowly, you pulled away, slightly breathless as you said, “I need you to promise me something, Azzy.”

Azriel’s lips were red and swollen, his cheeks flushed. He looked so heartbreakingly beautiful like this. “Anything.” His voice was husky with desire as he spoke, sending a fresh wave of heat to your core.

Damn. This male has one hell of a bedroom voice.

“No more secrets between us,” you said, willing your desire-filled mind to clear. “If we want this to work, you have to tell me everything.”

Azriel smiled softly, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your back. “Deal,” he said. “No more secrets.”

You smiled triumphantly, reaching up a hand to push a curl of hair off his brow. “Good. Since that is settled, can we enjoy our evening now?”

Azriel took you by the hand, pulling you once again down the lively street. “Nothing would make me happier.”

You turned your attention back to Velaris, a smile forming on your face as you watched the scene before you. More musicians had joined the lone street performer. Some of them had flutes and lyres, while others had drums and tambourines. You saw a young male strumming a harp, and a female playing an accordion. They were playing an upbeat melody, the sound warm and vibrant. It reminded you of the Cajun parties back home.

Your body started moving of its own accord, and you took a step forward to dance, but you stopped as a group of children raced by. They were dancing in a circle and laughing, their tiny hands holding flowers and vines. As they danced to the beat, they would pass the flowers down, reminiscent of an assembly line.

“What are they doing?” you asked Azriel, giggling as you watched the children play and dance.

Azriel’s breath was hot against your neck as he spoke. “Making flower crowns,” he murmured, his lips close enough that you could hear him over the music. “The children here have done it for centuries. They weave the crown, and once it’s done, the oldest child in the circle will give it to a young, beautiful maiden. The young maiden will then place it on the head of her lover, a sign that no matter what happens, their love will overcome even the worst of trials.”

You smiled at the innocence of it. “What if the young maiden doesn’t have a lover? How does the child know?”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. You leaned your head against him, content to watch as the children continued weaving and dancing. “Here in Prythian, children are special. A gift from the Mother herself.” You felt him place his chin on the top of your head. “Perhaps they can hear things from her that we can’t.”

You turned your head to ask him what things the children could sense, but the crescendo of the music stopped you. The circle of children broke apart, all of them forming a line at the center of the street. A small child on the far left of the line stepped forward. He was young, wearing simple brown trousers and a white tunic. He had pale brown hair, and you could see the tiny points of his ears as he turned his head. In his hands, he held a flower crown, made of red roses, lilies, and daisies, all weaved together by dark green vines. The crown shimmered slightly, reminding you of the glimmering stars above.

The boy walked to a taller young female at the center of the line. She was wearing a plain red dress, and her dark red hair was pulled back into a simple braid. He silently presented the crown to her, and she nodded her head once in thanks as she took the crown in her small hands.

The young female raised her head, her emerald green eyes scanning the crowd of onlookers. You looked as well, searching for who the young girl would choose as the maiden for tonight’s festivities.

Azriel’s arms tightened around you in a way that slightly frightened you. Looking back at him, you asked, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

But his face was soft, despite the iron grip he had on your body. “Look,” he murmured, nodding his head to the center of the street.

You looked, a gasp escaping your lips as you saw the young female standing directly in front of you. This close, you could see the light dusting of freckles on her pale skin, as well as the dimples on her cheeks as she smiled at you. “This is for you, miss,” she said in her soft voice, raising the crown up to you. “The Mother smiles down on you tonight, our young maiden.”

Your heart leaped in your chest, pounding so hard you wondered if you would have a heart attack right then and there. “I’m not-“ you started, but you were unable to finish the sentence.

Up until three days ago, you hadn’t even lived here. How could you, of all people, be the maiden?

“Take it, Y/N,” Azriel murmured, and you could hear the awe in his voice. “It’s not wise to argue with the children.”

With trembling hands, you took the crown from the girl, the green vines pressing into your fingers. The girl smiled brightly and skipped back to the line of other children. They quickly formed another circle, once again dancing and laughing as the musicians began to play their joyful tune.

Azriel dropped his arms as you stepped out of his grasp, turning around to face him. You smiled as you raised the crown up and placed it on his head, the shimmering flowers bright against his inky black hair. His shadows swirled around the crown, forming their own crown of shadows above him.

“A crown for my lover,” you murmured, letting your fingers run down the side of his face as you dropped your hand. Azriel’s eyes fluttered closed, his lips parting slightly. “It seems the Mother has smiled down on us tonight, Azzy.”

You had never been a religious person, and you didn’t understand the religion of Prythian, but something sparked in your chest at the sight of Azriel wearing this crown. You wanted to laugh at the sight of this dark, shadow-wreathed male wearing something so bright and innocent.

“This isn’t how I expected the night to go,” he muttered. He raised a hand and lightly touched the crown on his head. He wrinkled his nose as he felt the silky roses beneath his fingertip. “How ridiculous do I look?”

You giggled, moving forward to wrap your arms around his slim waist. You tipped your head up and pressed a kiss to his jaw, your lips brushing against the stubble growing there. “Not ridiculous at all. You look as handsome as ever.”

Az raised a brow, his lips quirking in a goofy, almost boyish smile. “Handsome, huh?” he teased, his eyes shining with amusement. “I didn’t know I needed to wear a flower crown for you to admit you think I’m handsome.”

You reached down and pinched his ass, earning a quiet yelp from him. “Stop being difficult, Azriel,” you warned, but your tone was playful.

Suddenly, you felt a small tug on your coat, pulling your attention away from Azriel. The young female who had given you the crown stood behind you, that innocent smile still on her face. She beckoned you forward with a hand. “Come on,” she said, her braid swaying as he turned her head.

“There is one part of the ceremony I didn’t tell you about,” Azriel murmured, leaning down to smile at the girl. “The last part of it, anyway.”

You already had a feeling of where this was going, but you asked anyway, “And what part would that be?”

“After the young maiden places the crown on her lover, the two of them have to join the circle and dance with the children,” he responded, his voice like a lover’s caress on your skin. “They have to dance, and the lover has to keep the crown on their head for the rest of the night.”

“Or what?” Your voice was barely a whisper, your eyes on the children as they jumped and spun to the music.

Azriel nipped at your ear. “If the crown falls off, it’s considered a bad omen. A sign that bad things are coming for the couple that could tear them apart.”

The gravity of his words was overpowered by the sound of the lovely music and the laughing children. You glanced over your shoulder and offered Az a wink. “Then you better keep that crown on your head, Azzy.”

You took Azriel’s hand in yours, and together you let the young girl pull you into the circle of dancers. The music was wilder now, more infectious, the rhythm pulsing through your veins. Your heart raced in time with the beat as you moved in unison with the children, laughter spilling from their lips as they spun around.

You followed their lead, twirling in circles with your arms raised high, the world around becoming a blur of color and sound. The laughter of the children was contagious, and you found yourself swept up in the moment, spinning and dancing with abandon, the beat of the drums washing over your body.

Azriel’s hand stayed firm in yours, his usual stoic demeanor slipping away as he smiled, caught in the carefree chaos of the music. You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of him next to the small children. He looked so massive, all dark and shadowy, save for the glowing crown of flowers on his head.

As the music slowed and the dancing ended, Azriel pulled you close, his chest heaving against yours. Sweat had gathered on his forehead, making his hair stick to his brown skin. “There is one thing I still need to tell you,” he said breathlessly. His eyes were almost wild as he looked at you, scanning your every expression. “I wanted to wait, afraid that I would scare you off. But we promised no more secrets.”

You twined your hands in his hair, careful of the crown. “What is it, Azriel? You can tell me anything.”

A shadow flickered across his face, his hazel eyes full of anxiety. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “You’re my mate, Y/N.”

The sound of the children and the fading music were drowned out as your brain processed his words. Mate. You were his mate.

You remembered Nesta’s words about mates. A soul-bond, she had said. Like a pull or a tug, connecting you to them. It all made sense now. That feeling in your chest when you looked at Azriel, that constant need to be around him and to taste him and to smell him.

Mate. He was your mate.

Even back in your world, you had felt a connection to him, though it had been dull compared to now. Perhaps that was why he showed up at your door, of all places. Maybe he was the reason you were here. He was yours and you were his, and suddenly, all of the nonsense of the world started to make total sense.

You didn’t know what to say, and Azriel seemed to pick up on this. “I know that’s a lot to process,” he said, his voice thick with worry. “I don’t expect you to accept me right now, and it’s okay if you don’t want to accept me at all. I just wanted you to know. I can be a lot to handle, and I’m fucked up beyond imagination, so-“

You broke off his rambling with a searing kiss, your lips conveying what your mind could not. You ran your hands over his broad shoulders, easing the tense muscles there, pleading with him to understand that you would love to be his mate. Azriel groaned as your tongue met his, his hands moving up to gently cup your cheeks, his thumbs brushing across your cheekbone.

You pulled away, your eyes full of tears. “I-“You opened your mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. I choose you, you wanted to say. I love you. You took a deep breath, deciding it was best to force the words out anyway. Your lips parted, the confessions of your heart on the tip of your tongue-

The world exploded into darkness. Children screamed. People cried out in terror. The soothing music cut off abruptly, leaving only an eerie echo of the melody that had moments ago filled the air with warmth and joy. Now, it was swallowed by the void, replaced with a deafening silence that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Azriel’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you tight against him as the world seemed to shatter around you. His movements were swift as he brought you both to the ground. In one fluid motion, he rolled over you, his wings flaring out slightly, his body acting as a shield against whatever lurked in the darkness.  

Your eyes darted frantically across his face, your breath coming in quick, ragged bursts. “Azriel,” you managed to gasp, panic thick in your throat. “What is happening?” It wasn’t just panic you were feeling- it was fear. Deep, gut-wrenching fear that clawed at your insides, making it hard to breathe.

Azriel’s eyes went unfocused for a moment, his jaw going slack as if he were lost in deep thought. Then his voice came, low and barely audible. “Velaris is under attack,” he murmured, his gaze now darting over the chaos unraveling all around. Disbelief clouded his features as he said, “That’s impossible. The wards-“

But before he could finish, the sounds of blood splattering and bodies hitting the ground with sickening thuds reached your ears. Panic surged as you watched people-children- fall, their cries cutting through the night. You caught a flash of red hair tied in a braid swaying as the body hit the ground.

The head rolled to the side, the pale face splattered with blood, and you were met with the lifeless emerald stare of the young girl.

You screamed, your shrill cry echoing in the silence.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched, the healer within you screaming to rush to their aid. Your hands twitched at your sides, aching to help the injured, to stop the bleeding and save those you could.

You might not be human, and you might be in a world far away from the one you were raised in, but you were a nurse, through and through. Helping people was woven into your very being. Every fiber in your body urged you to run to ease the suffering around you, but Azriel’s body kept you pinned.

“Azriel,” you screamed, not caring that his ear was currently next to your lips. “Let me up! I can help them!”

Then, as if they heard your pleas, Azriel’s shadows- the ones that had become such a comforting presence to you- exploded into the darkness with a ferocity that made your breath catch. They surged outward like angry snakes, dark tendrils writhing and snapping like serpents poised to strike. They didn’t hesitate; they filled the streets, coiling around the screaming children and families, forming an impenetrable fortress around them.

You turned your head to the side, your eyes catching on a pair of black boots walking through the darkness. They were shiny, so shiny you could see your reflection in them as the person got closer. Moving your eyes up, you saw black leather pants on muscled thighs. A shiny metal chest plate that looked like armor, filled with those strange runes you remembered from your dreams, tight around an unmistakably masculine chest. Through the darkness, you saw dark hair and wings.

Cassian? You remembered the male from breakfast, the one who had looked at you with brotherly affection.

Your heart skipped, hope rising- but it faltered just as quickly. As the male got closer, you saw his ears, rounded and full of gold rings- piercings, you realized. His nose also had a golden hoop, shining despite the darkness around him. But those eyes, those dark, soulless eyes that held nothing but cold evil, and that smile. That sinister grin that had been haunting your dreams for the last three days.

Mathias.

“Azriel,” you breathed, slapping him roughly on the shoulder to get his attention. “Look.”

Azriel’s head snapped to the right, his eyes landing on Mathias. His beautiful face twisted into a snarl, his eyes going black with rage. “You.”

His voice was a low growl as he pushed himself off the ground, his hand going to the empty sheath at his thigh. He bared his teeth as his fingers found nothing but air, his expression turning as cold as ice.

Mathias chuckled. “You’re nothing without your little knife, are you, bastard?” He raised his hand, and now you could see the massive sword there, the silver gleaming in the darkness. “So sorry to crash your evening. Such a nice little party you were having.”

Azriel lunged at Mathias, siphons blazing, his body moving so fast he was nothing but a blur. His wings flared, and his shadows darted out, their smoky tendrils mere inches away from Mathias.

But Mathias only rolled his eyes. With a simple flick of his hand, he sent out a wave of darkness so black, it gobbled up all the remaining light. You could feel the wrongness of it, the scent of rot and decay filling your nose as you fought the urge to gag.

The power hit Azriel square in the chest, sending him flying back into a building lining the street. His wings crunched behind him, his siphons winked out, the blue light swallowed whole by Mathias’s dark power. He roared in pain as his body hit the brick with the full force of whatever magic Mathias wielded.

“Like I said,” Mathias crooned. “You’re nothing at all.” He quickly sheathed his sword, his attention now locked on you.

You trembled as you felt the weight of the lifeless gaze slither along your body.

He moved closer to you, so close now that you could smell his scent of death. You scrambled away, your mind racing, your fingers digging into the stones beneath you. But your gaze was locked on Azriel’s crumpled body against the wall. Get up! Please get up! you wanted to scream, but the words caught in your throat as a hand wrapped around your neck, cutting off your airway.

Mathias snapped his fingers, a cruel, satisfied smile on his face as a black obsidian collar materialized in his hand. Without hesitation, he snapped the collar around your neck, latching it closed with a single flick of his fingers. It was cold on your skin, so cold you felt like it was burning. You wanted to scream, to cry, to make sure Azriel knew you loved him-

The world around went silent. The flame that had been living inside of you died out as if a massive gust of wind had filled your body and blown it to ash. Numbness washed over you, heavy and oppressive, turning your limbs sluggish and your thoughts foggy. It felt as if your very soul had been dimmed, swallowed whole by the darkness around Velaris.

Mathias leaned closer, his breath hot and rancid against your neck, his voice dripping with sadistic satisfaction as he whispered, “Gotcha.”

The last thing you saw before the world splintered away was the flower crown on Azriel’s head falling to the ground, the once-shimmering petals now stained red with his blood.

a/n pt. 2: well, he told her. i hope you guys didn't think i was gonna make this easy... *evil laughter*

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[d-targaryenshoe]

Sweetest Affaire - Anthony Bridgerton

Word count: 1132

Summary: Two lovers are not precisely acceptable when one is wed, would you not agree?

You were certain that you had been the luckiest woman alive when you had married Anthony Bridgerton. 

His smile could light up a room, and his eyes seemed to hold a thousand secrets.

 He was charming and witty, and even after all these years, you still felt a flutter in your stomach whenever he touched you.

 But there was a part of you that ached, a part that felt unfulfilled. You knew that he was still seeing Sienna.

Your marriage had been a love match, of that you were certain, but Anthony seemed to think that he could have his way do so too.

 He believed that he could love you and Sienna at the same time and that you would both be content with your arrangement.

 You, however, weren't not so sure. You knew in your heart that you couldn't compete with the other women, not when Sienna was everything that you weren't.

Your bed had grown cold over the years, your passionate nights a distant memory. 

Anthony spent more time with Sienna than he did with you, and it hurt.

 It hurt deep in your soul to see the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.

 It was as if he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else that he truly loved you.

You tried to be understanding, to accept the situation for what it was, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. 

You loved Anthony with all your heart, but you couldn't help but feel like you were nothing more than his suitable wife. 

The thought of losing him to Sienna, of watching him walk down the aisle with another woman, was enough to make you want to scream. 

You knew that you needed to do something, but you didn't know what. 

All you could do was pray that fate would intervene, that something would change and that Anthony would finally see you for who you truly were.

The only woman he had ever loved and the only woman he would ever need.

Meanwhile, Anthony continued to lead a double life. He loved you both but in different ways.

Sienna was his passion, his fire. 

She made him feel alive, made him feel like he could conquer the world. With her, he felt free and uninhibited.

 You, on the other hand, were his comfort, his anchor. You were the woman he could rely on, the woman he could come home to. 

You were the mother of his children, the woman who knew him better than anyone else.

 He tried to convince himself that he was doing the right thing, that he could make you both happy, but deep down, he knew that he was lying to himself. 

He was in denial, refusing to accept the truth of his feelings.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The tension between you both grew thicker with each passing moment.

 You tried your best to ignore the signs, to pretend that everything was fine, but you could feel Anthony pulling away from you.

 You knew that he was preparing himself for a future without you, and it hurt you more than anything else ever had.

 You wanted to confront him, to demand the truth, but you were afraid of what might happen if you did. You were afraid of losing him completely.

One night, as you both argued about some trivial matter in your bedroom, Anthony said something so cruel, so hurtful that it cut you to the core.

 He accused you of being selfish, of only caring about yourself, of not understanding the depth of his love for Sienna. 

The words stung like a slap across the face, and for the first time in your marriage, you felt truly defeated. 

You looked up at Anthony, tears streaming down your cheeks, and you knew that this was the end. 

You couldn't take anymore.

With strength you didn't know you possessed, you pushed past him and walked out of the room. 

You didn't stop until you reached the safety of your own chamber. There, you collapsed onto the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

 It felt as if a weight had been lifted from your shoulders as if you had finally found the courage to face the truth. 

You knew that you couldn't go on living this way, pretending that everything was fine when it clearly wasn't. 

You needed to do something, anything, to make Anthony see the error of his ways.

You had been ignoring him for months.

Anthony began to rummage through your memories, desperate to understand where it all went wrong. 

He recalled the countless missed dinners and moments, the times he had chosen business over quiet nights in front of the fireplace. 

He realized he had ignored the very foundation of love and companionship you had built.

Determined to make amends for his shortcomings, Anthony concocted a plan, ever since he left Sienna.

 He decided to gather you and Eloise, who held an opinion highly valued by both of you, for a heartfelt conversation. 

Anthony wanted to beg for forgiveness, to show you how sorry he truly was.

Eloise, a woman of immense grace and wisdom, agreed to mediate your meeting.

 She understood the depth of Anthony's guilt when it came to Sienna, but she also harbored resentment towards her brother. 

She saw how you had suffered silently, and the anger welled up within her, making it difficult to suppress.

You were gathered in the sitting room, a pot of steaming tea placed between them. 

Anthony's palms were clammy with nervousness as his eyes met yours for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"I cannot begin to express how sorry I am, y/n," Anthony pleaded, his voice laced with genuine remorse. 

"I see now how I have neglected you, and I swear to make things right, forgive me."

Your eyes brimming with unshed tears, regarded him with a mix of sadness and apprehension.

 You had built walls around your heart, walls that had shielded you from the pain of feeling unloved. 

But Anthony's request broke through those barriers, stirring up a mix of hope and trepidation within you.

Eloise, unable to hide her anger towards her brother, interjected sharply.

"Anthony, by all gods, you have caused Mother and Y/n an immense heartache. Your words alone are not enough. You must prove your love through actions, day in and day out. Only then will forgiveness be earned."

Anthony, aware of his sister's anger and knowing she had a point, nodded earnestly. 

"You're right, El. I have taken y/n's love for granted for far too long. I am willing to do whatever it takes to regain her trust and rebuild the love we once had."

[lecl3rcw]

MAGIC IN YOUR VEINS

pairings: Charles Leclerc x sister!reader

summary: Charles comforts his favorite sibling.

warnings: badly translated French, sibling fights, Arthur being a lil mean, just a little tho.

author’s note: this is a lil disappointing, also Thankyou guys so much for 50 followers💗

song recs: none:(

————————————————————————

She didn’t know how a small comment of hers escalated to a full blown argument between her and Arthur.

“Arthur you know I didn’t mean it like that!” She tries to defend herself, “Oh cut the bullshit Y/N, you know how I feel when anyone compares me to Charles, you off all people should know” he yells really upset with his sister’s comment.

“I was just joking! I didn’t Intentionally compare you to him” she sighs out, putting her hand on her face, a little distressed. “No you always have to bring this up, and it’s funny because you’re probably the biggest failure out of all 4 of us, Enzo is starting his own business, Charles is a F1 driver, I’m an F2 driver, meanwhile you can’t even pass a grade 11 exam” he says, finally finishing his rant getting the anger and frustration of his stressful week out.

Her mouth was wide open as tears were visible in his eyes, sure her and Arthur exchanged insults but never had they fought this seriously. “Why are you crying? Cant handle it when it’s directed at you?” He says, “I’m sorry Arthur” she whispered before running to her room and locking the door.

She felt guilty, she wasn’t upset at him because he gave her a taste of her own medicine but it did sting, hearing someone she genuinely looked up to call her a failure was a statement she could never shake off. Although it hurt, it also made her realize that he was right. Once Arthur was cooled down, he did apologize to the girl and she did as well, but despite saying sorry, his words rang in her head. She vowed to herself that she was going to pass this test without anyone’s help no matter what.

“Do you guys know what’s been up with your sister?” Pascale asks placing food on the table, “What do you mean Maman?” Charles asks looking up from his phone, his next race was 3 weeks away so he was happy to spend time with his family, “I don’t know, she seems really distant” their mutters, “I heard she has a big test tomorrow , maybe she’s stressed out?” Lorenzo said, “yeah perhaps, but I would appreciate if you guys could talk to her and make her feel better” she says, the two sibling nodded their heads.

Charles was walking up to his bedroom but he noticed soft music coming from his sister’s room, curiously, he walked in only to find his sister’s head resting on the desk, the dim light of the lamp was the only thing lighting her room up, her papers scattered across her desk. He softly smiled at her, he placed a sweet kiss on her head before turning the light off and letting his sister sleep.

The next morning the girl jerked up in panic, she wasn’t supposed to be sleeping, she was supposed to be preparing for her test. “I’m so fucked” she says her hands on her head. She checks the time and she quickly gets ready to go to school.

“Hey Chérie” Pascale says, “Goodmorning maman” she says rubbing her eyes tiredly, “you alright?” Pascale asks the girl in concern, “I’m good ma, I was supposed to study but I fell asleep” she says, “Oh you’ll do great my love” she says as she goes to give her daughter a tight hug, being in her mother’s arms bright the younger girl a lot of comfort, “I love you Maman, I should be leaving” she says breaking the hug, she gave her a smile before heading out the door.

The rest of the day went by in a blur, after giving her test she actually felt confident, the smile that the past few weeks stole from her made its way back on her face, now all she had to do was wait till 5:00 pm for her results. Charles texted her saying that he could pick her up to which she happily responded.

“Hi Chérie! How was your day” Charles asks, “it was alright” she responds, the siblings talked about irrelevant things the rest of the way, jamming to music, Charles even bought Y/N some food as the two shared the meal. She felt really happy that Charles wanted to spend time with her as he was such a busy man. Unfortunately for her tho, her interactions with Arthur had died down since he was never home, either with his friends or with Carla, which made her really sad.

It was 5:03 when the siblings made it home, “I’m gonna go check my score Charles, I’ll be right back!” She says, “wait! Bring your laptop here, we will check it together” Charles says wanting to be as supportive as ever to which she was more than thankful for.

“Ok…so what did you get” He asks her, the minute she looks her heart drops to her stomach, she felt nauseous, the exhaustion of so many weeks of not sleeping and eating properly catching up to her, she was upset beyond repair, and Arthur’s voice calling her a failure started echoing In her mind.

“I’m a failure” she says mindlessly, before burrying her face in her hands. “What? No you’re not” He says grabbing the laptop. “Oh my god. I’m a screwup” she says as sobs start racking her body, Charles immediately wraps his arms around the girl tightly, her face still in her hands. “I’m so dumb, I studied for nothing” she says as places her head against his shoulder.

“Y/N you’re not a failure, who told you that” Charles says caressing her hair, “It dosent matter Charles, the test results tell me everything I need to know” she says tears still running down her face, “why can’t I be more like you, or Arthur, or Enzo” she wails out, “You’re not a failure Y/N, everyone has ups and downs, you can’t base your worth on test scores, or people’s opinions” he says tightening his hold on her, she stayed quiet wanting him to continue. “You can’t be perfect all the time Chérie, and whoever told you that you’re a failure is probably a failure themselves” Charles says getting a little mad that someone (Arthur) called his sister a failure.

“But-” “no buts, You tried Y/N and that’s what matters, you didn’t give up, everyone has bad days, but you can’t let a test score hold this much power over you” he finishes, she sniffles wiping her nose, “you’re right, I’m sorry, maybe this was a bit of an overreaction” she says, feeling a bit embarrassed, “No never apologize for showing emotions, you were disappointed and that’s ok, use this disappointment as motivation, you’re going to kick that next test’s ass” he says shaking her shoulders as she lets out a laugh. “ I love you Charlie” she mumbled giving him a final hug that he reciprocated, “I love you more” he says. “Now tell me, who said you were a failure? I’ll give them a piece of my mind, I’ll get Arthur on them too” he says confidently,

“………”

[oceandolores]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 10

dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

"𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵'𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘰 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦,"

summary: joel need to take you away

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 10

masterlist of the series!

previous | chapter 9

next | chapter 11

The church was filled with the low hum of whispered conversations, the soft rustling of fabric, and the faint creak of wooden pews as everyone settled into their seats. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the distant, lingering notes of the organ that had played earlier in the evening. The Millers had arrived early, securing their usual spot near the back. Tommy sat at the edge of the row, closest to the aisle, with Maria beside him, cradling little Luke in her arms. Ellie sat next, her gaze darting nervously between the people around her and the silent figure of Joel at the far end.

Joel’s eyes were fixed ahead, but they saw nothing. He was lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, where the echoes of the past few days reverberated endlessly. The shower had done little to wash away the stain of his actions, the memory of the blood, the bodies buried deep in the place that only Joel who knows. He had done it all for you—to protect you, to keep you safe—but now the weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as if the very walls of the church were closing in.

Ellie, sensing the tension radiating from him, leaned closer. “Are you alright, Joel?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s reply was curt, clipped. “Yes,” he muttered, though his tone was distant, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Ellie hesitated, then ventured another question, her concern for you evident. “How is uh...how is she?”

Joel nodded stiffly, his gaze still locked forward. “She’s getting better,” he said, though the words felt hollow, as if he were trying to convince himself more than Ellie.

"Is she going to perform?" Ellie ask again.

Joel nodded, Ellie frowned, her brow furrowing in worry. “And you’re gonna let her? She’s…”

Before she could finish, Joel cut her off, his voice a low growl. “Ellie, that’s what she wants.”

Ellie fell silent, her lips pressing into a thin line. She nodded, but the unease lingered in her eyes. She knew something was wrong, something beyond what Joel was willing to admit.

Meanwhile, Tommy and Maria exchanged puzzled glances. The opening prayers were supposed to have started by now, yet the pulpit remained empty, the service delayed. Tommy craned his neck, scanning the room, before catching sight of Joe, one of the church officials, passing by.

“Joe, what’s going on?” Tommy asked in a hushed tone. “Why hasn’t the prayer started?”

Joe leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “The prayer was supposed to be led by Pastor Ben, but no one’s seen him since last night.”

At the mention of Ben’s name, Joel’s heart skipped a beat. The blood drained from his face as a cold dread washed over him, the weight of his deeds crashing down on him anew.

Tommy frowned. “So who’s going to lead?”

“Reverend Gibson,” Joe replied. “He’s on his way.”

Tommy nodded, then turned back to Joel, his expression curious. But Joel was already lost in his thoughts, his mind racing. He should have known better than to kill Pastor Ben. He should have known that Ben’s absence wouldn’t go unnoticed, that people would start asking questions, that suspicion would inevitably follow. But what choice did he have? If he hadn’t silenced Ben, you would have been taken from him. They would have torn you away, locked him up, or worse. The thought was unbearable, a dark void that threatened to swallow him whole.

His mind spiraled, chaotic thoughts twisting and turning, each more desperate than the last. The church felt like a cage, the air thick and suffocating. The walls seemed to close in, the eyes of the congregation boring into him, as if they knew, as if they could see the blood on his hands, the bodies buried in the floor, hidden beneath layers of cement. Every creak of the pew, every whisper felt like an accusation, a judgment passed down by the very God he no longer believed would forgive him.

A sudden movement broke through his thoughts. Your father emerged from the shadows behind the pulpit, his presence commanding the room. Joel watched him with a cold detachment. As Joel scanned the room, searching for you, his eyes fell on your mother instead. She sat across the aisle, her head bowed low, a wide-brimmed flowered hat obscuring her face, her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders in a way that seemed… off. It was as if she were hiding, trying to shield herself from prying eyes. But you were nowhere to be seen.

Something's wrong...

A knot of unease tightened in Joel’s chest. As your father began to speak, calling the congregation to rise for the opening prayer, Joel’s gaze flicked back to your mother. She seemed fragile, almost broken, her posture slumped, her hands trembling slightly in her lap. And still, you were not there. The absence of your presence gnawed at him, fueling the growing fear that something was very, very wrong.

The congregation rose, a sea of bodies moving in unison as your father’s voice echoed through the church, strong and commanding. But beneath the surface of his words, there was something else—a venomous undercurrent, a cold, sharp edge that sent a shiver down Joel’s spine.

As your father began the prayer, his eyes locked onto Joel’s, a dark, knowing gaze that chilled him to the bone. The words of the prayer dripped with sanctimony, each phrase a thinly veiled condemnation, as if the prayer was a weapon aimed directly at him.

“Lord,” your father began, his voice resonating through the sacred space, “we ask for Your divine mercy on this day, for those who have strayed from Your path. For those who have allowed sin to corrupt their hearts, who have tainted the innocent with their filth.”

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, each word a blow that landed squarely on his conscience. He felt the weight of your father’s gaze, the burning intensity of it, as if your father knew, as if he could see right through him, into the dark, hidden places where Joel’s secrets festered.

“Grant us the strength, O Lord,” your father continued, his voice rising, “to cleanse ourselves of the impurity that has seeped into our lives. To protect the pure from those who seek to defile them, who seek to drag them down into the mire of sin.”

Joel’s breath caught in his throat. His mind raced, a whirlwind of fear and guilt. The congregation around him bowed their heads, their voices murmuring in unison, lost in prayer. But Joel couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t find any solace in them. All he could do was scan the room, searching for you, his eyes darting from face to face, desperately trying to find you. But you weren’t there. Where were you?

As the gospel music swelled, your father’s voice grew louder, more forceful, the words taking on an almost sinister tone. “Lord, forgive those who have fallen into darkness,” he chanted, his eyes never leaving Joel’s. “Forgive those who have allowed the Devil to take hold of their hearts, who have corrupted the pure souls entrusted to their care.”

The words cut deep, slicing through Joel’s defenses, each one a dagger of guilt and shame. He felt trapped, as if the very walls of the church were closing in on him, as if the pews themselves were rising up to choke him.

“Lord,” your father’s voice was a roar now, a righteous fury that echoed through the sanctuary, “cleanse us of this filth! Burn away the sin that has corrupted the pure! Purge us of those who would defile Your children, who would drag them down into Hell!”

Joel’s head spun, a cacophony of voices swirling around him, all merging into one oppressive sound.

He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

You were not there. And the fear that gripped him was unlike anything he had ever known.

He looked up, his eyes finding your mother across the aisle. She sat with her head bowed, her blonde hair spilling out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat, her shoulders trembling. Something was different about her, something was off.

And then Joel saw it—the bruise on her hand, the way she seemed to be hiding, shrinking into herself, as if trying to disappear.

It hit him like a freight train.

He knew

Your father knew about him and you.

Without a doubt, that your father knew. He knew about you and Joel, about the darkness that had crept into your lives. And he was using this moment, this prayer, to condemn Joel for it, to cast him out, to damn him in the eyes of God and man.

And he realize your father must had done something to you.

He must had discovered the truth and taken his rage out on you. The thought of you, hurt, suffering, because of him, because of what he had done, was too much to bear.

Joel’s blood ran cold as he realized why you weren’t there, why your mother looked so broken. He should have known. He should have never let it come to this. He should have protected you from this.

Suddenly, the world seemed to slow, your father’s voice droning on, filled with fire and brimstone. “GOD WILL BURN YOU IN HELL FOR YOUR SINS!” he thundered, his eyes piercing through the crowd, locking onto Joel’s.

The truth was clear now—your father knew everything. And he was punishing you for it.

Panic surged through him, and he bolted from the pew, his heart pounding in his ears.

He had to get to you. He had to save you.

As he moved, a ripple of shock spread through the congregation, heads turning, whispers rising. Tommy called after him, “Joel, wait!”

But Joel didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He was almost to the doors when your father’s voice rang out, echoing off the stone walls with a terrible finality.

“JOEL MILLER, YOU WILL BURN IN HELL AND WILL NEVER SEE THAT PATHETIC LITTLE GIRL AGAIN!”

The words hit Joel like a physical blow, stopping him dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto your father, who stood at the pulpit, his face twisted with righteous fury.

“What did you do to her?” Joel’s voice was low, dangerous, as he took a step toward your father, his fists clenched at his sides.

Your father sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “She’s been corrupted by the likes of you. But no more. You’ll never see her again.”

Joel’s vision blurred with rage, his body trembling with barely controlled fury. “What did you do to her?” he demanded, louder this time, his voice reverberating through the church.

The room was deathly silent now, all eyes on Joel and your father. Tommy stood frozen, while Maria held Ellie close, shielding her from the escalating confrontation. Ellie’s eyes were wide with fear, her hands shaking as she gripped Maria’s arm.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?!" Joel's voice thundered and echoed through the church, sending a wave of fear rippling through everyone inside.

Your father, undeterred, raised his Bible high, his voice booming through the sacred space as he pointed at Joel. "This man is a predator! He has corrupted my daughter’s soul, defiled her innocence! He is the Devil’s servant, sent to drag her down into the depths of Hell!"

The words sliced through the air like a blade, each one a sharp, stinging cut. Joel’s heart raced, his mind a storm of fear and fury. He had to find you. He had to get to you before it was too late.

“Where is she?” Joel’s voice was cold now, deadly, as he took another step forward, his eyes never leaving your father’s.

Your father’s expression was one of righteous satisfaction, a sickening smirk curling his lips. “You’ll never see her again,” he repeated, his voice a cruel taunt.

Joel snapped. With a growl of pure rage, he turned and bolted for the doors, shoving his way through the shocked congregation. He had to get to you. He had to save you.

“Don’t you dare, Joel!” your father’s voice thundered after him, but Joel was already gone, bursting through the church doors and into the day.

The truck was parked a few yards away, and Joel sprinted to it, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He yanked the door open, jumped in, and slammed it shut, the engine roaring to life as he floored the gas pedal. The tires screeched as the truck tore down the road, heading straight for your house.

His mind was a maelstrom of fear and rage. He couldn’t lose you. He wouldn’t lose you. The thought of what your father might have done to you was unbearable, a black hole of terror that threatened to swallow him whole. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t let it happen.

The truck careened around the corner, the tires skidding on the pavement as Joel pushed it to its limits. The house came into view, and Joel’s heart leaped into his throat. The lights were off, the windows dark, but there was no time to hesitate.

Joel slammed the truck into park and jumped out, sprinting to the front door. His fist pounded against the wood, the sound echoing through the empty street. As he shouted your name, his voice raw with desperation.

There was no answer. The silence was deafening, the fear clawing at his insides. He had to find you. He had to get to you.

With a growl, Joel threw his shoulder against the door, the wood splintering under the force. The door burst open, and Joel stormed inside, his eyes scanning the darkened rooms. He called your name again, his voice breaking with fear as he kept calling your name.

He moved through the house, tearing open doors, searching every room, every corner. But you were nowhere to be found. Panic gripped him, a cold, suffocating terror that made it hard to breathe. What had your father done? Where are you?

He shouted your name again, his voice echoing off the walls. And then, faintly, he heard it—a weak, broken whisper, calling his name.

“J-joel…”

The sound was coming from above. Joel’s heart leaped into his throat as he looked up, his eyes landing on the attic door. It was slightly ajar, a faint light spilling out from the crack.

Without a second thought, Joel grabbed a broom and slammed it against the attic hatch. The door creaked open, and the stairs unfolded, descending slowly to the floor. Joel was up them in an instant, his heart pounding in his ears as he reached the top.

And there you are.

You are huddled in a corner, your body battered and bruised, your clothes torn and soaked. You were shivering, your arms wrapped around yourself, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Joel…” your voice was a broken whisper, filled with so much pain and fear that it nearly brought Joel to his knees.

He crossed the room in three strides, falling to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face. “… oh God, baby…”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing as a sob shook your fragile frame. “J-joel, h-he knew...h-he knew,"

Joel’s heart shattered into a million pieces as he pulled you into his arms, holding you as tightly as he dared. “It's okay, it's okay, babygirl,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry… I’m here now, I’ve got you… I’ve got you…”

You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear. “Please… please don’t leave me…”

“Never,” Joel swore, his voice rough with determination. “I’m never leaving you."

“We’re getting out of here, right now,” Joel said as he cupped your face, "We're getting out of here," he said again with his voice a low growl, laced with urgency. He knew he couldn’t leave you in this hell any longer. The sight of you, broken and trembling, ignited a primal need to protect you, to keep you safe at any cost. This was it—the moment you both had been waiting for. Now or never. If he didn’t take you away now, they would take you from him forever.

Joel lifted you gently, cradling you in his arms, but even the smallest movement made you cry out in pain. The agony shot through your body, sharp and unforgiving, as fresh blood began to seep from your stomach. The memory of your father’s sharp rings flashed in your mind, the brutal force with which he had punched you, leaving you gasping for breath, your vision blurring from the pain.

As Joel carried you down from the attic, your mind drifted back to how it all began. Your father had found out, and his rage was beyond anything you had ever known.

"Father, what's going on?"

You remembered his cold, calculating eyes as he cornered you, the terrifying calm in his voice when he asked if it was true. You had tried to deny it, to protect Joel, but your father saw through your lies. His fist came down on you like a hammer, relentless and punishing, driving the air from your lungs with every blow. You had screamed, begged for mercy, but it only fueled his fury.

He grabbed your hair, yanking you to the ground, dragging you across the floor as you kicked and pleaded. The fear was suffocating, every nerve in your body screaming in terror. Then, with a cruel twist of his hand, he forced your head into the toilet, pressing down as the cold, filthy water filled your mouth and nose. You thrashed, struggling to breathe, panic consuming you as you felt yourself slipping away.

Your mother had been there, witnessing the horror unfold. For the first time, she stepped in, her voice trembling as she pleaded with him, "NO! NO! STOP IT! LEAVE HER ALONE!" Her voice was desperate, raw with the anguish of a mother watching her child being destroyed.

She lunged at your father, punching him, clawing at him to get him away from you. For a moment, you felt a glimmer of hope as her hands pulled him back, as if she might actually save you. But your father's rage was all-consuming. His eyes turned to her, dark and menacing, and he sneered at her audacity.

"You dare to defy me?" he spat, his voice low and venomous. Without hesitation, he lashed out, his fist connecting with your mother's face in a sickening thud. She cried out, stumbling backward, her hands flying to her face as she tried to shield herself from his wrath.

"MAMA!" you screamed, your voice hoarse and broken, as you watched her crumble to the floor. The sight of her, fragile and bleeding, filled you with a new kind of terror, one that twisted your insides into knots. The man who people had known for the good saint preacher, always been the pillar of the community, the preacher who stood in front of the congregation and preached love and righteousness, was now a monster, capable of such cruelty.

Your father turned back to you, his face twisted in a grotesque mask of anger, and you knew then that there was no escape. The beating resumed, more savage than before, as he sought to punish you for both your sins and your mother’s rebellion. Each blow was a declaration of his power, a reminder that you were nothing but a wayward daughter who had to be corrected.

The pain was relentless, each hit driving you deeper into a state of numbness. You were barely aware of anything anymore, your world reduced to the searing agony that radiated from every inch of your body. The only thing that kept you from slipping into unconsciousness was the thought of Joel, the hope that he might somehow save you from this nightmare.

Your father locked you up in the attic as he forced your mother also to attend the sermons.

Now, as Joel carried you down from the attic, the memories of that clung to you like a shroud. The pain, the fear, the helplessness—it was all still there, just beneath the surface, waiting to consume you. But with Joel, there was a glimmer of hope, a promise that maybe, just maybe, you could escape the hell that had become your life.

Joel's grip on you tightened as he moved through the house, his mind racing with a singular focus: to get you out, to keep you safe. There was no time to think about anything else—your belongings, or even the consequences. All that mattered was getting you away from here, away from the nightmare that had become your life.

As he carried you on his shoulder, your fragile body resting against him, Joel moved with determination. But as Joel reached the front yard, a few neighbors emerged from their homes, their faces etched with concern and confusion.

"Joel? What's going on?" one of them asked, their voice hesitant, unsure of the scene unfolding before them.

Joel didn’t answer. His focus was unwavering as he placed you gently in the back seat of his truck, his hands trembling slightly as he ensured you were secure. But just as he turned to get in the driver’s seat, the sound of tires screeching to a halt cut through the day.

Your father’s car pulled up abruptly, and both your parents emerged, your father’s face a mask of fury, your mother’s a picture of desperate panic.

"JOEL! DON’T YOU DARE TAKE HER AWAY!" your father roared, his voice thick with rage. He stormed towards Joel, grabbing him by the shirt and yanking him back, the force of his anger almost palpable.

But Joel was ready. He had been holding back for too long. The hatred, the disgust he felt for this man who had caused you so much pain boiled over. Without hesitation, Joel swung his fist, landing a solid punch on your father's jaw. The impact sent your father stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock.

"You make me sick," Joel snarled, his voice low and filled with venom. "You disgust me. You beat your fucking daughter, terrorized her, and for what? To prove you’re some righteous man of God? You're a hypocrite, a fucking monster hiding behind a collar!"

The two men squared off, anger radiating from both of them. You could hear the scuffle from inside the truck, your heart pounding in your chest as you struggled to process what was happening. The sounds of fists connecting, grunts of pain, and harsh, angry words filled the air.

Meanwhile, your mother was at the window of the truck, banging on the glass, her face wet with tears. "Please, please don’t leave, don't leave me!" she cried, her voice cracking with desperation. "Please, sweetheart, don’t leave me alone!"

Your mother’s pleas tore at your heart. You love her—of course you do—but you knew deep down that staying with her meant staying in a place where you would never be truly safe. She had let this happen. She had watched as your father hurt you, and even now, when she tried to intervene, it felt like too little, too late.

Through the glass, your mother’s eyes locked with yours, her hand pressed against the window as if she could reach through and pull you back to her. "Please, baby, come back to us. We can fix this. We can make it right."

"Mama, I can't," Tears blurred your vision as you looked at her, the woman who had given you life but had been unable to protect you. You could see the regret in her eyes, the guilt that she had let it come to this. But as much as it hurt, you knew you couldn’t go back home. Not now. Not ever.

Joel, still grappling with your father, caught sight of your mother trying to coax you out of the truck. "Stay away from her, Evelyn!" he shouted, his voice laced with a protective fury. He couldn’t let your mother take you back into that house, back into the arms of a man who would destroy you.

Your father spat blood from the corner of his mouth, glaring at Joel with a hatred that could have burned through steel. "You can’t take her from me! She’s my daughter! You think you can just steal her away, like some kind of hero? I’ll call the cops, you bastard! This is kidnapping!"

Joel didn’t flinch. "She’s not safe with you," he growled, his voice cold as ice. "You don’t deserve to call yourself her father. You’re just a coward who uses God to justify your own cruelty."

Your father lunged at Joel again, but this time Joel was ready. He dodged the attack, shoving your father back with all the strength he had left. "You're torturing her all this time!" Joel screamed, his voice shaking with barely contained rage.

But your father only sneered, wiping the blood from his lip. "She’s my daughter. I did what had to be done. And you—" he pointed a trembling finger at Joel, "—you will never see her again. Not after what you've done."

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, the realization hitting him like a freight train. He turned to you, your pale, tear-streaked face visible through the window, and knew he had to act fast. He couldn’t let your father take you away, couldn’t let him continue to hurt you.

As the chaos of the confrontation swirled around you, you clung to the small shred of hope that Joel represented. You couldn’t go back to your parents, couldn’t return to the hell you had endured for so long.

Joel turned back to your father, his voice low and dangerous. "You’re never going to touch her again. I’m taking her away from here, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me."

With that, Joel broke away from the fight, rushing back to the truck. He threw open the door, and with one last glance at your parents—your mother sobbing, your father still seething—he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut.

Your father lunged forward, pounding on the hood of the truck as Joel started the engine. "Don’t you dare take her away from me!" he roared, his voice cracking with rage and desperation.

"JOEL!" Your father screamed. and then your mother scream your name.

But Joel didn’t look back. He floored the gas pedal, the tires screeching as the truck sped away, leaving your father’s furious shouts fading into the distance.

Joel’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he sped away from your house, his knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. The echoes of your father’s enraged shouts and your mother’s desperate cries still rang in his ears, but he couldn’t afford to think about them now. He glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing you curled up in the backseat, tears streaming down your face as you clutched your aching body. His heart broke for you, the pain in your eyes more than he could bear.

He reached back with one hand, his fingers brushing against your trembling shoulder. "It's okay, baby, I’m here," he murmured, trying to soothe you even as his own heart raced with fear and anger. "We’re getting away from here, I promise. No one’s going to hurt you ever again."

Joel’s mind was racing, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of plans and possibilities. He knew he had to get you out of town, away from the danger that lingered in every shadow of your parents’ home. But he couldn’t just run, not without Ellie. She was his daughter, his reason for living, and he couldn’t leave her behind. Not now, not ever.

"We're going to Tommy’s first," he said, his voice firm, as if saying it out loud would make it all the more real. "Ellie and Tommy will be there."

When he finally pulled up in front of Tommy’s house, Joel took a deep breath, his mind already calculating the next steps. He turned to you, his gaze softening. "I’ll be quick, baby. You stay here, okay? I’ll lock the doors. I won’t be long."

You nodded weakly, trusting him despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. Joel leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before locking the truck doors and rushing towards the house.

Inside, chaos had already erupted. Tommy and Maria were in the living room, both of them looking bewildered and concerned. Ellie was there too, sitting on the couch with wide, anxious eyes, clearly sensing that something was terribly wrong.

"What the fuck happened, Ellie?" Tommy said to Ellie then suddenly Joel's there making everyone's head turned.

"Joel?!" Tommy exclaimed as his brother burst into the room, his voice a mix of shock and confusion. "What the hell is going on?!"

But Joel didn’t answer. His focus was solely on Ellie, his heart aching with the weight of what he was about to ask her. He crossed the room in quick strides, taking her hands in his, his eyes filled with desperation.

"Ellie," he began, his voice trembling slightly, "we’re leaving. We have to go. Right now."

Ellie’s eyes widened in shock. "What?!" she gasped, looking up at him as if he had just said the most impossible thing in the world. Tommy and Maria were just as stunned, exchanging worried glances.

"Joel, what the fuck are you talking about?" Tommy demanded, stepping closer to his brother. "What happened?!"

But Joel barely heard him. His grip on Ellie’s hands tightened, his voice urgent. "Ellie, listen to me. I can’t go without you. I need you to come with me. Please, we need to go now." He could feel time slipping away, the danger drawing closer with every passing second.

Ellie looked at him, tears welling up in her eyes. "Joel, this is crazy," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Behind them, Tommy’s voice grew louder, more insistent. "Joel! Explain to me what’s going on! What the hell have you done?"

But Joel’s attention was locked on Ellie, the girl who had become his world. For the first time, Ellie saw something in Joel she had never seen before—tears, brimming in his eyes, threatening to spill over. His voice broke as he spoke, the weight of his emotions finally crashing down on him.

"I can’t leave without you, Ellie," he pleaded, his voice raw. "Please, come with me. I can’t lose you too." His voice breaking.

The room fell into a stunned silence. Tommy and Maria stared at Joel in disbelief, the realization of what was happening slowly dawning on them. Tommy’s voice, once filled with confusion, now carried a note of horror. "Joel… what are you going to do with her?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as Tommy saw you in the back of Joel's truck. "What have you done to her, Joel?!"

"You can’t just take her away from her family…" Tommy said to Joel about you...

Joel finally tore his gaze away from Ellie, his eyes filled with a fierce, unyielding determination. "You don’t understand, Tommy," he snapped, his voice laced with bitterness. "Her father’s been beating her, torturing her for years. I’m not taking her away from her family—I’m saving her from them."

Tommy stared at him, the shock evident in his face. "Joel… why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I’m fucking in love with her!" Joel finally admitted, his voice heavy with the weight of the truth. The room went silent again, the confession hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Even Maria, who had been silent until now, gasped softly, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief.

Tommy’s eyes widened, his gaze shifting from Joel to the truck where you sat, tears streaming down your face. The realization hit him like a freight train, and his expression softened with a mixture of shock and sorrow. "Jesus Christ, Joel," 

Joel’s grip on Ellie’s hands tightened as he turned back to her, his eyes pleading. "Ellie, please. I can’t do this without you. I need you to come with me. I can’t lose you too, i can't,"

Ellie’s heart ached at the sight of Joel like this—so desperate, so vulnerable. She knew how much he loved you and how much you loved him, how much he had sacrificed for you, but she also knew that this was a line she couldn’t cross. Going with him would only complicate things further, would make an already impossible situation even worse.

Tears welled up in Ellie’s eyes as she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "No, Joel. You have to go… without me."

Joel’s eyes widened in disbelief, his heart shattering at her words. "No, no" he whispered, shaking his head. "No, I can’t leave you behind. I can’t."

Ellie reached up, cupping Joel’s face in her hands, her own tears spilling over. "You have to," she said softly, her voice filled with both love and sorrow. "You’ve done so much for me, Joel. But now, you need to do this for her. She needs you."

Joel’s breath caught in his throat, his emotions a tangled mess of love, fear, and despair. He knew she was right, knew that he couldn’t drag Ellie into this any further. But the thought of leaving her behind, of saying goodbye, was almost too much to bear.

"I’m so sorry, Ellie," Joel choked out, his voice breaking as tears finally spilled over. "I’ve failed you…"

Ellie shook her head, her heart breaking at the sight of Joel so torn. "No, Joel," she whispered, pulling him into a tight embrace. "You’ve never failed me. You’re the best father I could’ve asked for. And if you’re happy with her, then I’m happy too."

They held each other for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the moment pressing down on them both. Finally, Joel pulled back, his eyes red and swollen from the tears. He looked at Tommy, his voice hoarse. "Take care of her, Tommy. Please. I’ll come back… I promise."

Tommy nodded, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Just… be careful."

Joel turned to Ellie one last time, his heart breaking as he forced himself to let go. "I love you, kiddo," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you too, Joel, Please, be safe." Ellie replied, her voice trembling.

With one last, lingering look, Joel turned and walked out of the house, each step heavier than the last. As he climbed back into the truck, his hands shaking, he glanced over at you, his heart aching for the pain you were going through.

He started the engine, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, but one thing was clear—he had to protect you, had to get you somewhere safe. Ellie would be okay. She was strong, resilient. But you… you needed him now more than ever.

As the truck pulled away, Ellie watched from the window, her heart breaking with every passing second. She knew she had done the right thing, but that didn’t make it any easier.

And as Joel drove away and he look back to see you now fell asleep, his mind filled with a mix of sorrow and determination, he knew that this was only the beginning of a long, uncertain journey.

***

You slowly drifted back to consciousness, your body heavy with exhaustion as you lay in the backseat. The world outside the window blurred past in streaks of darkness, illuminated only by the occasional flash of headlights. You blinked, trying to orient yourself, the events of the morning slipping in and out of focus.

Your eyes found Joel at the wheel, his broad shoulders hunched forward, the lines of his face etched deep with a blend of determination and fatigue. The soft glow of the dashboard lights cast a warm, almost ethereal hue over him, and for a moment, he looked like a guardian angel—battle-worn but unwavering, carrying you away from the life that had suffocated you for so long.

You noticed the blood on his forehead, a stark reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. But even with the traces of violence on him, there was something steady, almost serene, about the way he drove. The road ahead was uncertain, but with Joel, you felt a fragile sense of safety, a new kind of freedom that was both exhilarating and terrifying.

In that moment, you realized how much he meant to you. He had pulled you out of the abyss, saving you from the dark clutches of your father's wrath. He was your protector, your sanctuary, the one who had finally put an end to your suffering. You were free now—free from the oppressive walls of that house, from the constant fear and pain. Joel had given you that, and you were forever grateful.

"Joel…" you called out, your voice weak and trembling as you tried to sit up. The word barely escaped your lips, but it was enough to make him turn his head, his eyes meeting yours in the rearview mirror.

He slowed the truck and pulled over to the side of the road, the tires crunching against the gravel. The world outside was still and quiet, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had just passed.

Joel quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the truck, his footsteps echoing as he hurried to your side. He opened the back door and knelt beside you, his eyes filled with concern.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a mixture of relief and worry. "How are you feeling?"

You tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. "Better…"

He reached out, gently touching your bandaged stomach, his hands warm and careful. "You’re safe now," he whispered, more to himself than to you. "I’m not gonna let anything happen to you."

You nodded, the weight of everything hitting you all at once. Tears welled up in your eyes, not from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of freedom. For the first time in as long as you could remember, you felt like you could breathe, like the world outside that small town was finally opening up to you.

Joel looked at you, his expression softening as he brushed a tear from your cheek. "We’re gonna be okay," he assured you. "I'm here to protect you, I won't let anything happened to you,"

You believed him. You didn’t know where the road would lead, but with Joel by your side, you felt ready to face whatever came next. He had saved you from a life of misery, and as you stared into the darkened horizon, you knew that you were never going back. The past was behind you, and a new future awaited, one where you could finally be free.

As you tenderly wiped the blood from Joel’s forehead, your fingertips brushed against his skin, feeling the warmth of his touch and the resilience that lay beneath. His brown eyes, deep and weary, met yours with a mixture of exhaustion and unwavering resolve. In that moment, you saw not just the man who had rescued you but the protector who would guide you through this new chapter of your life.

The road stretched out before you, an endless ribbon of possibilities unfurling in the fading light. With every mile that passed, you felt a sense of liberation that was both exhilarating and profound. The past was receding like shadows in the rearview mirror, and the future, though uncertain, was bathed in the golden glow of hope.

As you leaned in and kissed Joel, the touch of your lips against his was like a silent promise, a moment of shared solace and longing fulfilled. It was the kiss you had needed—a gentle, lingering connection that spoke of gratitude and the deep bond that had formed between you. When you pulled away, the world felt a little lighter, and the road ahead seemed a bit less daunting.

“What are we going to do now?” you asked softly, your voice carrying the weight of your newfound freedom and the uncertainty that lay ahead.

Joel’s gaze shifted to you, his expression thoughtful. "We'll figuring it out, but for now we’re heading to Bill and Frank’s place,” he said.

“They’re old friends of mine. They might be able to help us. The town’s probably a mess right now, and your dad might’ve called the cops. We’ll stay with them for a few days, get cleaned up, and figure out our next move.”

You nodded, accepting his plan with a quiet resolve. The idea of moving forward, of having a temporary sanctuary, gave you a sense of security. “I want to sit up front with you,” you said, determination in your voice. “I’ll be by your side.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, concerned. “Are you sure? It’s a long drive to Bill and Frank’s—about five or six hours. You could rest in the back.”

“No,” you insisted. “I want to be right here, with you.” you said. Joel gave a reluctant nod, acknowledging your request.

***

The road unfurled before you like an endless ribbon of possibility, stretching into the darkening sky, where twilight wove a tapestry of deep blues and fiery oranges. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving a trail of molten gold that shimmered across the landscape, as if painting the world in hues of promise and potential. The truck's engine hummed steadily beneath you, a comforting rhythm that matched the steady beat of your heart, now full of a mix of relief, fear, and hope.

As Dolly Parton's Wildflowers played softly on the radio, its melodies seemed to resonate with the very essence of your soul, each lyric a reflection of your journey. The song spoke of wild, untamed beauty, of a spirit that refused to wither in the face of adversity. It was as if the music was a kindred spirit, understanding the depth of your longing for freedom, for a life unbound by the suffocating constraints of your past.

The breeze that streamed through the open window carried with it a whisper of the freedom you had yearned for, rustling your hair and cooling your flushed cheeks. You felt the wind as a living thing, a gentle reminder of the fresh start you had just begun. It tangled in your hair, a wild, carefree dance that matched the liberation swelling inside you.

Joel sat beside you, his presence a steady beacon amidst the chaos of your emotions. The lines etched into his face told stories of hardship and sacrifice, but in the dim light of the truck's cab, his eyes held a fierce protectiveness and a glimmer of something softer—a promise of safety and a new beginning. His brown jacket, speckled with the day's dust and traces of blood, seemed to mark the end of a grueling battle and the dawn of a new journey.

As the lyrics floated through the cab, they spoke of a life spent in the shadows of others, yearning to break free and bloom in a space of its own. “The hills were alive with wildflowers and I, was as wild, even wilder than they…” The words seemed to echo the very essence of your heart. You were that wildflower, once confined by the oppressive garden of your past, now blooming freely in the open expanse of the world. Your past life, with its stifling expectations and cruel constraints, had faded into the distance, replaced by the exhilarating unknown of the road ahead.

The sunset's final light painted the world in a breathtaking array of colors—crimson and gold blending into a soft violet haze. The sky was a canvas of possibilities, stretching infinitely above you, as if inviting you to write your own story against its vast backdrop. The landscape outside the truck was a blur of darkening silhouettes and shadows, but the interior was bathed in a warm, golden glow, a sanctuary of hope and new beginnings.

Joel’s rugged hands gripped the steering wheel with a steady determination, his profile etched in the soft light. You could see the strain and exhaustion in his features, but also the unwavering resolve. His sacrifice was monumental, his risk immense, yet his focus was solely on the road and on you, a testament to his commitment to your safety and future.

The lyrics of the song spoke to your very soul: “I had no room for growth, and I wanted so much to branch out…” The words mirrored your own desire to escape, to find a place where you could thrive, where you could grow without being smothered. The journey was not just a physical escape but an emotional and spiritual liberation. With each mile that ticked by, the weight of your past seemed to lift, carried away on the wind like the echoes of a distant storm.

Joel’s gaze occasionally flicked toward you, his eyes softening with a tenderness that spoke volumes. In those brief moments, you saw the depth of his commitment, the profound love he held for you. His sacrifices were etched into the lines of his face, and the determination in his eyes was a promise—a promise to protect you, to build a future together, no matter how uncertain it might be.

The sun continued its descent, casting long shadows across the road and creating a dramatic interplay of light and dark. It was a visual metaphor for your journey—a transition from the harsh light of your past to the hopeful glow of the future. The world outside the truck seemed to fade away, replaced by a dreamlike quality as you embraced the freedom you had longed for.

As the song reached its poignant chorus—“No regret for the path that I chose…”—the words resonated deeply within you. There was no room for regret in this new chapter of your life. The past was behind you, a closed chapter that had brought you to this moment of liberation. You felt a profound sense of relief, of having chosen a path that, while fraught with challenges, was yours to navigate with Joel by your side.

You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against Joel’s arm. The touch was tender, a silent gesture of gratitude and love. He looked at you, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the dashboard lights, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The road ahead was uncertain, but with Joel beside you and the freedom of the open road stretching before you, the future seemed filled with infinite possibilities.

You leaned against the seat, letting the wind play with your hair and the music wash over you. The world outside was a blur of colors and shadows, but inside the truck, with Joel and the song as your companions, you felt a deep, abiding peace.

In the fading light of a southern sunset, you and Joel embark on a journey of liberation. The road was a symbol of your new beginning, a path that would lead you to a future of your own making.

With Joel by your side, you knew that you were ready to face whatever came next, together, as wild and free as the wind that carried you toward the horizon.

[girlactionfigure]

Me: I don’t deny your identity. I acknowledge Palestinians exist today.

Them: Jesus was a Palestinian, not a Jew!

Me: Well, no - he was a Jewish rabbi. He had a bris, kept Shabbat, kept kosher, & his “Last Supper” was a Passover Seder. Besides, nobody would be called “Palestinian” for ~1,900 years after #Jesus died.

Them: Jews are #Khazars with no history in Palestine!

Me: Well, no - millions of DNA samples have now scientifically proven that Ashkenazi Jews (like their Sephardi & Mizrahi brothers & sisters) originate from the Levant (Israel).

Ashkenazi Jews migrated to the Rhineland (western #Germany) between 800-900 CE. 

#Yiddish - the language spoken by #Ashkenazi Jews for a millennia - is a mixture of Jews’ original Hebrew & adopted #German.

Meanwhile, there is no evidence of any Khazar influence on Ashkenazi customs, language, or culture.

The #Khazar tale (claiming some or many Turkic Khazars converted to #Judaism), while interesting, is not supported by any archeological evidence, and can be considered nothing more than a story.

Besides, it’s unassailable that the Ashkenazim were living ~1,500 miles from the Khazars, which may as well have been on the moon in the Middle Ages.

Them: Palestinians are Canaanites, the original inhabitants of the Land!

Me: Well, no - there’s zero evidence the Palestinians are Canaanites. This theory followed other similarly false claims over the past several decades that the Palestinians descend from the Philistines (an ancient Aegean Greek “sea people”) and even the Jebusites - a people for whom there is no evidence outside of the Bible of their having ever existed (if they did, they have been gone for at least 3,000 years).

One thing is clear, all of these recent tall tales about Palestinians’ ancient roots in “Palestine” were created in an attempt to delegitimize the State of Israel & not as some academic attempt to find Palestinian roots.

The #Canaanites (who spoke a language similar to #Hebrew, not #Arabic) have been extinct for more than 3,000 years; and there are no #Canaanite influences in any modern Palestinian language, culture, cuisine, customs, or religion.

Furthermore, DNA studies now prove Canaanites are closest in descension to modern-day Armenians & Western Iranians - but, culturally, there has not been a “Canaanite” people in ~3,000 years.

Meanwhile, there is a practically infinite amount of archeological, biblical & non-biblical text, and architectural evidence proving beyond any doubt that Jews lived in the Land of Israel continuously for more than 3,200 years.

Arabs only started arriving in Eretz Israel in significant numbers during the Arab Imperial conquest out of the deserts of the Arabian Peninsula in the mid 7th century CE when the Land was still majority-occupied by ~350,000 Jews.

Arab conquerers #colonized the Land of Israel & subjugated the Jewish majority.

That’s right, the Arabs were the #colonizers - this is historical fact no matter how much that might make your head hurt.

Them: The Jews are foreigners who stole Palestinian land!

Me: Ok, now you’ve officially ticked me off by repeatedly denying MY identity - one that was OBVIOUS to everyone before the last ~55 years when KGB-inspired propaganda went into mass effect in an effort to delegitimize Israel.

Can’t say the same about your identity … even though I keep trying to offer to respect it!

The Arabs only ruled Eretz Israel after conquering it in the 7th century & until they were kicked out by the Seljuks ~400 years later. Never during that time, did they even attempt to establish an Arab or #Muslim state or capital anywhere in Eretz Israel (Jerusalem is never mentioned in the Koran, and while the city is holy to Sunni Muslims, it is not holy to Shia Muslims).

And during the time of Arab rule, there was obviously no state or country called “Palestine.”

Then, during the 400 years before the start of the British Mandate around 1920, the Land was a distant & severely neglected province of the Ottoman #Turkish Empire.

In fact, in the late 19th century, as Jews began moving back to their homeland in larger numbers, there were only ~200,000 people living there (mostly a sparse, nomadic population), and Jews were the majority in #Jerusalem.

Post-WWI, the League of Nations (the precursor to the UN) legally granted Britain a "sacred trust" called the Mandate for Palestine (a name given to the land by Roman Emperor Hadrian in 135 CE).

The Mandate for Palestine was the least controversial of the 15 post-WWI mandates because everyone KNEW Jews were from “Palestine.”

So the Mandate for Palestine, which included the legal requirement for Britain to aid in the establishment of a Jewish National Home, passed unanimously by the League of Nations.

Among other things, the unanimously passed & legally-binding Mandate recognized “the historical connection of the Jewish people with Palestine and to the grounds for reconstituting their national home in that country.”

Besides, before the Jews started returning to the Land in large numbers in the late 19th century, it had become almost entirely war-torn ruins, arid desert & malarial swamps.

But the returning Jews were determined to rebuild their homeland; and the evidence is undeniable that Jewish labor & the Western technology they brought along helped to make the desert bloom again.

The result of a new booming economy in the midst of mostly rural, undeveloped land is no surprise; and hundreds of thousands of Arabs from neighboring lands immigrated to Mandate Palestine in the early to mid 20th century.

In fact, once Arabs began to rebel against the Jews (with pogroms & full-blown barbaric massacres on a particularly wide scale in 1920, 1921, 1929, and in 1936-1939), they made extremely clear to the British that they resented the name “Palestine,” which they claimed (incorrectly) was a modern Zionist invention.

For example, at the British Peel Commission in 1937 (looking into Arab riots from the year before), local Arab leader Audi Bey Abdul-Hadi testified that “[t]here is no such country [as Palestine]! Palestine is a term the Zionists invented!”

Again, during the 1946 Anglo-American Committee of Inquiry that was set-up to make recommendations for the territory, Arab-American historian Philip Hitti testified, “There is no such thing as Palestine in [Arab] history, absolutely not.”

The Arab position was not particularly surprising, as "Palestine” is not an Arab word (Arabic does not even have a letter “P” or a sound for “P,” which is why you often hear Arabs today pronounce it with a “B” as “Balastine”).

The Arabs in the Land at that time mostly identified with their local clan & otherwise considered themselves “Arabs” of “Southern Syria.”

In fact, just about anyone who was called a “Palestinian” pre-1948 was a #Jew.

This is why nobody made any attempt to create a “Palestinian state” during the 19 years between 1948 and 1967 in which #Egypt occupied #Gaza & #Jordan occupied the “#WestBank.”

The hard truth - even though I’m still acknowledging a #Palestinian people exists today - is that an Arab “Palestinian” identity was created for the first time in any signifiant way at the height of the Cold War in the mid-1960s & at the behest of the #Soviet#KGB, which wanted to expand its influence in the region, undermine the only democracy in the Middle East, and which had been repeatedly embarrassed by Israeli victories over invading Soviet-backed & Soviet-armed Arab states.

So the KGB wrote the ridiculous “Palestine Liberation Organization” (PLO) charter & molded Yasser Arafat at what was known as “KGB U” in #Moscow to use #terror & #propaganda to destabilize Israel.

Over the decades since then, many Arabs in the Land have come to self-identify as “Palestinians.”

Even among Palestinians today, however, many still identify with their clan over a separate “Palestinian” nationality (e.g., the clans do not intermarry & many are constantly engaged in some degree of violent conflict).

And the 2 million+ Arabs citizens of the State of Israel (who have equal protection under the law & more rights & privileges than they would have in any Arab and/or Muslim country on Earth) almost exclusively identify as either #Israeli-#Arabs or as simply #Israelis - not as #Palestinians.

Them: #Jews … I mean #Zionists … are bad, ok? Just ask the UN.

Me: Right. Just ask the #UN 

Captain Allen

@CptAllenHistory

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | carnage⌟

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The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall. 

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred���only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

A/N: ooof! 8.0k words, lordy... but i must admit, it's getting easier for me to write/picture fight scenes instead of just summarizing them in a sentence lololo;  anywho as you guys can tell by the spammed updates, i really love greek mythology lolo; who's your favorite god/goddess? mine would have to be Aphrodite; for her to be the most beautiful to ever exist, she really does get envious whenever someone even breathes the word 'pretty' in another person direction 😩---i stan a messy queen