#once again I am not built for traditional romance and marriage traditions

[gemstarstarlight]

A woman I thought was wearing a suit jacket and a blouse was instead wearing a romper and a sweater 10 dead 247 injured

[ninus9607]

One and only - Agatha Harkness

Pairing(s): Agatha Harkness x Female! reader

Word count: 14K

tags: l content: Dark Romance, Forced Marriage, Manipulation, Abuse, Smut, Angst, Praise Kink, Magic, Passionate sex, Fluff and Smut, Magic Strap, creampie, dirty talk, 18+,

AN: The story contains elements of abuse, manipulation, graphic sexual scenes, Mental and emotional trauma. Also, I hope u guys will like it, it's my first ff in second pov

The rich aroma of sage and honey hung in the air, wrapping in ghostly fingers around the flickering candles perched on stone walls. With its shelves loaded with books so old that their spines had cracked and flaked with age, the Harkness estate's study was a temple of ancient power. But none of it mattered at that time.

The cool, steady voice of her mother filled the room as Agatha Harkness stood straight in the middle, her purple power pulsing beneath her skin, threatening to spill over.

"Agatha, you are a disgrace."

Evanora's words poked Agatha like a sharp sword, cutting her too many times to flinch now. The elder woman stood tall beside the fireplace, her long black robes brushing the floor like trailing shadows, her gray-streaked hair tied securely, and she looked harsh and strict.

"I built this coven. I kept it through war, fire, and abuse," Evanora said, her eyes narrowing like sharpened glass. "And you... You waste your gift chasing petty distractions and self-serving rebellion."

Agatha's jaw narrowed. "I have never wasted a damn thing," she said, her voice frosty. "Everything I've done, from studying spells to fighting battles, has been for this coven. For Salem."

"For yourself," Evanora said strongly. "For your personal pleasure. You think I didn't notice it? The way you push past the limits of your power, ignoring the advice of your elders. You're careless. Wild."

The muscle in Agatha's cheek trembled. "I'm powerful."

"And power without control is dangerous," Evanora warned. "You walk the edge of ruin, Agatha."

"I can control myself just fine," Agatha hissed, blue magic blazing at her fingertips. "It's you who can't stomach the thought of me not bending to your perfect little plans."

"I will not debate this," Evanora said, the air in the room sizzling with restrained energy. "You are of age. Your name will be called upon before the council. You will take a wife. Or a husband. I do not care. You must form a connection that strengthens the coven's future, or you will be passed over."

Agatha's lips twisted in disgust. "You'd rather marry me off like a bartered sheep than let me lead as I am?"

"You forget yourself," Evanora warned her, her tone low and deadly.

"This coven is based on tradition. About alliances. On peace. A leader without a relationship with others is weak. Salem cannot afford weaknesses. Witches are once again fighting a frigid world. We cannot rely just on strength. We must integrate ourselves into the fabric of this town. Through the bloodlines. Through marriage."

"I would rather die alone than be bound by expectation," Agatha said.

Evanora gave a bitter, humorless chuckle. "You speak like a child, high on the fantasy of liberty. You think the world will let you go unclaimed? That you'll carve out a space based just on power? You are powerful, yes, but you are still a woman. A witch. If you don't anchor yourself, the world will take everything from you."

"I don't need an anchor," Agatha hissed as the air around her vibrated and the candles flickered furiously. "And I don't need your approval."

"No," Evanora answered gently, with a bitter and satisfied tone. "But you need the coven. And this coven would never follow a lady who can't even commit to another."

Agatha moved closer, her pulse pounding in her ears. "So what?" You'll marry me off to the poor soul you believe would control me? Watch me choke on a loveless marriage to guarantee your own tradition?"

Evanora responded calmly, "I will do whatever is necessary for Salem. As you will, or you will not lead."

The room fell silent, packed with years of unspoken pain, unmet expectations.

Agatha's voice fell, shaking with suppressed anger. "I will select. But it will be my decision. Not yours. Not the council's."

Evanora's eyes narrowed. "You have until the next full moon."

And then, as if to wrap up the argument, Evanora turned and exited the chamber, her robes murmuring against the stone floor.

The huge oak door slammed shut with a shocking crash, leaving Agatha alone with the pounding in her chest and the faint aroma of sage and strength....

The morning started like any other.

Cold.

Anxious.

You walked gently across the dark kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath you. The hearth had long since gone cold, and you knew better than to waste wood without permission. Your fingers moved rapidly to grab the little packets of dried tea leaves your mother had set out the night before.

"You better sell every single one of those," your father's voice shouted from behind you, gruff and sharp as a needle. You tensed and held the basket to your chest.

"I will," you said, your gaze fixated on the floor.

"What was that?" He yelled and stepped closer. You noticed the bitterness of last night's alcohol on his breath.

"I will," you replied loudly, your voice trembling around the edges.

His hand came down hard on the table next to you, causing you to flinch.

"I don't send you out there to laze around like a worthless little thing. Do you hear me? No tea left by dusk. And don't you dare return with less money than yesterday. Bitch."

You instantly nodded, knowing you shouldn't debate. Your mother sat calmly at the table, eyes downcast, hands busy stitching, never meddling or saying.

"Get out of my sight," he muttered and turned away.

You snatched up the basket and slipped through the doorway, the cold morning air hitting your skin like a slap. You took a deep breath, the scent of frost and woodsmoke a sharp contrast to the weight of the house behind you.

You wouldn't cry.

Not out here.

Not where people could see.

So you straightened your shoulders, wiped your sleeve across your face, and started down the path toward the market square.

By the time you arrived, the market square was already full of activity, with the sound of voices echoing through the cool morning air. Sellers promoted their products, the aroma of fresh bread and roasted meat mixed with the minerals of wet straw and herbs. Villagers walked between sellers in groups, sharing gossip as easily as coins.

You located your normal location near the square's edge, where the sidewalks broke and plants sprang between them. It wasn't much, certainly not as busy as the main stretch—but it was far enough away from the worst of the stares and sharp tongues.

You placed your basket on the aged wooden box you used as a temporary table and began arranging the small bundles of tea. Lavender, chamomile, and mint. All were neatly wrapped with rope and marked in your mother's cramped handwriting.

"Tea for aches, tea for sleep," you shouted gently, barely heard above the noise of the market.

A few passing ladies gave you sympathetic glances, some pitying, others uncaring. A hunched old guy talked you down to half price on a bunch of lemon balm. You let it go without protesting. You didn't really care about the currency. You simply wanted to be done before the sun went too low, and your father's comments turned into punches.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and looked at the crowd.

That is when you noticed her.

A dark-haired woman near one of the nicer stalls reviews a package of herbs with casual authority. She wore rich blue leather, which only the village's witches dared to wear so publicly. Her posture, the way the other villagers parted like water around her, showed that she wasn't just anybody.

You have seen her before.

Agatha Harkness.

Everyone in Salem recognized her name.

And for reasons you couldn't explain, your heart gave a little kick in your chest when her eyes flicked up and landed on you.

When her eyes met yours, you instantly shifted your look, showing that you were busy rearranging the little bundles of tea. Your fingers stumbled over the rope, becoming clumsy all of a sudden.

Why is she looking at me?

You felt her presence before seeing her, a slight change in the air as she arrived. A scent of mint and something deeper, like rain-soaked dirt, surrounded you.

"Good morning," said a quiet, silky voice that sounded exactly as you expected.

You swallowed hard, raising your gaze just slightly. Agatha Harkness stood in front of your stand, one eyebrow lifted and the corners of her lips curled perilously near to a grumble.

"G-Good morning, Miss Harkness," you said, your voice a bit faint, and the words stuck in your throat.

Her glance swept over your small appearance, stopping at a little bundle of lavender and petals of roses. "I'll take this one."

Your fingers trembled as you grabbed it up and carefully wrapped it in a scrap of cotton. "Miss Harkness, it's good for sleep. A-and to calm the nerves."

"Is that so?" she said, her gaze causing your skin to tingle. Not rudely, but interested, as if you were something she hadn't expected to find.

You nodded and handed her the package, your hands brushing against hers for just a second. It sent an odd warm sensation up your arm.

Agatha put the Pine (money) into your hand, significantly more than the bundle was worth, her fingers lingering for a beat longer than necessary.

"Keep the change, sweetheart," she said, and your breath caught at her affection.

You barely thought to thank her as she turned, the dark velvet of her cloak catching the early light as she walked away and vanished into the crowd. But not before returning your stare with a quick glance back over her shoulder.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

You had no idea why, but something told you this wouldn't be the last time you saw her.

You returned home as the day came to a close and the sun began to set. When you pushed the door open, the home smelled like old ale and wet wood. The light from outside just broke through the crooked doorway, and your stomach squeezed as it usually did when you crossed the border between market freedom and home.

Your father had already fallen into his normal chair beside the fire, a bottle in hand, his face red and bad. Your mother barely glanced at you as she sat stitching in the corner, her fingers working mechanically and her eyes blank.

"Well?" Your father growled, stretching out his rough hand.

You quickly went into your dress pocket and took out the money. The material felt too heavy in your hand now. You knew well than to hesitate, yet your fingers remained closed for a heartbeat too long.

He noticed.

"The hell are you waiting for, girl?" He snapped, his voice heavy and garbled.

You were shaking and placed the money in the palm of his hand.

His sleepy eyes counted them, and a frown formed on his face. "Where's the rest?"

"That's all of it," you muttered, your gaze fixed on the floor.

Without warning, his hand slammed into your cheek. The power of it knocked you back, searing the skin where his palm had impacted.

"Lying little wretch," he hissed. "Do you think I don't know your tricks? As useless as your whore of a mother."

Your mother didn't say anything.

You didn't wait long enough to see if there was another hit coming. You ran to your little room in the back of the house, closing the door behind you with shaky hands and leaning your back against it while your chest heaved.

The sting on your face hurt, yet you did not weep. You had stopped sobbing long ago.

Instead, you closed your eyes and thought about her.

The way Agatha Harkness had looked at you like you were something worth seeing.The touch of her fingertips brushing across yours. The velvety lilt in her voice as she called you sweetheart.

An odd aching started in your chest, foreign and delicate, yet it was enough to make you forget where you were for a short while.

You curled up on your small bed, fingers ghosting over the mark on your face, and mumbled her name as if it were a secret you weren't willing to share with anybody.

"Agatha..."

And for the first time in weeks, you fell slept.

The morning sun had barely passed the trees when your father yelled at you to go. A basket full of nicely wrapped tea bundles hung heavily on your hip as you ran down the old road to the market square. Your cheek still ached from yesterday night's hit, but you'd learned not to waste time on things like that. There was no point in it.

The market was busy as usual, with sellers shouting out their products, kids racing between stalls, and the aroma of new bread blending with smoke from neighboring hearths. You returned to your normal area by the well and gently placed your basket, arranging the small cloth bags of dried herbs and flowers.

"Two for Pine," you said to people walking by, keeping your head down and your voice mild.

It wasn't long until a familiar face drew your attention.

It's her again...

The second-most powerful witch in Salem. Daughter of Evanora. Everyone knew her name, and you'd never forgotten her captivating face from yesterday. She walked through the crowd with the relaxed attitude that you admired, her black hair falling in waves down her back.

You tried not to look, but when she turned towards your stall, your breath caught.

"Good morning," Agatha said, her voice silky as silk and readily heard over the market's clamor. Her blue eyes ran throughout your small desk.

You gripped the edge of your basket. "G-Good morning, Miss Harkness."

The corner of her mouth rose. "Selling tea again today?"

You nodded rapidly, avoiding her gaze as heat crawled up your neck. "Y-Yes, Miss. You can add dried lavender, chamomile, or peppermint if you want."

Agatha's eyes remained on you, not the tea. "I'll take some lavender."

Your palms shook as you grabbed for the bundle. "T-Two for Pine, miss."

Agatha dropped a silver coin into your palm, greatly beyond the asking price. "Keep the change."

Your fingers curled around the penny, and your heart beat like a scared rabbit's. "T-Thank you, Miss Harkness."

She smiled, and for a moment, it wasn't the cold smirk the villagers gossiped about. It was warm. Almost tender.

"I'll see you again," she murmured, and then she was gone, swept back into the crowd like a dream you weren't sure you'd truly had.

And she did..

She showed up every other day, without fail.

Always dressed in deep-colored dresses, her presence was dominant but never cruel. She'd stand by your stall, buy something she didn't need, and leave you with much too much money for it. At first, you believed it was an accident. Then, be nice. Then something else you wouldn't dare to mention.

She spoke to you more on each visit. Casual conversation about the weather, local gossip, and the aroma of your tea.

You began searching for her.

Agatha returned one day, with clouds hanging thick in the sky. Her hair was tied back loosely, and she wore a deep violet shawl across her shoulders. You gave her a careful grin, your heart skipping like it usually does now.

"Afternoon, Miss Harkness," you said, your voice light as the wind.

She cocked her head and studied you. "Afternoon, my dear."

The nickname stunned you. Nobody has ever called you anything like that before.

"I brought a new combination today," you explained, holding out a little packet.

But Agatha did not reach for the tea. Instead, her gaze tightened, concentrating on the small darkening developing over your cheekbone - a bruise you'd done your best to cover up.

Her hand reached out before you could react, her fingertips brushing against your skin with such care that you felt a thrill down your spine. "Who did this to you?" she said, her tone low and dangerous, unlike her usual mocking.

You tensed. Panic rose in your chest.

"I—I tripped," you said hurriedly, looking down at the basket you were carrying. "Fetching a drink this morning."

Agatha remained silent for a long, painful beat. You could feel her eyes piercing into you, and her hand lingering on your face.

"Clumsy thing, you need to be more careful," she said quietly, but her voice was tight and strained, and you swear you saw her jaw quiver.

"I'm fine," you quickly added, thinking that was enough. "Truly, miss."

Agatha said nothing else, only dropped the usual pine into your hand and took her tea. But as she turned to leave, she cast a glance back over her shoulder, blue eyes smoldering in a way that made your breath catch.

"I'll see you soon, my darling," she said softly.

And she did. Every other day. Always.

You hadn't meant for it to happen.

Falling in love, you mean. Except for what is written in your romance novels, you have no idea what love is.

It started with a sparkle, a quick look across the marketplace, a kind comment when no one else was willing to offer one.. She was everything you shouldn't even look at, let alone talk to. But she continued to be there each day.

You were waiting for her there.

You convinced yourself it was nothing at first. She liked your work, purchased your tea blends, and gave you a smile that made your cheeks flame and your stomach turn. Her voice was like smoke curling in your ear, and she always called you a beautiful girl.

However, it went past that.

She saw you. Not in the manner that others did—as a servant girl, a tool, and an insult to her family. Another object caught her eye. You hardly recognized it yourself.

Her visits became a way for you to mark your days. You would wake up every other morning with a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe Agatha would visit your stand once more today. Even if your outfit was made of the same faded fabric as usual, you would take extra time to smooth it and put the bundles of herbs and teas. Even if your face still had the faint traces of your father's anger, and your fingers hurt from work.

Then she would show there, tall, graceful, and with a sparkle in her eye as if she knew a secret you would never hear. She would always laugh softly and tell you to just call her Agatha, but you would fumble your words and keep calling her Miss Harkness.

However, you were unable to. Not quite yet. Not when she was feeling so far away.

At first, when you didn't even know what love was meant to feel like, it wasn't love. However, it was something. A feeling of warmth in your chest. A glimmer of hope in an otherwise dismal and frigid world.

And it built slowly without anyone noticing.

When you boiled the water for your family's meals, you thought of her, wondering what her house would look like and whether she drank tea at night like you did, in peace and quiet. You were curious about the sound of her laugh when she wasn't hiding it in public behind her palm. If she had ever spoken to someone as gently, cautiously, and kindly as she did to you.

You held on to those times. Because your mother's nasty words and your father's anger dominated the rest of your life. To empty nights spent gazing at your small room's ceiling, to bruises that blossomed on your skin like dark blossoms.

And it had been harsher than normal tonight.

When you got back from the market, he was drunk, and your small supply of cash wasn't enough to calm him down.

He snatched them out of your fingers and hissed, "Useless. Not even able to retrieve what is due. You foolish girl, you'll starve us before winter arrives."

"I sold everything, I swear," you whispered quietly, your stomach tightening and your voice little and harsh.

"Shut your mouth," he said, standing so quickly that the chair scratched against the floor.

You flinched before you even noticed his hand move.

The impact was sharp, splitting across your cheek and hurting you instantly. Your head snapped to the side, and the metallic taste of blood sprang to the corner of your lips. You never cried in front of him.

"Sit down," he said, pointing a shaky, calloused finger toward the table. "Now."

You hesitated for a few while, and your mother stepped from the shadows of the room, her face strained and cold. If she had ever protected you, she had long since stopped doing so.

"Do as your father says," she demanded.

You sat.

The silence that followed was deep, with the only sound being the flickering of the single candle on the table. Your mother cleared her throat.

"There's news," she announced. You'll be married by the end of next week."

The words didn't land correctly. For a time, you simply stared at her, as if you had misheard. "What...?"

She talked without looking at you, her jaw taut. "Jonas Mercer made an offer. "A decent sum for a girl like you."

Bile rose in your throat before you could control it. Jonas Mercer. A man twice your age, brutal to animals, and said to have beaten his last wife to death. You'd seen him at the market, with his eyes fixed on younger ladies and his teeth yellowing at the edges.

"No," you answered, your voice weak but clear. "I won't marry him."

Your mother's eyes sprang open, narrowing into sharp daggers. "You'll do as you're told."

"I won't," you shouted out, shaking your head and heart pounding. "I'd rather die."

It happened so quickly that you barely saw it coming.

Your father was on you in a split second, his rage like a hurricane breaking free. A hand in your hair, pulling you out of the chair, his fist pounding into your stomach, side, and jaw. You landed hard on the floor, gasping for air and feeling sorrow in every nerve.

"Ungrateful little bitch," he said, standing over you, his breath smelling of alcohol. "I'll beat the defiance out of you yet."

You did not wait for the next hit.

Your body moved somewhere between pain and fear. You climbed up, stumbling toward the door, your father's shouts following behind you as you ran into the night.

The cold air hit your face, and the town lamps blurred through your tears as you hurried past the town square, the baker's home, and the market stands that would be empty until morning. Nobody called after you. Nobody cared.

You didn't stop till the forests swallowed you completely.

The forest was deep and dark, and the aroma of grass and damp dirt lingered on your neck. You ran until your legs failed and fell to the chilly, leaf-strewn ground. The sob that tore through you was ugly and brutal, and it made your entire body shake.

You curled up on yourself, hands sinking into the dirt, tears blinding your vision. Every inch of you hurts—especially your ribs, face, and heart.

Your body was still shaking.

The cold had gone into your bones, but neither the night air nor the damp ground below you made your teeth crack. It was terror. The deep, burning horror sat in your chest like a stone, making it difficult to breathe. Your fists were gripped so tightly that they pained, and your nails dug into your palm.

You barely noticed the sound of footsteps at first—soft, fast, and getting closer.

"Sweet mercy," a voice breathed, and you recognized it despite your haze. Warm and rich, with a keen edge of worry.

Agatha.

You raised your head, your eyesight unclear; the woods blurring around her as she dropped to her knees beside you. She was not wearing her regular cloak, but rather a modest dark dress with her hair flowing about her shoulders. And she was really attractive. Beautiful enough to make your heart throb, even when it was broken.

"Y/N," she muttered, her voice so delicate that you felt something crack. "Are you hurt? May I touch you?"

You attempted to speak, but your throat felt tight, and no sounds came out. The world swirled, and your hands trembled furiously in your lap.

Agatha's eyes softened, and she slowly reached out, hesitating just as her fingertips touched your skin. "It's alright, sweetheart," she said quietly. "I won't hurt you. I promise. Simply breathe for me, sweetheart... just like that."

Your chest tightened, and a sob caught in your throat.

"Good girl," she said softly, the warmth of her magic touching against you like a summer air, calming and comforting. You felt it wrap around your heart, calming the frenetic beat and releasing the knot in your stomach. It wasn't harsh; it was kind, like a hand smoothing out raw nerves.

She waited until you stopped shaking before slipping her arms beneath you without saying anything more.

Without saying another word, she slipped her arms beneath you after waiting for your trembling to subside.

You should've protested. You should have been ashamed of your situation, but you were too worn out and too empty of self-worth. And there was something about her touch that made it impossible to resist—steady, wary, as if she was worried you might break.

Agatha took you up as if you were weightless and held you to her chest, whispering, "Got you, my love."

The aroma of her, which included smoke, wild herbs, and a darkly sweet scent, filled you as your face leaned against the crook of her neck. You hadn't felt so secure in years.

She spoke in small things you couldn't quite understand as she carried you through the trees. "Safe now, never again," and "mine to keep safe" are other examples. As she moved toward the northern parts of the coven's grounds, the forest behind you disappeared and the night air became warmer.

The tiny residence she took you to was nestled away close to the woods, half-hidden by ivy and blooming flowers, and you hardly noticed it. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled the door open, burning the fire inside and filling the room with the aroma of lavender.

Agatha gently placed you on a soft bed, stroking your cheek with her fingers.

"Sleep now," she said, her voice heavy with something you couldn't name.. "When you wake up, I'll be right here."

...

The first thing you noticed was the warmth.

It wasn't the bitter cold of the forest ground or the stuffy heat of your family's little cabin. As if it were a second skin, this was delicate and kind. You heard the steady crackle of a fire in the distance and the subtle smell of herbs and lavender.

You woke up with a dull ache behind your eyelids and pain in other parts of your body that you had not previously noticed. You didn't open them for a while. Your fear of what you may see was too great.

Then you saw that there was no yelling. No angry voice yelling your name, no door slamming, no squeak of heavy boots.

Just silent, as well as comfort.

You opened your eyes.

The space surrounding you was little but beautiful in a way you had never experienced. The walls were lined with bookshelves, glass vials, and bundles of drying herbs, and the windows were lace-curtained, letting in the morning light. You reclined in a broad bed with soft, heavy covers that had a subtle wildflower scent.

You were hit by panic like a lightning strike.

Where—?

The world spun around you as you pulled yourself up too quickly, and you let out a frightened cry.

"Easy, easy, it's me."

You froze at the voice.

Agatha Harkness was seated on a chair by the fire as you turned toward it, your pulse thumping.

Her hair was somewhat messy, as if she hadn't slept, and her coat was slung across the back of it. In her palm was an unfinished cup of tea. Her eyes, however, sharp, storm-dark, and unusually tender, were what made your stomach turn.

Your voice broke, "I- Where-where"

"You're safe," she whispered as she put the cup down and got to her feet. She didn't come closer. Not yet. "You're at my house. You were hurt. Last night, I found you in the forest."

The memories of the yelling, the slap, the pain that was spreading over your body, and the way your feet had taken you without thinking about it came flooding back in pieces as you swallowed hard. Then arms. Warmth. Lavender.

Your throat tightened as you attempted to speak.

Agatha seemed to understand.

She pointed to a little table close by and said, "Would you like some water?"

She came across the room, pouring a cup from a ceramic pitcher after you managed a slight nod. She didn't allow her fingers to touch yours when she passed it to you with both hands.

The cool water reduced the itchy feeling in your throat.

After a while, you murmured, "I... I'm sorry," with a tone full of shame. "Miss Harkness, I didn't mean to bother you."

Something harsh flickered over her face as her brow folded. "There's no trouble with you," she stated confidently. "And enough of that bullshit from Miss Harkness. Call me Agatha."

Your fingers tightened around the cup as you paused. "—I should not to be here. I need to go before..."

"No." It was a kind yet firm word. At that time, she knelt before you and kept a respectful distance. "Y/N... explain what happened."

It hurt in your chest. Your throat ached from the words.

"I-I made a mistake," you whispered. "I didn't have enough market money. And my-" you stumbled, turning your head away. "My dad was drunk. That's how he gets. Likewise, my mother said she was planning to sell me. For money, marry me off to an old man."

Your heart was pounding in your ears, and the room seemed too tiny.

You concluded, "I ran," in a voice so little you barely recognized it. "I ran, but I had no idea where I was going."

Agatha's eyes remained kind despite her tense jaw.

You explained, "I can't stay," but your tone lacked conviction.

"Yes," Agatha murmured, her voice so low it almost seemed like a promise. "You can."

Then, slowly, as a sunrise, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair away from your face. A spark of ancient terror made you shudder before you could stop yourself, and her hand stopped.

She said, "I will never touch you unless you wish it, I will never hurt you. Not right now. Never."

It was you who spoke first, your voice barely a whisper. "But my father - "

"You're not going anywhere," she replied softly, but there was steel beneath it. "Not until you've eaten. And I heal you're injury"

With only the sound of the odd humming of wind against the window and the gentle crackle of the fire, the room had once again become calm. Agatha gathered a cloth and a tiny bottle of something sharp and scented and walked about with a wound, strained intensity.

She went back to kneel in front of you again, and you sat there shaking.

She said, "This will hurt," but her voice sounded tighter than usual, as if she was struggling to maintain her cool.

Her fingertips touched your cheek, and you hardly nodded, your skin tingling with heat. Despite the harsh taste of whatever cure she applied to your broken lip, the cold, soothing towel was comforting.

Agatha, however, was not checking the wound. She has her eyes on you. At your skin's black bruises that are already growing. At your jaw's tiny handprint that is still there.

Her expression flickered darkly, something raw and terrifying.

Her voice was so low that it seemed more like a growl than actual words when she whispered, "I'll kill him."

Your breath caught.

Before you could respond, Agatha was on her feet, swishing her skirts over her boots and pacing the room like a hurricane that was hardly controlled.

She said, "I'll bleed him dry for this." He, as well as your mother, for allowing it. I need to burn their house to the ground. Allow the smoke to strangle them."

With one hand snapping out, she whirled toward the firebox, and the fireplace's flames responded by flaming higher and licking violently at the stone. Her face was painted in a wild manner as the shadows moved over it.

Your voice cracks as you croak, "Miss!!"

Her breathing was heavy now, and her anger was pouring from her like fire, as if she hadn't heard you. As if in response to her anger, the wind outside rocked the glass.

"I'll rip his miserable throat out," she growled. "Before I burn him alive, I'll make him beg." No guy touches what belongs to me. No one is supposed to hurt you."

Her final word hit you like a spark to dried wood.

You weren't scared, even though a part of you should have been. Not her.

She then slowly glanced down at your hand gripping her and the tears in your huge, terrified eyes. Her own eyes grew softer, the fire in them fading as if you burned out the blaze with only your trembling hand.

In contrast to the anger that had raged just a minute earlier, she was careful and kind as she leaned back down and cupped your cheek.

"I apologize," she muttered. "I scared you."

With tears streaming down your face, you shook your head. "No, I just said that they will harm you if you go to them. Or worse. The whole village would come for you."

Agatha laughed bitterly. "Let them try."

However, she sighed and softly leaned her forehead against yours when she noticed the fear in your eyes.

Her voice was more tightly controlled now, but the danger still pulsed under it as she said, "I won't leave you. Never. But tonight, I won't hurt him. For you."

You gave a weak nod.

She touched your face with her thumb. "I swear on my bloodline, Y/N, that he will regret the day he ever breathed again."

An odd warmth grew in your chest despite the terror and the lingering sadness.

That was the first time someone had ever spoken for you.

"Come," she said softly, rising to her feet again. "You need food. And rest."

Later that day.....

The cottage was quiet now, save for the soft, steady crackle of the fire and the occasional sigh of wind against the old wooden shutters. You were lying on Agatha's bed, tucked under the thick blanket, breathing comfortably and slowly for the first time, the tension that had wrapped your tiny body fading into restless sleep.

A big leather-bound book was open in Agatha's lap as she sat close by on her old sofa, one leg curled under her. As she read, she hardly noticed the words, but the yellowed pages caught the shifting light, the writing symbols shining faintly.

Her eyes were drawn to you repeatedly.

To your cheek's bruises. The delicate shadows your lashes create on your skin.

The knock on her door was barely noticeable before it pushed open.

Evanora, towering and strict in dark midnight-blue robes, pinned back with silver hair and her keen gaze scanning the room like a predator, entered without asking for permission, as she always did.

Behind her, the door clicked softly shut.

Agatha tensed, putting the book down and putting it away. "Mother."

Evanora's lips curved in dislike as her eyes fell upon you, sleeping peacefully and exposed in a stranger's bed.

Evanora grumbled, "A village girl," and stepped inside, her gown's hem rustling over the flooring. "Like some reckless, lustful idiot, you bring a village girl into your bed."

Agatha's mouth tightened. "Leave her alone."

"She isn't connected to us. She is nothing." Evanora's eyes glinted, and her speech was as sharp as a knife. One day, Agatha, you will be in charge of this coven. Don't bring it into shame by taking in strays you see crying in the forest.

Agatha raised her back and stood up. "She's not stray."

Evanora smiled icily, without humor. "So, daughter, what is she to you? A pet? A pet? Don't assume that I'm unaware of your years of avoidance. You will get married, I told you. And you'll make the decision. Or the coven will never be yours."

At her sides, Agatha's hands rolled into fists. "I've made a choice."

Evanora's eyebrows raised, arching. "Oh?"

With her heart racing, Agatha's eyes briefly shifted to you before returning to her mother.

"Y/N," she murmured yet firmly. "Her or nobody."

The room became silent.

After a long, horrible time of staring at her, Evanora laughed sharply and cynically.

"That filthy girl?" She growled.

"Jonas Mercer is the owner of that girl. They promised her. His father is wealthy, as you are aware. The village as a whole gains from the agreement. She was sold by her parents for three acres of land and a silver bag."

Agatha's voice was low and trembling with controlled rage as she answered, "I don't care. I want her."

"You cannot have her!" Evanora snapped. "Would you give up your future for that girl? You'd be ashamed of our coven for some scared slip of a thing that couldn't fight back?"

"I would burn this whole village to the ground before I let another hand touch her," Agatha responded, her voice dead calm. "I would see Mercer's bones ash at my feet before he so much as looks at her."

Evanora's nostrils widened, the air between them thick with tension, and magic crackled slightly, like a storm barely kept back.

"You are reckless," Evanora yelled. "Selfish. I should expel you right now."

"Then do it," Agatha replied, stepping forward, her chin raised. Her purple magic pulsing, "But I will still take her with me. Title or not."

For a long time, the only sounds were the fire crackling in the hearth and the slow, steady rise and fall of your sleeping breaths.

Evanora clinched her jaw. She raised her shoulders with slow, toxic calm.

"Very well," she responded last, her voice icy. "If you wish to be bound to a peasant girl, so be it. I'll pay her parents a visit in the morning."

Agatha's eyes narrowed. "If you hurt her, I swear—"

"Don't worry," Evanora cut her off. "The arrangement will be done. And she'll belong to you. Let's see if you're still so brave when you bear the consequences."

With one last look of disgust in your direction, Evanora turned on her heel, her gown billowing as she swept from the room.

The door shut sharply behind her.

Agatha exhaled, her shoulders slumping for the first time since the argument began. She crossed the room in two strides and knelt by the bed, brushing a lock of hair from your sleeping face.

"I saved you my love, you will be safe with me," she whispered, a promise more than a word.

......

The morning began cold and gray, with the mist still clinging to the ground like a restless spirit. Evanora Harkness walked through the village with the kind of confidence that split crowds without saying a word. The market women dropped their heads, the men moved aside, and no one dared to catch her eyes for more than a moment.

She made her way to your family's cottage, a little old structure on the edge of the forest. The door creaked open before she could knock.

Your mother stood in the doorway, her face tense with tension, and her hands wringing a dirty apron. Under her, your father lurked in the darkness, with a dark, hangover fury hidden under bloodshot eyes.

"Lady Harkness," your mother said, lowering her head.

"Let us not waste time with welcomes," Evanora whispered, her voice hard as glass. "You've got a daughter. Y/N." "She—she's not here," your mother remarked, looking back with anxiety. "We don't know where she is, she ran away."

"She's in my daughter's home," Evanora stated. And she will be returned. But the terms have shifted." Your father scowled. "The deal has been completed. Mercer paid an enormous price for her." "And you'll return it," Evanora said coldly, removing a little velvet packet from her sleeve and putting it onto the table. It landed with a heavy clink of silver. "With interest. That girl is now part of my family."

Your father opened his lips to argue, but Evanora raised her palm, a small shimmer of magic visible at her fingertips. He became silent.

"Do you realize what it means," Evanora said, her tone cold, "for a Harkness to claim a wife? She will bear a child from our bloodline. Heir to my coven. Her bloodline, no matter how lowly, will be linked to ours. The child will be a powerful witch."

Your mother turned pale, her lips twitching. "M'lady, we didn't know. We didn't realize she was important."

"She will be. Or she'll break trying," Evanora murmured, her face as cold as stone. "You'll welcome her home today. There are no questions. No beatings. No warnings. And Tomorrow, you'll convey her safely to church. Fail to do so..." She let the threat hang in the air like a storm cloud. "I'll not tolerate disobedience."

Your parents swallowed hard and nodded.

Then she lifted her hand, curling her long, pale fingers slowly and methodically.

A glimmer of dark violet power ignited at her fingertips, twisting and swirling down into the air before her. Threads of silk appeared from nowhere, weaving together in the empty space. Layers of midnight blue and deep wine-red velvet mixed with beautiful lace, as if brought from another realm.

Before your mother's wide, startled eyes, a bridal gown appeared, floating between them.

It was breathtaking, and clearly witch-made. The bodice of this dress was tight and gorgeous, the neckline royal and extravagant, and the sleeves were long and pure, with delicate stitching that sparkled like starlight. The skirts were thick with leather and lace, trailing mist-like edges along the floor and reflecting the pale light like water.

A veil of soft, invisible silk floated beside it, bewitched to move freely.

Your mother gasped and backed up a step. "M'lady..."

Evanora's voice was low, icy, and final.

"She'll wear this when the vows are said."

Evanora left without saying anything else, the wind stirring her dark cloak behind her.

The sun had already begun to set behind the trees when Agatha eventually took you to the edge of the woods. The air was heavy with the aroma of wood and moist dirt, and for the first time in years, you weren't terrified of the incoming darkness.

Agatha softly cupped your cheek, sliding her thumb across the reddening bruise behind your eye. Her face softened in a manner it rarely does in front of others, an expression of unsaid emotion sitting beneath her eyes.

"Go home, darling," she muttered. "Only for tonight. Everything will be okay shortly. I promise you."

You wanted to believe her. Gods, you wanted to. But your stomach twisted all the time.

"Thank you, mis- Aggie."

She leaned down, laying a gentle kiss against your temple, her touch lingering for too long. "Tomorrow... things will be different."

You nodded, but you weren't sure why the words made your heart accelerate. You turned, her eyes resting on your back the entire way down the straight road.

When you stepped through the crooked gate of your family's cottage, it seemed as if the air itself had fallen apart.

Your father was already so drunk that his face was red and sweating, and the smell of stale ale clung to his clothes. His voice rang out across the small room as soon as he laid eyes on you.

"Where the hell have you gone, little whore?! Do you think you can just disappear and make a fool of me?!"

You flinched, automatically bracing for what was to come.

But before he could reach you, your mother's hand came out, seizing his arm and stopping him mid-swing. She spoke up for the first time since you can remember. "Leave her be," she murmured, her voice firm and her mouth drawn in a thin line. "Not tonight."

Your father snarled and jerked his arm free, but did not attack. Instead, he vomited on the floor and stormed to the back of the cottage.

Your mother did not glance at you. She pointed firmly to your room. "Get inside. Now."

You obeyed, your heart hammering and your hands trembling so much that you struggled with the latch.

Once inside, you heard the lock turn on the other side.

"Don't even think about runnin'," your mother's voice warned through the door. "Wedding's tomorrow at first light. You'll do what you're told, or gods help you."

You stood there, staring at the rough wooden walls, your pulse hammering in your ears.

It was then you saw it.

Laid across your narrow bed — a dress.

Your throat clenched, and tears stung your eyes. You moved closer, your fingers brushing against the material. It seemed surprisingly sensitive to the touch, as if it hummed with some old magical ability.

And suddenly you couldn't take it any longer.

You dropped into the bed, your clothes crushing beneath you as you curled up against yourself. Silent, racking sobs ravaged your body, your tears seeping into the thin cotton.

Your eyes are heavy, and your body is sore from the night's disturbed sleep. For a few brief seconds, you forget what day it is. You forget the bruises on your skin and the pain in your chest.

Then the door unlocks.

It's your mother. Her face is unreadable as she walks inside, clutching a bundle of white fabric. She does not speak. No yells, no insults, and no slaps. Just silence. It almost gets worse. You swallow hard while sitting up in bed.

"Get up," she mutters,

"Put it on," your mother says, her tone icy and distant.

You swallow hard, attempting to calm yourself. You wanted to say no. You wanted to shout that this was not your life and that you had no option, but your mother's glare silenced you.

You grasp the dress with shaky fingers and stand, moving mechanically as you pull it over your head. The cloth fits you perfectly, as if it were made just for you – and you know it was.

She checks you out when she's finished. Her eyes narrowed, as if she were looking at something of value rather than her own daughter.

"Don't make a scene," she says quietly and sharply.

She doesn't wait for a response, instead grabbing your arm and pulling you toward the door. Her grip is tight and stubborn. You're her property now. You can feel it in every tug and step. She leads you out of the room and into the house's frigid corridors.

The village awaits you.

You move through the streets like a ghost, and people turn to gaze, their eyes filled with sorrow, curiosity, and apathy. You keep your gaze on the sidewalks, focusing on each step. Every part of you wants to run away, scream, and be free. But you don't. You still think of her...

The path leads you out of the village to a clearing near the coven's sacred grounds. The air feels dense, as if something ancient is poised in the balance, waiting. As you go closer, the sounds from the crowd become more audible. Their whispers blend with the rustle of the trees, but nothing compares to the beating in your chest.

You take a deep breath, your hands shaking slightly as your mother pushes you ahead through the crowd. The weight of the gown bears down on your shoulders, as if it is attempting to drag you back into the darkness, back to a life you never wanted.

As you enter this location of the church, your gaze naturally moves toward the group of people. The town has come together, their murmurs filling the air like a swarm of insects. You attempt to avoid looking at the faces, but your sight is drawn to one in particular.

An older man stands in the back of the group. His features are sharp, his face furrowed with age, but it's the way his eyes glitter that draws you in. He's the one. The one your parents promised you to. The one who will transport you from this painful life to a fate of awful silence.

Your stomach churns. You can barely breathe, your thoughts reeling with the realization that this is it. This is your fate. This is the man you should marry. Your legs feel weak, but your mother's grip never relents.

You glance up at the altar, your heart beating in your chest. The priest stands there waiting, his eyes devoid of emotion.

But when you take the final steps, something changes. He did not move.

At the altar, you don't see the man you were expecting. Instead, there is a woman. A woman dressed in dark, flowing robes that shine with a strange, mysterious sparkle. Her presence fills the air with electricity and life, like a storm. As you get closer, you notice a shift in the atmosphere, a touch of magic so strong it almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

Confusion floods your mind. Your eyes lock onto the figure, but you can't make sense of it. This isn't right. This isn't who you were promised to.

And then, as you draw nearer, the woman turns to face you, her eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity that makes your breath catch.

Agatha.

You freeze, your heart stopping in your chest as you finally process what you see in front of you. She stands there, majestic and powerful, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders like a midnight halo. You're not sure what to say or how to feel. The entire universe seems to tilt on its center as the knowledge flows in.

The crowd is strangely silent, waiting for anything, anything. Your mind is racing, with confusion swirling around you like a hurricane. This...is not possible. Agatha?

But she's standing at the altar, waiting. For you.

Your breath hitches, your pulse quickening. How can this be? You were told it would be the old man. That was your fate.

But now, now it's her.

Agatha steps toward you, her expression softening, but there's a glint in her eyes. A glint of something powerful, something determined.

"You look beautiful," Agatha says softly, her voice wrapping around you like velvet.

She holds her hand out, her fingers brushing against yours, sending a shock of warmth through your body. You want to pull away, but you can't. You're frozen, caught between disbelief and something else you can't quite grasp.

"You're not alone," Agatha whispers, her gaze never leaving yours. "I will always protect you. You belong to me, now."

As the priest continues the ceremony, when you gaze into Agatha's eyes, you can't help but feel safe. She is not the old man. She is nothing like the life you feared.

You take a long breath, your confusion melting into something gentler, even reassuring.

"Do you, Y/N, take Agatha Harkness to be your wife?" The priest asks, his voice faraway as you stand on the verge of something unknown.

"Yes," you whisper. "I do."

You two head back to Agatha's house following the ceremony. It's calm, silent, and almost unbelievable.

Agatha detects your nervousness as you stand in the room staring at her. She puts her loving, cautious hands on your shoulders.

"Y/N, you don't have to do anything tonight. There is nothing you don't want. This is your choice. If you are not prepared, I will not force you. I want you to understand that." You hesitate, wondering how to feel. Part of you expected you to fulfill your marriage duties. But Agatha's words, her compassion, trigger a change within you. The strain you've been carrying has eased slightly.

"But we're married now, and that doesn't mean more than what you're comfortable with. I don't care what tradition tells me. I care about you. And if you're not prepared, that's fine. We'll take it one step at a time, I promise.

Her replies, both compassionate and stern, relieve the tightness in your chest. You nod, feeling both relieved and guilty. You wanted to be the kind of wife that Agatha deserves.

Agatha drew back slightly, stroking a stray lock of hair from your face, her soft touch making your throat narrow.

"You should take some rest, sweetheart. It has been a long, harsh day for you."

You nodded, tiredness sinking into your bones. Without saying anything, Agatha led you to her bed, with the sheets smooth and inviting. She did not follow you in, but instead stood by your side, her eyes gazing over you like a silent protector.

As you lay down, the weight of everything you'd endured started to slip away. You pulled the covers around yourself, the scent of lavender and something distinctly Agatha surrounding you.

You turned your head slightly on the pillow, catching her silhouette in the dim candlelight.

"Thank you, Aggie," you whispered, your voice fragile but sincere.

For a moment, Agatha stilled, her face softening with something unbearably tender. She reached out once more, her fingers brushing through your hair in a lingering, careful stroke.

"You never have to thank me, my sweet girl. Sleep now."

Weeks slipped by.

Days in the Harkness family had settled into a quiet, regular pattern. You still weren't used to the softness of the blankets, the way the air smelled of herbs rather than damp wood and sour ale, or the fact that no one yelled commands at you the moment you woke up. It was confusing in its own way.

Since the wedding. She hadn't forced herself into your space or touched you unless you reached for her first. In the nights, she'd sit near the fireplace, a worn leather book perched on her lap, and you'd pretend not to notice her as the firelight painted her face in gold and shadow.

It wasn't long until she began courting you properly, as if from an old story you'd forgotten you ever believed in.

She brought you flowers from the forest's edge, wild lavender and gentle white blossoms you couldn't identify. She placed them at your bedside in the mornings, while you were still sleeping. She'd returned home from coven meetings with modest gifts: a smooth stone shaped like a heart, a charm to ward off nightmares, and a ribbon in your favorite color — but you'd never told her what they were.

She would sometimes suggest that you walk with her through the market, her hand brushing against yours, but never taking it unless you allowed her. The villagers gazed, but no one spoke out against it. Nobody dared. Agatha Harkness was not a lady to mess with. And her power was always ready to protect you.

It was nearing midnight as you moved lightly into the sitting room, the house gloomy but for the faint glimmer of the fireplace. You'd been unable to sleep yet again. Your thoughts were too loud and jumbled, drawing you into memories you didn't want to remember.

When you spotted her, you came to an abrupt end.

Agatha sat on the floor near the hearth, knees crossed and sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Books were lying all around her like fallen leaves, their pages shining softly in the darkness. Her fingers glided through the air, sketching delicate, ancient patterns that you couldn't identify. Between her palms, a brilliant globe of purple light shifted.

Your breath caught. You'd never seen magic like this.

Sure, you'd heard whispers in the village about witches, about Agatha herself feared, respected, untouchable, but this was... beautiful.

Agatha turned her head slowly. Her eyes weren't icy or keen like others'; they were gentle, shining softly in the firelight. "Couldn't sleep?" she said, her tone low and slow.

You shook your head, looking at the spot where the magic had been. "What was that?"

"Just practice," she murmured, running her fingers through her hair. "A basic spell. Pretty but useless."

"It wasn't useless," you blurted before you could stop yourself. "It looked like... like starlight."

That garnered the tiniest grin.

"Come here," Agatha urged, stroking the rug next to her. "I'll show you something better."

She raised a hand, palm up. "Give me yours."

You nervously placed your hand in hers. Her skin was warm and solid, and her hold was steady.

"Close your eyes," she instructed. "And don't let go."

You obeyed.

You let out a gasp as you opened your eyes.

The ceiling had disappeared above you, leaving only a swirl of stars and galaxies that glowed faintly in the emptiness above. You gazed, jaw open, pulse pumping. It seemed like you were sitting beneath the whole cosmos.

You turned to her, dumbfounded.

Agatha only gazed at you, her face inscrutable. "Not real," she whispered quietly, "but it feels nice, doesn't it?"

You simply nodded, unable to respond.

The stars had faded hours earlier, yet neither of you had moved far from the rug in front of the fading fire. The warmth of the room had long ago faded, replaced by the significant silence of the night. You sat cuddled alongside Agatha, head against knees, sleepy yet unwilling to leave her side. Something about her presence made me breathe better.

You sneaked a look at her, the way the flickering fire threw shadows on her face.

You did not intend to say that. The words came out quietly and uncertainly. "Aggie, can I... would you mind if I slept in your bed tonight?"

She carefully turned her head, focusing those keen blue eyes on you. For a minute, you worried whether you'd gone too far, but then the edges of her mouth twisted into something deeper than a grin - satisfaction. As if she had been waiting for you to ask.

"I was wondering when you'd finally say it," she said softly, her voice velvet-dark. She stood silently, giving you her hand. "Come, pet."

You allowed her to pull you to your feet, your fingers little against hers. She said nothing else as she guided you through the shadowy halls of the mansion, your bare feet brushing against the cold floors. The only sound was your quiet breath and the odd groan of wood.

When you reached the bedroom, Agatha paused, glancing at you over her shoulder. "You're sure?"

You swallowed and nodded. "I just... don't want to be alone."

This seemed to satisfy her. "Good," she murmured, standing back so you could climb into the bed. The covers were still warm from earlier, and you snuggled beneath them as Agatha snuffed out the final candle with a flick of her fingertips.

The room went into darkness.

A minute later, you felt the bed sink as she slid in next to you. The mattress moved, her presence a hefty, constant weight alongside you. You pulled slightly as her arm wrapped around your waist, bringing you back into her chest, hard, possessive, and without hesitation. She did not seek permission this time.

"I love you, you're mine now," Agatha whispered against the back of your neck when she thought you were already asleep...

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the worn path as you made your way back to the house, the small basket in your arms filled with herbs Agatha had asked for. It was quiet, save for the crunch of dry leaves beneath your shoes. Birds sang in the trees, the scent of lavender clinging to your fingertips.

For a time, you almost forgot about the sharpness of this world—Evanora's imposing presence, the overpowering anticipation that hovered over the Harkness name. Things were gentler with Agatha. Warmer. She had smiled that morning, kissed your wrist after you had accidentally burned it, and called you her darling in that deep voice that made your chest hurt.

You didn't want to go out, but she pushed. But she insisted. Said you needed the air.

And now, as you reached the home, a voice pierced the silence like a knife.

"Agatha, you are a disgrace to our bloodline. You were born to lead, not grovel for the affections of some worthless village girl."

"I married her because I wanted to," Agatha said next, her voice gruff and furious. "Because for once in my wretched life, I chose something for myself."

Your heart hit as you drew closer, sliding through the partially open door. The voices were coming from the sitting room. The air within crackled with magic, dense and repressive, and despite your impulses to run, your feet refused to move.

"Do you believe you can quit your duty? Are you willing to sacrifice our family's future for love?" Evanora spat the word with hatred. "She is a waste, Agatha. "A mortal girl with nothing to offer but a beautiful face and empty hands."

"I'll kill you if you touch her," Agatha hissed.

The rage in her voice made you blush.

"I don't care," said Agatha, her voice low and threatening. "I married her because I love her. I chose her."

"Love? Do you believe love will rescue you when the coven comes for your head? When will your family vanish because you failed to fulfill your duty? You've spent months playing at home with a local girl rather than completing your vows. There is still no heir."

"I'll never force her," Agatha growled. "She isn't cattle to be bred for power."

Evanora laughed coldly and without amusement. "Then you leave me no choice."

"Either that girl carries a Harkness child by the end of this season," Evanora shouted, cutting through the room like a blade, "or this marriage will be annulled, and she'll be wed to Mercer before the harvest moon."

Mercer.

The man your parents promised you to. A vicious, heavy-handed thug with yellowed teeth and a sneer that made you shiver.

You hugged the basket to your chest, feeling as if the walls were closing in. Your heart struck so fiercely that you believed you'd pass away.

"I'll kill you before I let you touch her," Agatha hissed.

"Get out of my house," Agatha spat, her magic crackling like thunder against stone.

You did not sleep that night.

The words you'd overheard echoed continuously in your brain, each one heavier than the previous. Your chest discomfort was no longer due to dread. It came from something else—something piercing and rigid. You were not foolish. You knew what Evanora wanted. What the entire town most likely murmured about behind your back.

And you were aware of the consequences of leaving this decision in the hands of others.

Agatha loved you. You could tell it by the way her eyes softened as you talked, and how her touch lingered on your skin, as if she were trying to remember you. But you also knew she'd never accept what wasn't freely offered, that Evanora would rather burn the earth down than give you both peace.

Perhaps you can take charge of it yourself.

The next morning,

You sat up in bed, the aroma of lavender and smoke clinging to the blankets where Agatha had held you all night. You could sense her absence. The home was silent, but not in a scary manner. It seemed like the quiet before the storm, and you wanted to go into it.

Maybe it was time to quit being a terrified little girl.

Perhaps it was time you created your own storm.

You crossed the room to the closet, your fingers brushing across the row of dresses. Stiff. Modest. Boring like the muddy streets of your former home. But there was something else at the further end, almost hidden.

Dark blue dress. Soft to the touch, the sleeves hung barely off your shoulders, and the neckline plunged scandalously low. You didn't remember seeing anything there before, but maybe Agatha left it for you.

Your lips formed a little, evil grin.

It was perfect.

You put it on, the silk clutching your waist and dropping like nightfall on your body.

The kitchen smelled of rosemary and garlic, and the steady simmer of a stew warmed the house. You went between the counter and the stove, humming quietly to yourself, your hair loosely pulled back out of your face. And let it fall over your shoulders in beautiful waves.

You waited for her.

And, as if called by your thoughts, the front door creaked open, the gentle click of boots against wood signaling Agatha's arrival.

You didn't glance up immediately, pretending to be overly involved with the soup, mixing it gently.

Then you felt her.

The usual electric tug in the air, the storm that always accompanied her. The way your skin prickled and the hairs on your arms sprang up, as if the room knew she was around.

"Well, well," her voice rang across the room, thick and black like spiced wine. "Look at yourself, little housewife. Are you attempting to kill me, or do you truly not understand what you're doing?"

You turned, letting your hair fall over one shoulder, pretending innocence. "I'm making lunch."

Agatha's eyes swept over you, the corner of her mouth twitching into a grin. "Mm. Is that all?"

"I thought you might be hungry," you replied quietly, looking at her with wide eyes.

"Oh, I am," she said softly, crossing the room.

Your heart quickened with each stride she took, the air thickening as she closed the gap between you. She came to a halt behind you, her hands bracing on the counter on either side of your hips, enclosing you.

Her breath felt warm on your neck as she leaned closer.

"You shouldn't play these games with me, darling," she whispered, the danger in her voice sending a rush straight to your gut.

"I'm not playing," you said, your voice coming out weaker than you wanted.

Agatha giggled darkly, her fingers ghosting over your arm, leaving a trail of fire behind them. "Liar."

You swallowed hard, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Her eyes clouded. "What are you doing, my wife?"

You slipped down the counter, your bare feet touching the chilly floor. You swallowed hard, collected the ragged pieces of your bravery, and moved closer to her.

"I heard you," you whispered.

Agatha's eyebrow twitched. "What?"

"I heard you and your mother the other night." Your throat clenched, but you pushed the words out. "This is about the marriage. About the heir."

Her stare became sharper, and something menacing flickered in her expression.

"I... I know you didn't ask for any of this," you said, your voice quivering. "I know you're angry. You have every right to exist. So—" you drew a breath, your stomach churning, "if you still want to, if it'll help you, you can have me."

Agatha's lips parted, surprise on her face.

You met her stare, your heart racing in your ears. "I won't stop you."

For a short moment, the entire room stood still.

Then her expression turned feral, with a dark, greedy smirk curving at the corners of her mouth.

"You really don't know what you're offering, do you?" She mumbled, her voice low and harsh, like thunder rolling in the background.

"I don't care," you muttered. "If it's you… I don't care."

That is all it took.

In a blur, her arm was around your waist, and before you could blink, you were tossed over her shoulder with a startled gasp. The world tilted as she carried you down the hallway, her hand gripping your thigh possessively.

"You had your chance to stop me, love," Agatha growled, her voice a dark promise in your ear.

With a flick of her wrist, she slams the bedroom door shut behind you, magically locking the lock into place.

She places you on the edge of the bed, and for a little minute, everything is calm, except for your rapid breathing and the storm of something unknown in her black eyes. Agatha steps once and then stands before you, her fingers twitching at her sides.

"I need to hear you say it," she says, her voice low and harsh, "If you want this, if you want me..." I need to hear it from your own lips. There are no tricks. No lies. "You do not owe me anything."

You raise your gaze to hers, speaking softly but steadily. "I love you, Aggie."

She stiffens.

"You're the only thing in my life that's ever made me feel like I wasn't nothing," you say with a whisper. You make me happy. And I-I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to be a perfect wife, but I know I want you. If you will have me."

For a moment, you believe she stops breathing. Her jaw clenches, and she speaks with a growl. "I should leave you alone. I should do better than this. But, God help me, I can't."

She rushes you quickly, her hands holding your face with such tenderness that it almost tears your heart. "I swear on my magic and my life. I will never touch you unless you want to. I will never hurt you. Do you understand what I am saying?"

You nod, your eyes hurting from tears you don't want to wipe away. "I want you, Agatha. I am not afraid. Not of you."

A shaking sensation passes through her, something dark and wild in her gaze melting for the first time since you met.

"Then you're mine," she murmurs. "In every way that matters."

You lift a hand, your fingers trembling as they curl around her wrist. "Kiss me," you whisper, your voice breaking on the words. "Please, my love."

Her lips crash against yours, and it’s nothing like you imagined. She tastes like magic, like dark forests and old secrets, like something forbidden you never want to stop craving.

You melt into her, fingers grabbing the neck of her robes, bringing her closer, craving more. Her mouth moves over yours with practiced ease, her tongue gliding over yours in a way that weakens your knees and twists your stomach most evilly. The warmth of her magic swirls around you like invisible threads, tingling your skin.

She groans into your lips, as if she's been craving this, for you, for far too long. Her hands slide down to your waist, grasping you tightly, then lowering again to your hips, pressing you hard against her. The pressure of her body on yours makes you shudder.

You can scarcely recognize your own voice as you moan, "Aggie..."

Her lips leave yours and trace down your neck, teeth scraping sensitive flesh, causing your breath to catch. She says against your throat, her voice low and strained, "Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?"

You are unable to respond because you believe you have never felt this level of yearning before.

Agatha leans back, eyes black, nostrils dilated, her thumb brushing across your swelling lower lip. "Tell me something," she says, her voice like silk scraped over a knife's edge. "Have you...? Have you done this before?"

Your stomach flips. You shake your head, your cheeks blazing hot, your voice gentle yet confident. "No… you're the first."

Agatha hovers over you, one hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. "I need you to tell me one more time," she murmurs, voice low and steady, though you can hear the strain in it. "This is what you want, dove. Say it. Tell me to stop, because if you don't know, I am not sure if I can stop myself later."

You reach for her hand, fingers lacing with hers, grounding yourself in the warmth of her skin.

"I don’t want you to stop," you whisper, voice cracking on the words. "I want this. I want to be yours."

When her lips leave yours, she speaks so softly you barely hear it. "You’re mine now. Only mine."

And you don’t even hesitate when you nod.

"Yes, Aggie. Always yours."

She groans softly at the sound of it, dipping down to kiss along your throat, leaving warm, lingering marks in her wake. "Good girl."

Agatha’s mouth is everywhere warm, possessive, and maddeningly slow. She starts at your throat, lips brushing softly before her teeth catch your skin, sinking in just enough to leave a mark. You gasp, arching beneath her, and she hums against your skin like she’s savoring the sound.

When her lips touch your chest, you shudder. She teases you at first, with gentle, delicate kisses on the tops of your breasts, her tongue shooting out to taste your skin before her teeth scrape your skin, leaving another mark. It's as if she's marking you, claiming you with each touch.

"Aggie," you murmur, your fingers running into her hair.

She grins darkly at your skin, her voice low and gruff.

And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, her tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out. Her other hand slides down, teasing between your thighs, finding how soaked you are for her.

"Good girl," she murmurs. "Look at you… so ready for me, so perfect."

The sensation of her lips and fingers is overpowering, and when she goes on to your second nipple and tortures it with the same tenderness, you can feel yourself breaking apart.

Every kiss, bite, and muttered phrase of possession propels you higher, your body arching into her, craving more and wanting her.

"Come for me," Agatha says gently, her magic whirling around you, increasing every touch and pleasure. "Just now. Let me have it." Her fingers slowly stretched you in your pussy, and her thumb made circles on your clit.

And with one more sharp, perfect bite just above your heart, you shatter, crying out her name as your body trembles, wave after wave crashing through you.

"You’re so beautiful like this," she whispers,

She’s holding you close, one hand stroking along your back while the other traces idle patterns over the marks she’s left on your skin.

But the question has lingered in your thoughts since you overheard her argument with Evanora about heirs and children. And now, with your body wrapped around hers and your heart secure in her embrace, you finally speak it.

"Aggie… how does that even work?" You ask quietly, turning your head up to look at her. "How… how would I have your child?"

Agatha's lips twist into a slow, knowing smile, and her hand brushes the hair away from your face. "Curious little thing," she says, her voice full of softness.

Your cheeks burn, but you refuse to look away. "I… I just wanna understand."

She sighs gently, almost as if she is affected. "Witches," she says, her voice a bit softer now, fingers stroking across your stomach, "have methods. We are not bound by the same rules as humans. Magic allows us to accomplish things that men could never think of."

Agatha continues, her palm resting possessively on your belly: "I'll create a spell. A creation. A means to implant a kid within you, my child. Witches can conjure it as a blood-enchanted strap. It will not be just any child, Dove. It will carry my strength. My bloodline. A Harkness heir."

When you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice is shaky but certain. "Do it."

Agatha freezes. You see the exact moment her control shatters, her eyes flashing a brilliant, unnatural violet as magic flickers in the air around you.

But just as her hand starts to move, conjuring what you called for, you exclaim, "Wait!"

Her brow furrows, the light in her eyes flashing. "What is it, love?" She whispers, her voice scratchy, as if she's barely holding on.

You bite your lip and grab for the hem of her clothing, speaking softly. "I just want to see you," you say, cheeks flushed. "I don't wanna be the only one like this."

For a moment, something in her face softens—the sharp, deadly Agatha gives way to something more human, more vulnerable. Without saying anything, she stands, the cloth dropping from her shoulders and pooling about her feet, revealing her to you.

You nod, swallowing hard.

And then, with a wave of her hand, the air thickens with energy, and the spell forms between you- a smooth, enchanted creation of her magic, warm and pulsing like it’s alive, like it knows its purpose.

She leans down, brushing her lips over yours again. "If it hurts… You tell me."

You nod, trusting her.

When she finally pushes inside, the stretch makes you gasp, a sting of discomfort blooming sharp and bright. Your hand clutches at her arm, and Agatha immediately slows, cupping your face. "Look at me, my love, it's going to be okay, it will hurt just for a moment..." she murmurs, her voice low and so gentle it makes your heart ache.

You force yourself to relax, breathing her in, and the pain fades beneath the warmth of her touch, the possessive tenderness in her eyes.

She moves carefully, tenderly, her lips never far from your skin, murmuring soft things you can barely catch, words in ancient tongues, a promise in every kiss she leaves along your throat.

The room fills with the sound of your mingled breaths, the soft crackle of candles, and the steady pulse of magic in the air.

Agatha looks at you with hungry eyes, lips parted, and blush rising to her cheeks. Each time your body clenches around her, her control gets worse, and her motions become harsher, more pressing.

Your hands run up her arms, claws pressing in slightly as you cling to her, a moan escaping when she brushes across a location deep inside you that causes your mind to spin. Without thinking, your legs raise, wrapping tightly around her waist and drawing her in even further, pushing her to fill you in a way that makes your entire body tremble.

Agatha moans, the sound is low and damaged. "Fuck, sweetheart." You have no idea what you are doing to me."

You moan her name, and the last thread snaps.

Her mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping along your pulse as she starts to move harder, deeper — not rough, but relentless, like she’s trying to carve herself into your very bones." S o fucking tight for me," she growls against your skin. "Made for me, weren’t you?"

You can’t form words, just a breathless moan as your hips roll to meet her.

"That’s it, my sweet girl," she coaxes darkly. "Take it. Gods, look at you — so beautiful like this, spread open for me, begging without a word."

Your head tips back as a sharp wave of pleasure curls in your belly. You can feel it building, pulling you closer to a ledge you didn’t even know existed.

Agatha notices, of course she does — her hand trailing down to circle your clit, teasing, coaxing, commanding. "Give it to me again," she growls, voice rough with need.

The pressure snaps, and you cry out, your entire body tensing around her as the orgasm crashes through you. Agatha’s name tears from your lips like a prayer and a plea.

Agatha moans at the feel of you clenching, burying herself as deep as she can, panting against your ear. "So perfect for me," she whispers, her voice shaking.

"Fuck… gods, " she gasps on your neck, tightening her fingers on your hip and pushing in deep, plunging herself to the hilt. The raw, frantic shout that comes from her chest is nothing short of wild, and you can feel it, the quick rush of cum inside you, her power lighting bright and electric in the air as she overflows into you.

Your own breath stutters as you feel the weight of her claiming you entirely.

You can feel her pulse hammering madly in her chest as she breaths hard, the last shudders of her orgasm resonating throughout her being.

When she finally moves, it's to carefully draw away with a hiss of softness, her hands hugging you as if you were delicate and fragile. You flinch slightly as the pain settles in, and she immediately murmurs small apologies against your lips.

"Did I hurt you?" she says, pulling a moist strand of hair away from your face.

You shake your head, the pain deep within you searing yet delicious, the warmth in your chest unnaturally full. "No… it was… it was amazing."

Agatha’s face softens in a way that makes your heart ache. "You were perfect," she murmurs, kissing your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

After the tempest of your emotions had gone and you were lying wrapped in Agatha's arms, the silence between you two was as comforting as the calm after a thunderstorm. The air felt warmer, and the stress from the previous events disappeared.

You lay there, your heart still beating from everything—her touch, the sheer intensity of it all.

You shifted slightly, resting your head against her chest and listening to her heartbeat. Your fingertips stroked little, languid circles on her skin, providing comfort for yourself.

"Aggie?" Your voice was quiet and almost hesitant.

She hummed in answer, her fingers gently caressing your back, the gentle touch making your pulse skip a beat. "Hmm?"

You bit your lip before asking, your words seeming somewhat more vulnerable than you intended. "How did you find me that night? I mean, you knew where I was and came for me. But, how?"

Agatha was silent for a moment, as though she was considering her answer.

"I've been watching you for a while, love," Agatha said softly. Her fingers stopped moving as she turned to face you, her dark eyes examining yours with an unreadable look.

"Not stalking you, not in the way you might think." She chuckled softly at the concept. I noticed you for the first time when I saw you on Market Street.

"I couldn't let you get caught up in something that wasn't right," Agatha said, placing her hand on your back and comforting you. "I knew you weren't happy with your family and what they wanted from you. And I knew I had to protect you, and if I knew what they've been doing, I would have had you earlier."

You felt her words sink deep into your chest, sparking something inside you. She saw through everything, even when you couldn't see it for yourself. You bit your lip, experiencing a strange combination of feelings, but largely a sense of safety, as if you weren't alone anymore.

"You've been looking out for me?" You whispered with a small tremble in your voice.

Agatha’s gaze softened, and she nodded slowly.

"I’m glad you did," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. You pulled her closer, pressing your lips to her chest as if trying to anchor yourself in the moment, in her. "I didn’t know… I didn’t know I needed you."

Agatha kissed your forehead, her lips lingering there as she held you close.

Two months later...

You had been feeling off for several days.

It wasn't noticeable at first: a hazy heaviness in your stomach, some exhaustion, and a flutter of sickness in the mornings. Agatha became concerned when the simple scent of fresh herbs turned your stomach. When you brushed it off, Agatha went to get the one person you didn't want to see: Evanora.

You're sitting by the fireplace when she appears, her presence as piercing and cold as ever, magic lingering behind her like a thick perfume. You swallow hard as she walks across the room with the kind of elegance that makes you feel like a child again, sitting there in your simple dress.

"Well," she replies curtly, standing over you with her eyes narrowed. "Let's see what we have here."

You look at Agatha, who stands stiffly by the doorway, her expression a mix of concern and defensiveness.

"Mother, if she's unwell, we should

Evanora raises her hand, silencing her daughter with a look. "I'll be the judge of that."

Without asking, she brushes her icy fingertips on your temple, mumbling ancient words beneath her breath. The power seeps into you, causing a slight tugging sensation deep within your center, like something stirring in the darkness.

Your stomach tightens, and you almost draw away—but something in her look shifts. The hard, judgmental frown softens only slightly.

"Well, well," she purred, her voice far too pleased. "Finally. It seems the little witch is carrying. How delightful."

You froze. Carrying? It didn’t make sense. Not at first.

And then, as the words sank in, the weight of it hit you. You were pregnant. Pregnant.

"I… I am?"

Evanora’s eyes flicked to Agatha, a sly, self-satisfied smile curling at her lips. "Yes. Two months along. Congratulations, Agatha. It’s about time."

"You’re… carrying my child," Agatha whispered, as if the words were a prayer, a promise.

Evanora's voice cut through the tenderness like a razor.

"Well, this is all very touching," she remarked, her voice full of hate. "But there is still work to do. You have to protect the child, Agatha. I'll plan the rituals. The family line must be secured."

Agatha's palm clenched around yours, her countenance hardening as her eyes shifted to Evanora. "I will not fail. I'll protect them."

Evanora snorted, producing a nasty, mocking chuckle. "Will you? Will you succeed, or will you keep being pathetic, darling? " She returned her stare to you, and the cruelty in her eyes was undeniable. "As much as I hate to say it, you are now a useful girl. And that child will hold the key to everything."

"Mother," Agatha said, her voice quiet but sharp, a warning laced in it. "Enough."

When she returned her gaze to you, her face softening once more, you saw the true warmth, the love that had driven her this far, the love that would keep you both safe.

"I will protect you," Agatha whispered again, her voice fierce, possessive, and full of promise. "Always."

AN: OKAY WOAH THIS IS MY LONGEST FF I EVER WROTE! I HOPE U GUYS LIKE ITTT AND DON'T FORGET TO WRITE ME YOURR FEELLING ABOUT THISSSS <3

[translations-by-aiimee]

The Husky and His White Cat Shizun - Chapter 22

Original Title:  二哈和他的白猫师尊

Genres: Drama, Romance, Tragedy, Xianxia, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 22 - This Venerable One's Shizun is Getting Angry

When Chu Wanning heard this, he was so angry that he could barely keep himself from retracting Tianwen and slashing the Chen couple. But he couldn't open his eyes to confront them. Once he opened his eyes, the barrier would be broken. The Return to Truth barrier could only trap a ghost once. If his interrogation was interrupted, he wouldn't be able to listen to any more of Luo Xianxian's story.

All he could do was contain his overwhelming rage and continue listening to Luo Xianxian.

After she died, her soul entered the underworld, unaware and confused.

The only thing that she could make out was a woman wearing red and green robes with facial features that resembled the Master of Ceremonies Ghost enshrined in a temple. The Master of Ceremonies Ghost stood in front of her and asked her in a soft voice: "You and Chen Bohuan couldn't share a bed in life. Would you like to share the same grave in death?"

She hurriedly agreed: "Yes. . . Yes please!"

"Then I can let him come join you right away. What do you think?"

Luo Xianxian wanted to blurt out a yes, rushing to agree, but suddenly remembered something and froze. "Am I dead?"

"Yes. I am the Master of the Underworld Ghost. I can give you the destiny you deserve and fulfill your long-cherished wish."

Luo Xianxian was startled: "Then, if he comes to join me, will he. . . also die?"

"Yes. However, if loves persists in the afterlife, life and death are irrelevant. What difference does it make?"

Chu Wanning heard this, he thought to himself that he had been right; this Master of Ceremonies Ghost would persuade others to make a wish so that she could reap the benefits. This immortal was truly diabolical.

Although Luo Xianxian died unjustly, she hadn't yet become a malevolent ghost, so she repeatedly shook his head: "No. It wasn't his fault. You can't kill him."

The Master of Ceremonies Ghost smiled compassionately: "And what did you get in return for this kindness?" It didn't force Luo Xianxian to do anything. As an immortal being, they could persuade someone to make a bad wish, but they couldn't force them. Its figure gradually faded away, its voice becoming hazier and hazier.

"Return to the world in seven days. During those seven days, go and see how the Chen family is faring. After that, I'll ask you again if you still have no regrets about your decision."

Seven days later, the day arrived.

Luo Xianxian's soul returned to a conscious form and returned to the world of the living.

Following the old road, she eagerly walked towards the Chen house to see her husband for the last time.

Unexpectedly, the Chen house was decorated with lights, and outside the courtyard, there were fireworks. Bridal flowers were decorating the halls. and a big "double happiness" banner was hanging in front of the main hall. Madam Chen was radiant, not appearing sickly in the slightest. She was smiling and instructing the servants to wrap the bouquets with red silk.

Who. . . was having a wedding?

Who. . . were the bride and groom?

Who. . . no one was engaged, what was going on?

Who. . .

She walked through the busy crowd, listening to the sound of people in the world of the living.

"Congratulations, Madam Chen. Your son is getting engaged to the daughter of the county magistrate. When's the wedding?"

"Madam Chen, you're so fortunate."

"Yao Qianjin is truly the lucky star of the Chen family and they aren't even official yet. Madam Chen, you look so much healthier already."

"Your son and Yao Qianjin are a match made in heaven. I'm so jealous, hahahaha."

Her son. . . Her son. . .

Which son?

Which one was marrying the daughter of the Yao family?

She shuttled back and forth across the familiar front yard, growing more and more frantic, looking for that familiar figure in the midst of all the laughter.

Then she found him.

In front of the peony flowers in the back hall, Chen Bohuan stood with his hands behind his back with a haggard face and sunken cheeks. However, he was dressed in red. Even though it wasn't a traditional wedding outfit, it was a Caidie Town custom. When a prospective son-in-law comes to propose marriage, he should wear this type of red gown.

Was he. . . going to propose. . .?

The decorations in the whole house, the strings of gold and silver beads, was it all. . . was it all from Chen Bohuan, her husband, as a dowry for the daughter of the Yao family?

She suddenly recalled the time when they got married.

There was nothing but two people that shared one heart - nothing else.

There was no master of ceremonies, no bridesmaids, and no dowry. The Chen family weren't wealthy at that time and didn't even own a decent set of jewelry. He went into the yard and picked a delicate orange blossom from under the orange tree they had planted together and carefully tucked it behind her ear.

She asked him: "Does it look good?"

He said it looked beautiful. After a moment of silence, he stroked her hair with some sadness and told her: "You deserve so much better than this."

Luo Xianxian smiled and pursed his lips, saying that it didn't matter.

Chen Bohuan told her that when he married her three years later, he would hold a lively wedding banquet. He would invite people from all over the world. He would have her make a grand entrance on a large sedan chair. He would give her gold and silver to wear, and the dowry gifts would fill the entire main hall.

Those vows still echoed in her ears. Now, all those promises have come true, the hall filled with gifts and guests.

He was getting married, just not to her.

A monstrous flame of anger and sorrow surged through her. Luo Xianxian screamed, trying to tear at the hanging red silk in the room.

But she was a ghost; she couldn't touch anything.

Chen Bohuan seemed to vaguely notice something. He turned around, staring at the silk moving despite there being no wind. His eyes were dull and hollow.

His little sister came over, a white jade hairpin clipped on the side of her bun. She didn't know who she was secretly mourning by wearing it.

She said: "Big brother, go to the kitchen to eat something. You haven't had a proper meal in days. You have to hurry up and go to the county magistrate's house later to propose. Your body won't hold up."

Chen Bohuan suddenly asked without thinking: "Sister, did you hear someone crying?"

". . . What? No, brother, I think you're still. . ." She gritted her teeth and didn't finish her thought. Chen Bohuan still stared at the fluttering silk sheets.

"How is my mother? Is she happy? Has her illness been cured?"

". . . Brother."

". . . I'm glad she's feeling better." Chen Bohuan stood there, muttering to himself. "I already lost Luo Xianxian, I couldn't live without my mother."

"Brother, go eat something. . ."

Luo Xianxian wailed. She yelled and bawled with her head in her hands.

Don't go. . . don't go. . . please don't go. . .

Chen Bohuan said: ". . . Alright."

The tired figure disappeared around the corner.

Luo Xianxian stood alone in a daze, large tears rolling down her face. Suddenly, she heard the brothers of the Chen family who killed her approaching. The second eldest brother and the younger brother were whispering to each other.

"Mother is finally happy. Finally, things are going our way."

"Right? She pretended to be sick for half and year. Now that that cursed bitch is gone, how could she not be thrilled?"

The younger brother tsked and said, "How come she died? We wanted to force her out, not kill her. Was she really so stupid that she couldn't even find someone to help her?"

"Who knows. She was weak, just like her rotten father. It's not our fault that she died. Even though mother pretended to be sick to get rid of her, our family has its own struggles. Think about it, when the options county magistrate’s daughter and some pauper girl, only a fool would choose the latter. Besides, even if Yao Qianjin is a brat, she's got enough money to go around."

"Yes, she's so dumb. She didn't want to live so she let herself freeze to death. No one could've saved her."

The words drifted to her ears.

After Luo Xianxian died, she finally understood the so-called "Divine Fate". She was completely broke and couldn't compare to the county magistrate's daughter who was so noble and honourable.

Only a fool would choose the pauper girl.

She finally snapped.

She returned to the Master of Ceremonies' temple full of hatred and resentment.

She died there. Unlike how weak and helpless she was when she died, she returned with overwhelming hostility.

She used to be such a kind person, but now, all the hatred and evil that had been built inside her while she was alive came flooding out. She roared, her eyes turning red, her soul trembling.

She said: "I, Luo Xianxian, would like to give up my soul and follow the path of wickedness. I only ask you to avenge me! I want the Chen family - I don't want you to kill them!!! I want. . . I want to let my beastly mother-in-law kill her sons by her own hand! All her sons!!! I want Chen Bohuan to go to hell with me!!! Let him be buried with me!!! Do it for me!!! I hate them! I hate them!!!!"

The eyes of the clay sculpture on the shrine shifted and the corners of its mouth slowly raised.

A hollow voice echoed through the temple.

"I have heard your prayers. It will be as you wish. As an evil spirit - kill all those that you resent -"

A piercing blood-red light flashed, and Luo Xianxian couldn't remember anything after that.

However, Chu Wanning already what happened next. After that, the Master of Ceremonies Ghost manipulated Luo Xianxian's spirit to possess Madam Chen and force her to kill each member of the Chen family.

The red coffin on the top of the mountain, the reason why Chen Bohuan was dug up, naturally, was because the Master of Ceremonies Ghost was fulfilling Luo Xianxian's greatest wish - "Let Chen Bohuan and I be buried together." Moreover, it deliberately placed the coffin on the property of Chen Bohuan and his new wife as an act of spiteful revenge.

As for the floral scent in Chen Bohuan's coffin, it was the scent of the butterfly fragrance powder that Luo Xianxian had worn before her death. The resentment and fragrance in the coffin were both extremely strong because Luo Xianxian's soul was resting alongside Chen Bohuan inside it.

Luo Xianxian had no family. According to the customs, if a person like that dies, their bones should be cremated instead of buried. Therefore, she had no physical body and could only be contained within the coffin by the Master of Ceremonies Ghost. That's why, when Chu Wanning opened the coffin with his willow vine, Luo Xianxian had escaped the coffin's containment. Her soul flew away, and it was difficult to recapture. It was a situation of "a closed coffin being heavy with resentment but an open coffin being light".

But during the illusion, why did other people have dead bodies as their partners but Chen Bohuan only had a paper-mache ghost bride?

Chu Wanning thought for a moment and figured out this much:

The Master of Ceremonies Ghost didn't break its promise. The paper-mache bride was the "physical body" that it gave Luo Xianxian. It was a vessel so that Luo Xianxian could be buried with Chen Bohuan.

Everything was clear.

Chu Wanning looked at the weak and helpless girl in the barrier. He wanted to say something but didn't know what to say.

Elder Yuheng wasn't particularly good at comforting words. He couldn't think of anything, so he stayed silent, not having anything he could say.

The girl stood in the vast darkness with her soft round eyes open.

Chu Wanning looked at her eyes and couldn't bear it. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to take another look. He was about to open his eyes and leave the Return to Truth barrier.

Then the girl suddenly spoke.

"Lord Yama. I. . . I have something else I want to tell you."

Chu Wanning: ". . . Alright."

The girl suddenly lowered her head, covered her eyes, and cried. She said softly, "Lord Yama, I don't know what I did after that. But, I. . . I really didn't want to kill my husband. I didn't want to be an evil spirit. I really. . ."

"I didn't steal the oranges. I really am Chen Bohuan's wife. And I truly, truly didn't want to hurt anyone either."

"I truly didn't want anyone to get hurt. Please believe me."

Her voice choked and trembled, her words breaking.

"I. . . didn't lie. . ."

I didn't lie.

Why is it that, in this life, almost no one believed me?

She sobbed and screamed. Chu Wanning's voice sounded low in the darkness. He didn't say much, but he said it with conviction.

"Okay."

Luo Xianxian was shocked.

Chu Wanning said: "I believe you."

Luo Xianxian wiped her tears with her hands indiscriminately but couldn't hold them back. Hiding her tearful face, she lowered her head and bowed her head in his direction in the darkness.

Chu Wanning opened his eyes.

After he opened his eyes, he didn't say anything.

Time in the barrier wasn't the same as in reality. He had stayed there for a long time but, for the people waiting outside, it had only been a moment. Mo Ran hadn't returned yet. The few remaining people in the Chen family were still looking at him with bated breath.

Chu Wanning withdrew Tianwen and said to Madam Chen: "I'll avenge you. You can find peace."

Madam Chen froze and opened her blood-red eyes, and suddenly fell to the ground with a thud, knocked out cold.

Chu Wanning raised his head again. His eyes swept across Chen's face then landed on the youngest son. His voice didn't waver, and it was still frighteningly cold.

"I'll ask one last time." He said each word slowly and decisively. "Did you really not recognize whose voice that was?"

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[jaimehwatson]

I made another Snowpiercer playlist!

After posting my Wilford/Audrey playlist a while ago, I added some songs that didn’t quite make the cut to a different playlist, intending to put together another similar one. But rather than focusing on just one ship this time, I also ended up getting really interested in theorizing about what Wilford’s relationship with Melanie might have been like before the Freeze, and exploring the idea that maybe there was something going on there and some kind of love triangle with Audrey.

So here’s my new playlist, full of absolute jams that could apply to any combination of relationships involving Wilford, Audrey, and Melanie, and/or just general Snowpiercer vibes! Read on for more detail about the songs I selected, and as before, content warning for references to canon abuse & self-harm/suicide.

1. “The Tradition” by Halsey

Oh, the loneliеst girl in town Was bought for plenty a price Well, they dress her up in golden crowns His smile hides a lie

She smiles back, but it's a fact That her fear will eat her alive Well, she got the life that she wanted But now all she does is cry

Thanks @onetrainsnowpiercer​ for getting me into this excellent album! I thought it would be fitting to kick off the playlist with one that could suit the earlier days of Wilford’s relationship with Audrey, like my previous playlist was more focused on.

2. “cardigan” by Taylor Swift

'Cause I knew you Steppin' on the last train Marked me like a bloodstain, I

I knew you Tried to change the ending Peter losing Wendy, I

I knew you Leavin' like a father Running like water, I And when you are young, they assume you know nothing

Did you think I would make a Snowpiercer playlist without Taylor Swift on it? Not a chance. I picture this one being more from Melanie’s perspective, reflecting on possibly having had some kind of ill-fated romance with Wilford when she was young and naive.

3. “No Children” by The Mountain Goats

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow I hope it bleeds all day long Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises We're pretty sure they're all wrong

I hope it stays dark forever I hope the worst isn't over And I hope you blink before I do And I hope I never get sober

The only reason this perennial favourite of mine wasn’t on the first playlist was that I had too many Mountain Goats songs already and wanted to keep things balanced. But this one got all the ones that didn’t make it to the first playlist plus some more I thought about later, so I’m kind of giving up on that balance by now. They just have a lot of great songs about terrible relationships, and I love them all so much.

4. “Gold Guns Girls” by Metric

I remember when we were gambling to win Everybody else said, "Better luck next time." I don't wanna bend like the bad girls bend I just wanna be your friend Is it ever gonna be enough?

This is another one that I can picture being about young Melanie, gradually growing more aware of everything that’s terribly wrong with Wilford and his approach to life, and of how little he cares to try to fix it.

5. “You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” by Death Cab for Cutie

And there's a flaw in my heart's design For I keep trying to make you mine

You've haunted me all my life You've haunted me all my life You are the mistress I can't make a wife And you've haunted me all my life

And this one I can see being Wilford thinking about either one of the women, and his unhealthy attachment to them and inability to keep them around for very long—maybe once he’s finally reunited with them both on some level in season 2, but still can’t fully persuade them both over to his side.

6. “Old College Try” by The Mountain Goats

From the cities to the swamplands From the highways to the hills Our love has never had a leg to stand on From the aspirins to the cross-tops to the Elavils

But I will walk down to the end with you If you will come all the way down with me

Another Mountain Goats classic. If you divorce it from its context of being from a concept album about a horrible marriage, I actually think this song is kind of sweet in the way it describes a couple still committing to try to make things work despite a whole host of problems. But never mind that now, because I’m putting it back in the new context of a whole collection of horrible romantic relationships!

7. “Risk” by Metric

So you're beaten up but you bounce back It’s all part of the pull And the story runs like a soundtrack We repeat 'til we're full Started slow, started late Started strong, then we lost faith Started slow, started to lose control The more we accelerate, the more we accelerate

Half of arranging any playlist I make is just trying to split up the Mountain Goats and Metric songs so that they aren’t always clumped together. Anyway, this one seems especially fitting to me in its imagery of a speeding vehicle of some kind (it’s a train, I’m always picturing a train) alongside its description of a relationship going badly.

8. “Big God” by Florence + The Machine

You know I still like you the most The best of the best and the worst of the worst Well, you can never know The places that I go I still like you the most You'll always be my favourite ghost

I think this one could be any one of the three of them contemplating their complex feelings about the past at some point around season 2.

9. “I Still Do” by The Cranberries

I don't want to leave you Even though I have to I don't want to love you Oh, I still do

There aren’t as many specifics that match the characters going on in the lyrics here, since it’s more of just a general break-up song, but I also really like the creepy way it sounds.

10. “Fault Lines” by The Mountain Goats

But none of the money we spend Seems to do us much good in the end I got a cracked engine block, both of us do

Yeah, the house and the jewels, the Italian racecar They don't make us feel better about who we are I got termites in the framework, so do you

This one feels really fitting for pre-Freeze Wilford, especially the engine imagery!

11. “I Don’t Care” by Fall Out Boy

Say my name and his in the same breath I dare you to say they taste the same Let the leaves fall off in the summer And let December glow in flames

Erase myself and let go Start it over again in Mexico These friends, they don't love you They just love the hotel suites

Another song that is simply a) an absolute jam, and b) generally fitting for my favourite obscenely rich asshole and his terrible relationships

12. “You asked for this” by Halsey

I want my cake on a silver platter I want a fistful in my hands I want a beautiful boy's despondent laughter I wanna ruin all my plans I want a fist around my throat I wanna cry so hard, I choke I want everything I asked for

This one I can picture as Audrey—or maybe Melanie too, but especially Audrey—beginning to regret getting involved with Wilford, but only once she’s in way too deep for leaving to be a safe or easy decision.

13. “my tears ricochet” by Taylor Swift

And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed Look at how my tears ricochet

Much like several other Taylor Swift songs, I just know in my heart that it’s the type of music Wilford listens to in secret, while possibly drunk and definitely singing along very dramatically. This one he dedicates to Melanie once they’ve met up again in season 2.

14. “Speed the Collapse” by Metric

All the way from where we came Built a mansion in a day Distant lightning, thunder claps Watched our neighbor's house collapse Looked the other way

This one has a lot of good apocalyptic imagery that I can imagine scoring Wilford’s life in the last few years before the Freeze, as he makes his plans to save himself and let so many others die.

15. “Ox Baker Triumphant” by The Mountain Goats

I will thank my ride and crawl my way back inside To the guts of the building where my enemies Hide in the dark like roaches And I will signal the camera crew and everyone will do What he's been trained how to do Sweat dripping from my face as my moment approaches

Click your heels, count to three I bet you never expected me A little worse for wear Practically walking on air

I love this song a lot, and listening to it lately makes me imagine Wilford plotting his revenge while on his way to catch up with Snowpiercer before the end of season 1.

16. “Firewood” by Regina Spektor

The piano is not firewood yet But the cold does get cold So it soon might be that I'll take it apart, call up my friends And we'll warm up our hands by the fire

Don't look so shocked Don't judge so harsh You don't know You’re only spying Everyone knows it's going to hurt But at least we'll get hurt trying

This has to be one of my favourite songs of all time. It’s very beautiful, and I love the piano in it. I’ve always personally interpreted it to be at least partially about someone surviving a suicide attempt, and the overall imagery about burning a piano for warmth—and this bit about not judging someone for doing that—reads to me as more of a general statement about the difficult choices people struggling with mental illness and other similar issues have to make to survive. I listened to it recently and I could picture Audrey singing it in the nightcar. I think it suits her well.

17. “Cry for Judas” by The Mountain Goats

But I am just a broken machine And I do things that I don't really mean Long, black night Morning frost I'm still here But all is lost

I think the imagery of this song suits the show a lot in general, but I can also particularly imagine it being Wilford in a rare moment of self-awareness about how much damage he’s caused to the world and the people around him.

18. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide” by David Bowie

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget Oh oh, oh, oh, you're a rock 'n' roll suicide

I love Wilford a lot. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him ever. I hope he kills more people, and I hope he gets his train back, and I hope he wins. But if he does eventually die in the show, I hope he’s found in the bathtub with there being some ambiguity about whether he really killed himself or whether one of his victims turned the tables on him, and I hope the climax of this song swells as the camera pans over his dead body. That’s the only Wilford death I will accept, thanks for coming to my TED talk.

19. “Source Decay” by The Mountain Goats

I park in an alley And I read through the postcards you continue to send Where as indirectly as you can, you ask what I remember I like these torture devices from my old best friend Well, I'll tell you what I know, like I swore I always would I don't think it's gonna do you any good I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok Down toward the water

Okay, I promise this is the last Mountain Goats song on the playlist. It’s just—it’s perfect. It has a train in it. And on the podcast “I Only Listen To The Mountain Goats,” John Darnielle commented that there’s barely anywhere you can go south of Bangkok before you hit the water, it’s a train going nowhere, it’s so good. It’s also one of the songs I’ve previously ripped a line off for my fanfiction titles!

20. “Sellers of Flowers” by Regina Spektor

The sellers of flowers Buy up old roses They pull off dead petals Like old heads of lettuce And sell ’em as new ones For cheaper and fairer But they die by the morning So who is the winner? Not the roses Not the buyers Not the sellers Maybe winter

And Regina Spektor closes out the playlist again! This song is another one I picked more on imagery and vibes than anything else. But since it’s about a young child in a world that seems to be moving inexorably toward an all-consuming winter, if it suits any of the characters, maybe it’s an appearance of Alex here at the end!

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the playlist!

[richieisabastardman]

The Demon and The Witch - Part 1 (Crowley x Reader)

Summary:  In 1519, your ancestor made a deal with a demon that protected your family for eternity. In return, your family devoted themselves to the demon Crowley. When Crowley loses track of your family suddenly and without reason, he panics. Decades later, you walk into a little bookstore owned by a kind man. When you are introduced to his tall, red-headed friend, you can't help but think that fate had brought the two of you (back) together. (Fluff, Eventual Romance & Smut).

Word count:  4,135

Notes:  This is going to be a long series that eventually leads to a relationship between Crowley and the reader. Any witch references etc. is probably not in line with how witches work within the show/book, but for the sake of the story I wanted to create my own lore. Hopefully you guys enjoy slow burns (though not really because there's already so much tension in this first chapter between the two of them).

Masterlist

In the year 1519, Anthony J. Crowley, at that time only known by the latter part of his name, walked into a forest far from the hustle of the London streets in which he usually roamed. It had been night, and therefore dark, and the growth of the trees above him had meant that the light of the moon could not guide his path. This was no matter, of course, as he was not a mere mortal. It was, however, a slight inconvenience. Despite being a demon, he did quite enjoy a bit of light to guide his journey, if not purely for the symbolism.

He had been summoned to the forest in a traditional, witchy sort of way. The way that involved candles and incense and incessant chanting. He had appreciated the effort the summoner had put into the ordeal, even though it was not at all necessary. A letter to his home would have worked just as well.

Still, he continued walking, the mud and muck beneath his shoes producing a squelching sound that he wasn’t very fond of. The night was freezing, but Crowley could sense the warmth of a bonfire as he neared a clearing.

A woman stood next to the fire, holding her hands together in front of her person, rubbing them together nervously. Crowley could feel her fear. It radiated off of her in waves that he was sure demons and angels alike could feel for miles. Regular humans would not exude such a strong energy.

As he expected, the woman was a witch.

As he walked closer to the fire he stepped on a thin branch and the sound of it cracking in half echoed through the woods. “Dammit” he whispered. Crowley had always had a flare for the dramatic and preferred a traditional, ominous entrance to any meeting he attended.

“Demon? Show yourself to me!” the woman yelled.

“Alright, alright I’m here no need to yell” Crowley replied, pushing away a branch to step into the brightly lit clearing where the woman stood.

“Are you the demon Crowley?” she asked, her eyes examining his thin frame and curled, long hair. His features were angular, but in no way demonic. He could sense her sizing him up and smiled.

“Indeed I am” he replied.

“You look fairly...human” she stated cautiously.

The demon reached for his sunglasses, removing them to reveal bright yellow irises surrounding a slitted pupil. The woman gasped lightly before nodding to herself, attempting to calm her rapid breath. “I see”.

“Haven’t done much demon work, I take it?” Crowley said, beginning to circle the bonfire which sat in the middle of the clearing. The woman moved away from him, slowly walking further around the bonfire in order to avoid any close proximity to the demon.

“I’m desperate” she admitted, almost whispering.

“Why?” Crowley returned.

“The town speaks of witches and witchcraft” she said, her chest heaving with her heavy, fearful breaths.

“Oh, do they? I wonder why?” Crowley responded, gaze fixated on the circle of candles, herbs and crystals that surrounded the bonfire. “You could be a bit more discreet”.

“It is my heritage. My birthright. Who am I to deny it?” She spoke and Crowley pursed his lips in thought before nodding his head.

“I suppose” He replied.

“I was caught” she explained “I was caught with certain books and herbs and sigils”.

“Oh, not sigils. You can never get caught with sigils” Crowley said, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“I fear they may wish to kill me” she said.

“What do you want me to do about it” Crowley replied.

“Protect me. Guide me. Enhance my practice. Care for me.” She had stopped moving away from him, instead facing him on the other side of the bonfire. She stared into his eyes, refusing to break her gaze despite their snakish appearance. Her fear had all but dissipated as she propositioned the demon. He had to admit, her bravery charmed him just a little. Human bravery always did.

“And what do I get in return?” he asked.

“My soul”

“Pfft.” Crowley huffed, rolling his eyes at her offer.

“My devotion for eternity”

“The issue with that, is that you are merely mortal” he sang slightly.

“My devotion for eternity through my daughter, and my daughter’s daughter, and her daughter’s daughter, until the end of time or the end of family’s line” the woman explained.

Crowley’s interest suddenly peaked. He was quite fond of human devotion, though he would never admit it. Not just devotion to him (though there was a period in ancient Greece where a temple was built in his honour and he had a small following of cultists that his ego quite enjoyed), but human devotion in general.

The willingness of a human to throw themselves into the fire for a cause. To martyr oneself, to put one’s life on the line for another, the brotherhood of man as it was later called. Of course, this sort of action also led its way to things a bit more sinister, such as the willingness to kill others for one’s cause, an issue that was present for the woman currently pleading with him.

The thought of generations of young witch women devoting their life and practice to him lit something within him. He was sure that the fire behind his eyes was visible to the witch lady, as she took a step back from him.

“It’s a deal,” he said, smiling at the woman. She withdrew herself further.

“How do we seal it” the woman asked, her hands once again hovering in front of her and rubbing together in a nervous gesture.

“Like all good deals - with a kiss” Crowley smirked, but dropped his lips quickly when he saw the terror upon the woman’s face. “Though I am happy to settle for a handshake”.

~~~

And so Crowley kept his end of the deal, as all good demons do. He thwarted the interest of the local puritans from the woman, allowing her to continue her practice in peace and without fear of persecution. When she birthed a daughter, and taught her daughter the craft, Crowley watched over her too. He had seen her first steps, her first words and her first marriage. Great Uncle Crowley, as he was called by the youngin, was worshipped in modern ways by the family. The small child would bring him flowers she had picked from her garden and he would accept them happily. Her mother would bring him alcohol and he would accept it ecstatically. In return, the demon would bless their ventures and punish those who wished to harm them.

As generations were born and eventually birthed more children, they began to forget their heritage and their promise. They also began to forget Crowley.

Despite this, Crowley did not forget them.

Whilst he was a demon, he was not one to break an eternal pact. That would defeat the purpose, he supposed, of the eternal part of the pact. He continued to watch the women grow and bring forth more children. More importantly he watched them survive and thrive within the world. He watched the women birth world leaders, revolution starters and martyrs. He helped them where he could, however they generally appeared to get along quite well for themselves.

Until one day, on a sunny afternoon in 1923 - after centuries of watching after the children of the witch, he lost track of them.

Crowley had driven over to Edinburgh to do a quick miracle for his angel, Aziraphale. On return, he had planned to check in again on his girls. Sitting within Aziraphale’s bookstore, holding tightly onto a cup of tea and swirling the spoon within the cooling mixture softly, the sound of the teaspoon hitting the sides of the china lulled his eyes to a close. Aziraphale was looking at him disapprovingly for his rudeness, however his stare was missed by the demon. Crowley focused his energy on his mind’s eye, chanting a quiet mantra to himself.

On previous occasions of using such a technique, he would feel his spirit shift from within the earthly body he possessed to engulfing all that was and ever will be. He became the teacup he held, the seat in which he sat. He also became the sky, the sea, the Thames. Importantly, he became the women in which he had agreed to shelter. He saw what they saw, felt what they felt, knew what they knew. He would know where they were, who they were with and what they were doing. He could keep tabs on them in order to help them where he could,and in order to keep his word on the pact in which he had agreed.

And so he became the tea cup, and the chair, and the sky and the sea and the Thames, and as he shifted his focus on finding the women, he could not find them. Not anywhere on Earth at least.

“Huh” Crowley spoke, opening his eyes slowly.

“What’s wrong?” Aziraphale questioned, his reading glasses covering his curious gaze which was fixed upon the demon. He did not need the glasses of course, but he felt a sort of comfort in their weight upon his nose.

“I can’t find her” Crowley said, eyebrows furrowed in concern. For a moment he thought that, perhaps, she had died. Upon this thought, he further realised that even if she had died, he still would have known where she was. No she was not dead. She had just sort of vanished. She had disappeared off of his radar.

A wave of panic ran down his slim body, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. He had never had goosebumps before. He had also never lost a human before. He supposed there were first times for everything.

“Well, where is she?” Aziraphale asked, voice laced slightly with concern. The girl was not, of course, his concern. However, a human disappearing from the gaze of any non-human being was unheard of.

“I dont….know” the demon spoke. He looked up at Aziraphale, and for the first time in the nearly six thousand years he had known the angel, his face displayed human signals of fear.

“Surely she’s somewhere. Would you like me to have a look? I’m happy to-”

“No angel you don’t understand. I’ve been watching this family for centuries. I’ve known where they are, what they’re thinking, who they’re with, what they’re doing. Their needs, their wants, their hates. I’ve never lost them, Aziraphale. Something is very wrong”.

~

Very few witches by blood are currently aware that they are witches. Often the ritualistic aspect of the craft is lost throughout generations, resulting in plenty of born-witches but very few practising witches.

You were not aware of your heritage. You were also not aware of your ancestor’s eternal pact with a certain demon. You were further not aware that said demon had been searching for your family for decades. All of these things you were very much not aware of when you walked into Mr. Fell’s bookstore a month ago. Since your first meeting with the man (where he had nearly tackled you for attempting to buy one of his books), the two of you had become close companions and had easily fallen into a quaint routine. You went to your university classes during the day, and in the evenings you would come visit the older man, helping him sort out his mess of a store.

It was strange to you how quickly the two of you had become close, especially considering the considerable age gap between the two of you. However, you supposed the man was quite lonely all by himself within the shop. He told you he had a friend who usually visited him, however he was out of town for a few weeks trying to find an old friend. You had told him you were happy to take his place for a while and Mr. Fell was glad for it.

“Mr. Fell~” you sang as you entered the store, peaking your head around the store to find the older man.

After stumbling upon his store the month before, you had been drawn inside by the eeriness of the building. It was old and creeped you out slightly, however the inside had a warm, comforting vibe that you could only credit to the angelic looking man who owned the store.

You heard Mr. Fell  sing your name back to you from the backroom of the store, where he was surely sitting with a book and having tea after a long day of avoiding trade. You skipped slightly to follow the voice, spinning yourself as you entered the back room.

“Oh Mr. Fell I’ve had the strangest day you won’t belie-” you stopped yourself, your gaze locking onto the slim, tall, sunglasses-wearing man who sat in your usual seat.

You smiled, embarrassed by your antics that this stranger had just had to witness. He smiled back curiously, refusing to break the gaze the two of you held.

“Hi” you tried to say, but it came out as barely a whisper.

“Hi” he returned, smirking and much more confident in his delivery. His arm was draped across the back of the lounge in which he sat, his ankle resting on the knee of his opposite leg. He exuded a confidence you had never felt from another man before. It was otherworldly.

You realised that this must have been the friend Mr. Fell was missing.

Mr. Fell cleared his throat from where he sat behind you and you spun around, smiling sheepishly at him. “I didn’t realise you had a guest, I wouldn’t have come-”

“Oh no dear! Don’t you worry. Mr. Crowley was just leaving”.

Crowley, you repeated his name within your mind.

Crowley.

Why did that sound familiar to you.

CrOwLeY.

Oh! , you thought, that was the name of that occultist. You had just been reading a book on the occult that Mr. Fell had lent you, that must have been where you spotted the name. A slightly spooky coincidence, but a coincidence nonetheless , you thought.

Your train of thought was halted by the sound of the stranger standing up behind you, beginning to leave the backroom.

“Wait!” you practically yelled “You don’t have to leave on my account, Mr. Crowley! Please, stay”. You hadn’t meant it to sound so desperate, yet the need within your voice was clearly not lost to the man. He smiled at you, and then looked up at Mr. Fell.

You supposed Mr. Fell must have gestured for him to sit back down, because he did, inviting you to sit beside him. You, of course, had missed this gesture as your eyes had not left the tall man, whose hair (you had just realised) was a wonderful red colour.

“Would you care for some tea, my dear” Mr. Fell offered.

“Or perhaps some wine” Crowley offered, raising an eyebrow and pouting his lips slightly. He held the bottle within his hands and shook it slightly, tempting you with it’s contents.

“Oh surely not-” Mr. Fell began, giving Crowley a pointed look but he was interrupted by your exclamation.

“I wouldn’t mind some wine”. And so Crowley poured you a glass and watched as you took your first sip, smiling for the nth time at your little hum of pleasure at the taste.

“I suppose I will put this away then” Mr. Fell mumbled, packing his tea-set up and leaving to place it in another room.

You hummed at your friend’s statement, not completely sure what he had said. If you had, you would have felt quite bad for rejecting your friend's offer of tea, as it was somewhat of a tradition for the two of you to have tea together every afternoon.

But you were once again lost in learning every crevice and curve of your new friends face. You wished you could see his eyes, which were hidden behind a pair of thick, dark sunglasses. You always had your imagination, you supposed. You suspected they were a bright amber in the light of the sun and a deep brown in the light of the moon.

You wondered why he kept the glasses on inside. Was it the fluorescent lighting? Perhaps he had horrible migraines because of the lighting. How inconsiderate of Mr. Fell to not turn off the lights for the sake of this poor, poor man. Though the more you thought about it, you were sure Mr. Fell would be on top of something like that. He was not one to revel in others’ misfortune or discomfort. He was a lovely man.

“So, how do you know Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, resting his elbow on the back of the lounge to face you properly.

“Azira...Oh! Is that his first name? Azira. A-ZIR-AH. Huh. That’s very pretty. Is it hebrew?” you asked but the man ignored your question.

“I suppose you only know him as Mr. Fell then” he said and you nodded your head, taking another large sip of wine.

“Oh yes. He never told me his full name. I’m not sure why. I never really questioned it” you rambled and the man watched you intently, smiling again when you took another large sip of wine. “I met him in this shop” you explained “I came in here and chatted with him. It’s funny, I’m not the chatting type..”.

“No?�� Crowley raised an eyebrow, teasing you slightly.

“No” you smiled back, blushing slightly and embarrassed by your rambling “but Mr. Fell is very easy to talk to. He knows a lot about everything”.

“That he does” the man said “With all these books that he reads, I’d hope so”. Crowley’s gaze left yours momentarily to admire the vast amount of books that surrounded the two of you.

“What was your first name?” you slurred, only then realising how quickly the wine had hit you. You raised the glass to your mouth once again to take another sip, only to find the glass was empty. Crowley chuckled at your actions before placing his hand around your hand that held the glass to steady it, and then filling the glass.

“My names Anthony” he said, placing the bottle of wine back onto the table after refilling his own glass.

“Anthony Crowley” you repeated, swirling the wine in your glass.

“Technically Anthony J. Crowley” he corrected.

“What’s the J stand for?” you asked, pouting slightly.

“Just a J” he replied and you furrowed your brows before humming, shrugging your shoulders at this strange man’s even stranger name.

Crowley observed your features as you gazed around the room, appreciating the store more in your state of intoxication. That wine was far too strong, you thought. Maybe it was moonshine.

You felt his gaze upon you, but being too drunk to be flushed, you continued to act as though you had not noticed, allowing him to stare at you a little longer than what would be considered normal curious gazing one partakes in when they meet someone new. Your lack of reciprocal staring (and your slight intoxication)  meant that you did not realise he was staring at you for more than the reason you assumed. He stared at you like he was trying to put a name to face. He gazed as though he was sure he had seen you somewhere before, but he wasn’t sure where.

He was trying to recognise you, and yet he had just met you.

“I hope you aren’t irritating my poor human friend, Crowley” Aziraphale said as he trotted back into the room, seating himself once again in his chair.

At the fault of the alcohol in your system, you laughed a little too hard at Mr. Fell referring to you as a human friend. The man spoke so oddly, it seemed like he was from a different time. Or an alien. Or an alien from a different time. You continued to chuckle, spilling a bit of wine from your glass onto the ground in the process.

“Oh no!” you pouted, staring sadly at the puddle on the floor of your friend's bookstore.

Aziraphale stared angrily at Crowley, a silent accusation against the demon. Crowley raised his hands in his defence, a gesture meaning to signify that he played no part in your current intoxication, and that it was of your own free will that you had decided to partake in such drinking activity. The angel however did not budge, his gaze practically burning holes into the demon.

“Would you like me to drive her home?” Crowley sighed.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Crowley” Aziraphale stated sternly in a voice you had only heard once (a few weeks ago, when a man had refused to stand down when Aziraphale rejected his monetary offer for a book he was particularly fond of).

~

“Oh I LOVE Queen” you slurred, staring at the collection of tapes within the man’s car. He drove a Bentley - which had you not been so drunk, you may have appreciated more.

“Well I’ve got a lot of it in here, so you’re practically in Heaven I suppose” he said, and then shivered slightly at his use of the word Heaven. This was lost to you of course, as you were intently analysing the back of one of his tape’s cases. “You are quite a light weight” he said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song that played softly from the speakers.

“Always have been” you asserted, staring at him from the passenger's seat of the car. “It’s almost magical how quickly alcohol affects me”.

It is a little known fact that witches have a dominant gene that makes them intolerant to alcohol. This intolerance is often overlooked by witches (especially those who aren’t aware that they are witches) as it manifests itself in a slight flush of the skin, and the extremely quick absorption of alcohol into the bloodstream. Crowley was aware of this genetic fact, of course, after many years of watching witches get hammered during rituals. His application of this to you, however, was absent, as he was too busy admiring your soft hair and skin and the pink tinge on your lips from the wine you had been drinking.

“Mmm” Crowley hummed, smiling at you. His smile was different from the ones he had graced you with within the shop. Those had been more cunning and slightly sly. This smile was genuine. You supposed it would reach his eyes, if you could see them.

You watched him look down towards your chest and you chuckled “Eyes are up here, Mr. Crowley”.

The man was startled, mouth agape at your accusation as he shook his head. “Oh no. No, no, no. I wasn’t-. That wasn’t-.” He huffed, closing his mouth before speaking again “I was looking at your necklace”.

You looked down to the necklace that hung low on your chest, just above your cleavage. It was a gold circle, with engravings all along the edges and one large engraving in the middle. “Oh, this old thing” you said, rolling it between your fingers “it’s from my Great-Grandma”.

“Family heirloom?” Crowley asked and you shook your head.

“I mean sort of. My mum told me, when she gave it to me, that Great-Grandma had been given it by some lady who lived in her neighbourhood when she was a child. The lady said it was to look after her - to ward off evil”.

Crowley stared at the jewelry, observing the writing that had been etched deeply into the gold. “Do you know what the writing is?” Crowley asked. It was old, some ancient language definitely. However the markings were not familiar to the demon at all, and he had been around for the creation of language itself. Goosebumps raised upon the demon’s skin for the first time in a long time.

“No clue” you replied, staring at the jewellery once again. “I’ve been trying to find out actually. I’ve been looking through a lot of the books at Mr. Fell’s shop, but I haven’t had any luck yet”.

Crowley didn’t reply. Instead, he listened to your light humming to the songs that played on his radio and tried to calm the anxiety he felt rising within his mind and body.

It probably isn’t even a language, he thought, it’s probably just scribbles and decoration.

And if it was anything, surely the angel would have said something. He had been friends with the girl for weeks and he would have definitely seen the necklace at some point during that time.

Crowley began to calm at this thought, a smile coming onto his lips as he heard you belting out the intro to bohemian rhapsody, clearly still drunk.

[nellie-elizabeth]

Grey's Anatomy: Snowblind (16x15)

I don't know what to even think at this point?

Cons:

I've gone on record saying that Tom Koracick is better than Owen Hunt in every conceivable way, but especially as regards Teddy Altman. But come on. This whole love triangle/quadrangle/pentangle or whatever is getting seriously out of hand. You've got Teddy and Owen, and then Owen and Amelia, Amelia and Link, Teddy and Tom... it's a freakin' mess, and I wish all of these people would get over their bullshit and just sort out their lives. I know that this kind of thing is par for the course on a show like this, but it just goes to show that there's a right way and a wrong way to write trope-filled stories. I've enjoyed plenty of love triangles and messy situations on this show in the past, but this is one that I cannot abide. Teddy is going to feel guilty as shit, Owen is going to find out Amelia's baby might be his, Link is going to cry about it some more... I'm already so exhausted.

Nico has been deflecting with Levi, not addressing the issue about him not being out to his parents. I've got to say, I really like Levi, but I'm feeling frustrated about Nico. They haven't given him as much time to develop, so when he basically gives Levi an ultimatum, telling Levi to stop trying to change him by forcing him to talk about his feelings... it's really hard to see both sides here. I honestly think that's a writing issue. I like Nico. I want to keep liking him, and I want to learn more about him whether or not he and Levi stay together. I just wish their story was being handled with a bit more care, especially after so many great Levi-centric story-lines in recent weeks.

Are they going to kill off Alex? This isn't a complaint about the episode, just a - what the fuck? My guess is maybe he found out he was terminally ill or something, and wanted to leave so Jo and Meredith wouldn't have to watch him die. I know the actor bailed out, and maybe there was drama there, who knows? But from a story-telling standpoint, Alex's exit has so far been very bizarre, and troubling to say the least. This guy has sixteen seasons' worth of development under his belt. It's completely bonkers that he would run off and abandon his wife. It doesn't track with reality at all.

Pros:

Teddy going over to Tom's and kissing him is really annoying, but I loved their silly snowball fight earlier on. Tom's speech about how he's been trying to get in the club for two years really broke my heart. I think a lot of people have maybe felt that way in their lifetime, at some point. I know I feel it where I work, and I used to feel it doing theatre as a kid - like I was never quite in the center of things. Tom is a good man, and Teddy liking him is so sweet. It's just... clearly I'm supposed to think that Teddy kissing Tom is a bad thing, the kind of thing that is going to backfire on her. And here I am, wishing she'd just kick Owen to the curb!

As frustrating as the Alex situation is, I do like Jo and Link's friendship getting more screen-time. Great acting from them both in that final scene, where Jo talks about how she's pretty sure Alex left her, and Link rushes over to offer comfort. They have such good energy as friends who support each other no matter what. I'm glad to finally see that come through.

Bailey essentially adopts Joey, the foster kid who recently turned eighteen. I am actually all about this. Of course it's partially something she's doing in reaction to her recent miscarriage, but also it's built out of several episodes of buildup and trust. And it's like Bailey says - she has extra room, extra food, extra money, extra love to give. (She probably should have discussed it with Ben first, but I suppose that they do have a tradition in their marriage of making big life decisions without talking it over!)

Richard's story-line offered a couple of big surprises. He bonds with a resident and offers to let her do a surgery, only for Levi to stop them just in time - turns out, the woman is not a resident, but his missing patient who he has been tracking all through the hospital. This woman, Tess, has been sick throughout her whole life, and her repeated diagnoses meant that she couldn't finish med school. She just wanted a chance at following her dream. Richard ends up telling her that she still has that chance - she has more obstacles than most people, but she can still make it. And then Richard confesses that his hands have been shaking, and that his days of surgery are over.

This is a lot to process. I really liked Tess' story, and hope she does find a way to make it as a doctor. It's absolutely insane that she was about to cut someone open, but it worked within the confines of the story. And then there's Richard. He has been through hell recently, what with his marriage falling apart, getting fired, etc... and now this. He has a great speech about how his career defined his life more so than any of his relationships, and how he's not sure who he is without it. But he also knows that he got to do what he loved for a long time, and that he's still got a lot of life left to live. Richard is such a natural teacher and nurturer; it seems clear that he still has a future working in the medical field in that capacity, even if his time in the operating room has come to an end.

Then there's the DeLuca situation. He is rightfully and naturally quite upset with Meredith for saying he might be sick like his father, and even points out that he doesn't throw alzheimer's in her face every time she forgets something. And yet, as much as I want to be on Andrew's side here, there's the fact that he went out in a blizzard and walked several miles to fetch a liver for a patient, since the roads outside are all blocked off. He walks three miles both ways without gloves, saving a little girl's life but also doing damage to his hands. Jackson is adamant that Andrew needs to follow instructions or he could lose his hands, so this is clearly serious business. I'm worried for him, and I can totally understand why Meredith and Carina would be concerned.

Cormac and Meredith continue to bond over their dead spouses - I could definitely see this going in a romance direction, and it seems like that's where it's headed, but at the same time, they are also just good for each other because of their shared life experience. Cormac confesses to being lonely - he hasn't been with anyone since his wife's death. Meredith talks about the complexities of that first kiss, first "I love you" after her husband's death. I don't know if Meredith and Andrew are done for good, but Meredith's behavior here felt kind of... wistful, like maybe she can be grateful for what they had and know that it's not meant to last. I don't know if that's where we're headed, but I'm totally pulled in to the story. (Thus proving that a well-developed love triangle is possible!)

Also - the mentions of Cristina were delightful as always. She feels a lot closer to the core of the story this season than she has in a good while. And we even got a Twisted Sister reference!

There are probably details I've missed here - like Maggie confirming Teddy's suspicions, showing once again that she can never be trusted. Or Jackson making up from a fight with Vic that probably happened over on Station 19. I liked this episode, for the most part - I liked that for once, the big "disaster" of a snow storm didn't actually cause most of the drama of the episode. It was more contained, more character driven.

And next week, we get to find out whatever sort of ending they've cobbled together for Alex. I am... dreading it, y'all.

7.5/10

[sisterofiris]

In your opinion, what should be the main lesson from love-tragedy between Artemis and Orion? I am mostly asking because the character of Orion is very vague. I also wanted to find out what was the special interest or appeal of Orion, due to him being the only person, that I at least know of, to have been a romantic interest to Artemis. Thank you again for your time.

Brace yourself, because I have Feelings about this and they’re about to get intense.

Let’s start with what ancient texts tell us. The first thing to be aware of is that the myth of Artemis loving Orion is only attested in a single text, Pseudo-Hyginus’ De Astronomica (likely dating from the first couple of centuries of our era). Pseudo-Hyginus is himself quoting Istros, a poet whose work is unfortunately lost. It’s impossible to know exactly why Istros told the myth in this way, nor what traditions he himself was drawing from. The most we can say is that, in the context of Pseudo-Hyginus’ work, the myth serves as an explanation for the Orion constellation. More generally, all myths about Orion’s death seem to serve the same purpose - to explain how he came to be in the sky. The circumstances surrounding his death are mostly just details.

But that doesn’t stop us from delving a bit into them, especially the question of Artemis and Orion’s love. To answer your question as to what Orion’s appeal was, it seems clear that it was his skill as a hunter. (I might even argue that this is the origin of his character, since the constellation Orion looks like a man holding a weapon. The early Greeks must have wondered who he was, and all the stories would have developed from there.) In some texts, Orion is only depicted as a hunting companion of Artemis; in others, he is her lover, and that is where it gets interesting. One explanation for this might be that some Ancient Greeks didn’t like the idea of a virgin Goddess who never loved a man - so they gave her a dead lover, a hunter like her, if only to show that she had loved once. If so, then the meaning would be akin to a retelling I once wrote of this story:

Apollon, who wanted to preserve what he thought to be his sister’s honour, reached his goal: Artemis would never let herself be seduced again. But the night sky bears witness to a different moral. The forest and mountains may well seem harsh, still they hide thousands of beating hearts; like them, Artemis may well be wild, still she can love.

Since writing this, however, I’ve come to view the myth in a slightly different light. Artemis, in essence, is Lady of the Wild and Deserted Places, that is, a Goddess who cannot be “tamed” by love (note that in Ancient Greece, marriage was viewed as a civilising force for women) - and it would be a shame to discount such an important aspect to her for the sake of a tragic romance. Instead, I choose to view her affection for Orion as an expression of a different kind of love.

It’s all too easy to forget that, just like there are many Gods, there are many ways to exist. No, Artemis’ wilderness will never be host to civilised cities; but that doesn’t mean her forests and mountaintops are devoid of life. Quite the opposite - each has its ecosystem, holding itself together in its own way. This makes Artemis not Lady of the Deserted Places, with no life or love whatsoever, but Lady of Places that don’t fit our understanding of “civilised”. Following on this, she is not incapable of love - she just loves in a way that us civilised mortals, in our built cities, don’t understand.

In short, we call Artemis’ feelings for Orion romantic (and admittedly, Pseudo-Hyginus does say she almost married him, although the word he uses for her affection, dilectus, doesn’t necessarily denote romance) - but they don’t have to be. I choose to view the story, instead, as a reminder that love doesn’t have to manifest in a “traditional” way. Despite what Apollon may have thought, Artemis does not betray her nature by loving; she just happens to love by her own definition, whatever that may be.

I have to say that this reading is very much influenced by the fact I identify as asexual, and the stereotype that people like me “don’t experience love” because we don’t fit society’s idea of it - or that our experience isn’t real and it will be “fixed” by someone someday. I find comfort in Artemis’ relationship with Orion by interpreting it as non-romantic but still deeply loving. However, this is entirely my personal interpretation, with little in the actual text to support it, and if it doesn’t suit you, you’re free to disagree. All in all, it seems there are many different ways to understand Artemis’ relationship with Orion; it all comes down to which you resonate with most.

[kaylahill94]

21 Ways To Save Your Marriage Stupefying Tips

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[trinuviel]

ALL IS SUBTEXT - A Case for Jon and Sansa (part 5)

This is the fifth installment in my analysis of the romantic subtext in the scenes between Jon and Sansa in seasons 6 and 7 of Game of Thrones (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4). I’ve examined the different techniques that the show employs to create this subtext through primarily visual means. This post is is a direct continuation of part 3 and part 4 where I began examining the romantic tropes that inform the scenes between their. Once again I’ve had to break up my analysis because there are so many tropes in play and I am trying to be meticulous in my analysis. So here is yet another very long post.

KNOW YOUR TROPES

The ambiguous romantic subtext in the scenes between Jon and Sansa exists almost entirely on the level of the visual - and that means that we have to pay close attention to non-verbal cues, costume design, image composition and editing. 

I have previously mentioned that tropes are excellent tools when it comes to creating subtext because they function as a narrative shorthand. They rely on audience familiarity and genre conventions, which mean that there’s no need to spell things out - and subtext exists at the level of the unspoken.

So without further ado, let’s have a look as some more JonSa scenes where romantic tropes are in play.

Gentle readers, gird your loins - this post is hella long.

Declaration of Protection. This trope occurs when the hero’s motivation is built around protecting another person. This is usually the love interest but it can also pertain to other kinds of relationships (as well as larger entities such as a home or the realm as per Jon’s season 7 arc).

Both seasons 6 and 7 make it clear that Sansa is the hidden reason for many of Jon’s actions. She’s the one that gives him the will to live and fight again. She shakes him out of his depression and disillusionment after he’s been resurrected - and he is determined to protect her at any cost. The night before the Battle of the Bastards, Jon issues a solemn declaration of protection when Sansa states that she’ll never let Ramsay take her alive, hinting that she’ll kill herself if Jon loses the battle.

(GIFs by https://giffferrplanet.wordpress.com/2016/06/23/game-of-thrones-the-night-before-the-battle/)

Sansa’s reaction is heartbreaking. No one has be able to protect her since her father died and her scepticism in the face of Jon’s promise is understandable yet so very sad. However, the thing to notice here is Jon’s sad puppy-dog face when Sansa leaves - now it isn’t just Winterfell that hangs in the balance, Sansa’s very life rests on his shoulders as well.

Battle Couple. This trope pertains to a couple who are partners in combat:

This is the kind of couple where bullets figure prominently in the story of their romance. Where “war buddy” and “significant other” are synonyms. If you harm either one of them, the survivor will kill you as surely as the sun rises. (TVTropes)

Jon and Sansa may not fight side-by-side in the physical sense but Sansa’s presence at the parley with Ramsay (as well as her involvement with raising troops, etc) puts them into the territory of Battle Couple. Furthermore, the visuals repeatedly puts them side-by-side to emphasize them as a team.

The parley with Ramsay offers a number of shots that presents Jon and Sansa as a united front. 

In short, they look “beautiful and majestic” together  (as the script explicitly states).

Ruling Couple. This trope is generally used in relation to a monarchial setting:

A ruling couple, on the other hand, are equal or near equal partners, and may even be Happily Married. Rather then one ruling and one staying in the palace they jointly rule. The rulers will rely on each other as trusted counselors and they will be The Good King and The High Queen in one. Perhaps they will show this by receiving audiences on two thrones. Perhaps the consort will have a regular seat in the royal council and a vote. Perhaps even the two of them will discuss deep and labyrinthine affairs of state during matrimonial activities.

On many occasions, they will also be a Battle Couple. (TVTropes)

Jon and Sansa may not be a Ruling Couple in the traditional sense (not yet anyway). However, the visuals repeatedly show them sitting side-by-side, looking regal, when they interact with their bannermen.

The shot below is an especially strong visual because it offers a simple yet effective image composition. Jon and Sansa are placed firmly in the centre of the shot, framed by the large hearth that forms a pale background against which and they stand out visually. They are further framed by the black silhouette of the bannermen. This, along with the slow zoom in, serve to highlight them visually in a way that ruling couples often are presented. Once again, Jon and Sansa look beautiful and majestic together.

This shot is not only visually striking but it may very well be narratively significant as a piece of subtle foreshadowing. The kingmaking scene follows the most narratively important reveal in the entire show: the revelation of Jon’s true parentage as the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Immediately after this revelation, Jon is chosen as King in the North based on his status as Ned Stark’s bastard son and he’s thus elected under false pretenses even though he is unaware of his true parentage.

Placing the parentage reveal before the kingmaking is an interesting (and very deliberate) editing choice because it introduces the possibility that Jon’s parentage may become a problem for his kingship in the future. Jon’s true parentage relates to several popular tropes: Really Royalty Reveal, Hidden Back-up Prince, Secret Legacy - or as I like to call it: the Hidden Prince. When a narrative employs this trope, the truth will ALWAYS come out and it is always be of extreme narrative importance. While Jon relinquished his kingship in season 7, his status as a leader in the North may very well be further imperilled when the truth comes out. There’s been written several metas on how a marriage between Jon and Sansa would effectively unite the competing claims to North and unite House Stark firmly under Jon’s leadership, so I won’t go further into this argument here. 

Rather, I’d just point out that by placing the parentage reveal right before a scene that invokes a visual iconography of a ruling couple in such a strong image composition, the show simultaneously teases the likelihood of a  future conflict as well as its possible solution - in one single image!

When Jon is declared King in the North, despite Sansa having the heriditary claim to Winterfell, he turns to Sansa to gauge her reaction. he wants her to approval before he accepts the kingship - and she smilingly approves without uttering a single word. Yet another instance of them being in accord.

It is a move that is similar to this interaction between King Leonidas of Sparta and his queen Gorgo in 300 (2007) - spouses in accord, there’s no need for words.

Whilst Sansa isn’t Jon’s formal co-ruler, the show continues to seat her next to Jon when he exerts his authority as king. This is especially important since Winterfell’s Great Hall lacks the visual stage-setting of power that characterizes the Red Keep and Dragonstone. Jon’s “throne” is just a regular chair and he is placed on the same level as his subjects - yet he maintains a certain distance by standing behind a separate table at the end of the room, right in front of the visual centre provided by the hearth. The table acts as a physical and visual barrier between him and his bannermen so even though he’s not physically elevated above his vassals, he does inhabit a space that is sectioned off from them (though he quickly moves beyond it). Sansa inhabits this same space, right by his side!

However, Davos also sits next to Jon, at the same side of the table. Here it is important to pay attention to the image composition! As you can see, Davos is seated a bit farther from Jon than Sansa - and this slight separation is visually emphasized by the hearth where the light reflected on the lower mantel creates a visual barrier between Jon and Davos. No such barrier exist between Jon and Sansa - and the slightly skewed perspective also makes them look closer to each other. In short, though three persons are seated side by side, Jon and Sansa are grouped together in a visually distinct manner that evokes the iconography of a Ruling Couple.

Even their costumes support this trope! @jonsalways has penned an amazing costume meta that about Jon and Sansa’s costumes in seasons 6 and 7. She notes that the colours and the overall silhouettes of their costumes match each other, which not only makes them look good together but also serve to underscore them as a team. I’m going to quote her here because she cuts to the heart of the matter in such a succinct manner:

When you look at the items they wear (it) is also wonderful. They both have a cloak, a cape, a dress/shirt, a “metal necklace”, a collar over the necklace and a belt. Every single detail in Jon’s costume has a equivalent on Sansa’s. It’s almost as they wear the female and male version of the same outfit. 

When they are side by side, they look beautiful because their costumes match in pieces and their silhouette look just right. It’s comfortable to look at them because they look so similar. It’s almost like you don’t see two characters wearing two different concepts. You see them together as one whole concept. If they could switch their cloaks/capes, the colors would work just fine. And they are the only Starks whose costumes do that. Michele Clapton does it for a reason.

The elements mentioned in the quotes work on the level of the visual sub-conscious, i.e. we simply notice that they look aesthetically pleasing together but it is seldom something that the general audience give much thought to.

However, there are obvious symbolic elements to their costumes that we are most definitely are meant to notice; elements that also work as statements about their characters and their narrative journeys. In the case of Jon and Sansa, the symbolic element is the Stark direwolf, the heraldic sigil of their House - and this element tells the story of two characters travelling towards the same destination in season 6 and on parallel lines in season 7.

In season 6, we see Sansa visually reclaim her identity as a Stark through an act of (literal) self-fashioning: she makes a beautiful dress where the bodice acts as the canvas for the presentation of the Stark direwolf, made with materials that probably are supposed to evoke the natural landscape of the North - such a irregularly cut squares of mother-of-pearl (that made me remember the wonderful mussel shell necklace that Karsi wore in season 5).

Sansa’s homemade dress is a profound act of self-reclamation. She emblazons her chest with the ancestral symbol of her family - almost as an answer to the way the Lannisters put their heraldic stamp on her neck in season 3:

Throughout the season she’s repeatedly insulted as being no Stark - Lord Glover tells her House Stark is dead and Lady Mormont snidely calls her both a Lannister and a Bolton. Sansa answers that she will always be a Stark - and it is written on her body for all to see.

Jon is also wearing a single direwolf on his costume to match Sansa. However, his symbol is much more discrete in form and placement - probably both for reasons practical and symbolic. Sansa is the trueborn Stark after all. Jon’s cloak is a gift from Sansa, she made it herself - and the show actually takes the time to show us this:

We don’t see Sansa make the dress that is so important to her identity - but we get to witness her make a garment for Jon that is invested with a profound emotional, symbolic and political value. When Sansa gifts Jon with a cloak stamped with the Stark direwolf she wordlessly acknowledges and claims him as a Stark for all the world to see - the very thing that always has been Jon’s greatest wish! It is really very beautiful - she’s the one that makes a matching pair out of them (since she probably also made her own Stark fur). 

Politically, Jon’s new cloak is also significant - not just because of the Stark sigil but also because it is just like the one Eddard Stark wore! The patriarch whom the North once were sworn to, for whom they went to war! It is a politically savy move because Sansa Stark understands that clothing isn’t just about covering your body, it is also a language.

(the two edits below are by @baelerion)

Season 7 builds on this symbolic aspect of Jon and Sansa’s costumes. Now they both wear a pair of direwolves facing each other. Notice how they wear the Stark sigil on the same part of their bodies in both seasons - on the chest and then at the neck! Once again they match. 

The double direwolves are interesting because, unlike season 6, their stories have moved beyond becoming Starks (again). Now their narrative journey is about their partnership and that is signalled by the double direwolves. They have to learn to act in tandem. While they have their differences and instances of miscommunication, season 7 is about them acting as a ruling team, as King in the North and Lady of Winterfell - two titles that originally belonged to just one person. Once again they are being posited as two halves of a whole - the ruling pair of the North, which is formalized when Jon names Sansa his regent before he travels south.

Interestingly enough, Jon and Sansa’s double direwolves have their echoes in two earlier costumes. When Bran acted as Robb’s regent in season 2, he wore a gorget just like Jon’s - and when Robb attended the Red Wedding as KitN he wore a pair of direwolf clasps just like Sansa’s! Now the costumes are reversed, the gorget for the KitN and the clasps for his regent. An interesting detail that very likely is significant, considering Michele Clapton’s symbolic and narrative approach to the costumes of GoT.

Even down to the smallest detail, the costume design presents Jon and Sansa  to the audience looking like a ruling couple; a couple that are on parallel narrative journeys. It is also worth noting that it is only Jon and Sansa who wear the Stark sigil in season 7! Neither Arya nor Bran appear to wear the Stark direwolf even after they’ve returned home to Winterfell. Perhaps that is because it is Jon and Sansa who are the leaders of House Stark and the North.

I’m going to return to the issue of image composition in relation to the Ruling Couple trope. When season 6 aired, HBO released this wonderful and very memorable photo. (I’ve reversed it for visual variety)

This beautiful image doesn’t actually match what we see on out TV screens! This is a still photograph, taken by a separate photographer (a unit still photographer). Not only do we not see this exact pose in the episode in question but it is also clear that this image has been through a graphics editor since the bluish tint from the episode has been removed in favour of a stronger visual contrast with the background so Jon and Sansa’s figures capture the eye immediately.

Still photographs like this are created specifically for publicity and marketing. This image became very popular with the media outlets that cover the show - not surprisingly since it is one of the most visually arresting images among the promotional material released to the press. This image became a very popular header picture in several reviews, think pieces and post-season articles, such as this one in TIME where a possible Jonsa marriage is discussed.

I hesitate to name this photo “iconic” because I think it is too early to use that designation. It is, however, an extremely striking image with the clear-cut profiles, the matching costumes and the sharp silhouettes against the light background - there’s no visual “clutter” to distract the eye from the regal couple. Jon and Sansa really stand out against the background and everything from the direction of their gazes to their matching colours and silhouettes tie them together visually as a couple. They look like a king and queen in this image and since it was a popular choice with the media outlets, it is an image that has repeatedly been presented to the people who follow the coverage of the show online. That kind of image repetition can also work to plant the idea of Jon and Sansa as a couple on the subconscious level.

This image is pretty much the incarnation of the line from the script about Jon and Sansa looking “beautiful and majestic”.  They look like a King and Queen, there’s no need for crowns here.

No other couple has looked as regal as these two in the entire show! 

In contrast, one of the most popular stills of Jon and Dany from season 7 is markedly different. @jonsalways has noted how Jon and Dany’s costumes never truly match, neither in colour nor in silhouette. That also is very apparent in this image. What is even more interesting is the fact that this composition doesn’t convey harmony and togetherness like the regal image above, which makes sense since Jon and Dany isn’t one the same page in this season. Not only do they have conflicting interests and goals, the one is also intent on subjugating the other. In short, they don’t look like a romantic couple.

In terms of body language Jon and Dany are completely out of sync and there’s a distinct lack of communication between them. Whilst Dany is gazing at Jon, her body turned towards him, Jon’s attention is elsewhere. He faces away from her and doesn’t even seem to acknowledge her presence. When compared with the JonSa image above, the background almost feels visually “cluttered”, which also means that it is much less attention-grabbing than the first image. When it comes to drawing visual attention to something, less is generally more.

As said, the regal image of Jon and Sansa doesn’t appear in the show itself. The closest the show matches the promotional image is this double profile shot:

This shot is of particular interest in relation to the Ruling Couple trope because the image composition adhere to a common iconographic schema for portraits of royal couples.

Fx in this coin minted for the 70th wedding anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip.

Or this design for a stamp featuring Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary of Denmark. These are but a few example from a vast number of offical royal portraits.

Throughout seasons 6 and 7, the show presents the audience with a large number of visuals that depict Jon and Sansa in a manner that is associated with ruling couples.

Interestingly enough, the Stark-centric cover of Entertainment Weekly in 2017 positively screams Northern Royal Family! This is of course a group portrait of a group of siblings (even though Jon is actually their cousin). However, not only is Sansa placed next to Jon (instead of fx between Bran and Arya), the combination of a standing male and a seated female evokes a time-honoured compositional template for official royal portraits. I’ve included a couple of examples for comparison.

Crown Princess Victoria and Prince Daniel of Sweden.

King Frederik IX and Queen Ingrid of Denmark.

Then there’s this lovely portrait of Crown Prince Frederik and Crown Princess Mary of Denmark.

This is a slightly different variation on the pose but it is also a popular one in royal portraiture. Notice how we also have a very similar image of Jon and Sansa in the last episode of season 6?

It is unclear whether the cinematographer consciously chose to model these shots of Jon and Sansa on popular visual conventions for royal portraiture. It is entirely possible that these similarities are coincidental to a certain degree. By that I mean that when we see a lot of pictures, certain types of composition becomes so familiar to us that we don’t register them consciously. However, I do think that the similarities between the image composition in the shots where Jon and Sansa are placed side-by-side are the result of some conscious choices, especially since directors and cinematographers often turn to art for inspiration (like Dan Sackheim took inspiration from Caravaggio’s art for Jon’s resurrection scene). 

To be continued...

(GIFs and edits not mine)

[myrskytuuli]

Holy hell, okay, this is not a drill. Goldie O’Gilt is making an appearance in a comic, and it’s not a cameo.

So, my drug dealer got me hooked with some 2017 Topolino, and I need to scream about it, because Goldie!

That’s right, she is back, and looks absolutely stunning.

So, this is an Italian comic, and therefore it can be expected that the tragic romance™, that is more popular in the post-Rosa duck comic tradition, has been toned down a lot. Now full disclosure, I’m shipper trash and am fully committed to the tragic romance™. I wrote a 50 000+ words fanfic about it. I am also known sufferer of Brigitta MacBridge nonsense, so while this rant might be biased, I try to be biased in a gentle way. It’s not your fault Brigitta, that you have been written that way. Or that Scrooge and Goldie are soulmates. Ahem.

But to the comic itself. There are lots of things I love about it, and then there are some things that make me side-eye it in vaguely disapproving manner. I swear, not all of those reasons are shipping reasons. Okay yeah they pretty much are.

(Quick, follow me to the kitchen, you can throw a coffeepot on my face, and we can roleplay our night together in White Agony Creek anew!)

The premise of the story is pretty much, what if Goldie and Brigitta properly met? It’s…not a lot. There is no plot beyond: what if Goldie and Brigitta had a girls’ day out. Which I guess is fine, because that is all it is supposed to be. It is a slice of life character study. Usually I’m all about those, but…well Goldie doesn’t really shine when you don’t give her anything to do. In Rosa/Barks stories (which are the only stories where we see Goldie as a character) the focus has never been solely on anyone’s feelings. They have been very action-packed stories with any hinted romance taking a firm backseat.  

What I’m trying to say is, that I’m disappointed that Goldie didn’t get to join in any of those silly Italian adventures. Not even little bit of shenanigans. Aww, and it could have been so fun too.  

(You mean you didn’t come all this way just to ravish me against this discount-yard-sale table?)

Goldie is in Duckburg to collect a debt that Scrooge owes him. Solid beginning. Unfortunately, we never see her collecting this debt! The money issue is dropped from the story way too quickly for my tastes. Because while I 100% believe that Scrooge would avoid having to pay up any dubious debts, I do not believe that Goldie would give up that quickly.

And even more importantly, it would have been hilarious to see some actual petty shenanigans going on between these two. Note that it is mentioned that the original debt was 20$, which Goldie is trying to claim back with stupidly high compound interest. There is a story right there, nothing else needed. Just show me the ridiculous lengths these two are willing to go for 20$, while the rest of Duckburg watches in horror and bafflement. Also, hint that the real reason why these two keep the conflict going is that this way they can spend time together without actually talking about their feelings. Boom, story done. God, they should hire me to make scripts for these comics.

No?

Okay fine, let’s see what the actual story is all about.  

Oh yes. Brigitta. This story was all about Brigitta.

For no good reason whatsoever, Brigitta loses all of her cools over the situation.

1.Don’t call him your Scrooge. You don’t own him.

2.Don’t call Goldie a dusty memory, that’s rude.

3.Goldie had the receipts, she has a genuine claim for that 20$, she’s not doing anything wrong for you to start insulting her!

Yes, yes, she is jealous and all that jazz, but honestly. It’s pretty hypocritical of her to “protect” Scrooge and his 20$ when Brigitta herself so frequently is an antagonist against Scrooge.

The following temper tantrum from Goldie delights me to no end, not because it is aimed towards Brigitta, but because it lines up so perfectly with all of my headcanons for Goldie. Sure, she might act cool and dignified these days, but deep down she is still the hair-trigger tempered diva, that would stay inside a burning building just for the aesthetic.

This has nothing to do with Scrooge, and everything to do with the fact that you called her old. This primadonna will now destroy you mentally, because that’s how she rolls. You will not disrespect the original material girl without consequences.  

(I am the only person who has ever conquered Scrooge. Wow okay there Goldie, maybe tone it down a bit. I mean, yeah girl you are…but maybe don’t overshare too much.)

Was that kind of a bitchy move? Yes. She is kind of a bitchy person.

My next grumble about this story, is the weird way it deals with Scrooge. I cannot say anything specific…but there is just a really weird vibe to how he is written in here. The weird inner monologue on how he might be able to use the two women against each other to get rid of both of them…was…um.  

While my first impression on Goldie’s, I am Scrooge’s number one love interest, speech seemed to be a bit beneath her, I then realised that she isn’t actually saying anything about her own regard for Scrooge. She is bragging about how Scrooge used to be bewitched by her, because that is the kind of thing that a dancehall girl would brag about. Pffft, yes it was Scrooge who was losing his mind over me back in Klondike, I was cool as a cucumber the whole time. Scrooge was nothing more than another notch on my bedpost. I have a heart made of ice, haven’t you heard.

Anyways, Scrooge decides to get rid of Brigitta by confirming everything Goldie just said. And I know that the story wants us to take Scrooge’s words with a grain of salt, because they are just a plan to get Brigitta to leave him alone….which does nothing to make me sympathise with Brigitta.

Putting my shipper heart on the side, pretending to be in love with someone else, to get rid of an admirer, does not create tension for ambiguous love triangle. It is what girls do in crowded bars when some drunk guy doesn’t leave them alone.

(Sorry Brigitta, but can you please leave. I was hoping to get conquered tonight, if you know what I mean.) 

(They look like mom and dad getting yelled at by their daughter.)

Once again! What exactly are you mad about!? Which part of, I’m in love with someone else, gives you reason to get angry at them???? Remember that Brigitta at least is supposed to believe Scrooge to be fully sincere in his statement.  

Back to Scrooge being a little shit. In a way, I want to be mad about this, but I’m not going to. Because lets not mystify Goldie too much, and pretty much all the rest of Scrooge’s family and loved ones have at least once been sent through that trap door.

No, let me grumble a little bit after all. I would heartily endorse this, if this was actually about the 20$. But it’s not. The whole thing is framed so that Goldie can have the great epiphany, this is how Brigitta must always feel!

Oh please.

Also, I think that we are supposed to be angry at Scrooge for being so callous towards both of the ladies, so that we can root for them becoming friends later. Which, yeah fine, but do we really have to. One of the things I most despise in Brigitta centred stories is that they by default make Scrooge into a dick. They have to. The whole story has to be built on the idea that Scrooge is just afraid of girl cooties, and therefore has to be pushed a little, so that he will eventually play nice, even with a girl. It is the only way to make Brigitta’s advances feel somehow justified. And in this case the characterisation bleeds to include Goldie under the umbrella of women that I don’t want anywhere near me, because women cost money or whatever.

So, it mostly feels like Goldie has to be booted out of the office, so she doesn’t trick Scrooge into marriage or some other sneaky thing that women are always doing. Sighs eternally. 

(Oh my god, she is a serial killer. No one else has this many pictures of one person on their walls.)

But this story isn’t even about Scrooge. It is about female friendship. Which is a beautiful thing, and really this story does manage to do lot of things right.

(Hey, can I crash on your couch? Turns out that Scrooge didn’t like it how I called him my conquest in front of you and the staff. He’s always been a bit of a prude like that.)

I’m not really fan of the whole, we have lots in common thing, because they…don’t. And the whole, I now understand your perspective, because now I have been rejected too… doesn’t really work, because Goldie wasn’t proposing anything in the first place. Remember how she was here for that 20$! I do! Can we get back to that! Goldie wasn’t asking Scrooge out, wasn’t asking him to marry her, she was asking for money, and getting the cold shoulder for that should not come as some kind of an epiphany!

Nevermind. That’s cute as heck, I don’t even care how we got there.

Goldie would make a good mentor for Brigitta. As would Scrooge. The world would be a better place if Brigitta was treated like an over-enthusiastic businesswoman who wants to learn all of Scrooge’s tricks, and Scrooge was treated like grumpy, slightly unwilling teacher.

(So, what was Scrooge like when he was young? Oh, you know, very conquerable.)

Why is her hair silver, what is this travesty, colouring person you had one job!

Goldie tells Brigitta the story of sleeping pills, thievery, forced labour, kidnappings, and other general criminal activities that make up their tragic romance™.

(Oh, so when you slip him a pill on a first date, it makes you morally complex, but if I did that it would be just creepy and weird!)

(Context Brigitta, it’s all about the context!)

If I was Brigitta, I would feel a bit wary drinking anything with her, after the story she just told.

And then I almost got my hopes up, that something amazing was going to happen! Brigitta started to self-reflect upon herself, and doubting the way her life is now constructed. She admitted that she doesn’t have a positive relationship with Scrooge, and that maybe she is wasting her life. For a moment there, I thought that Brigitta was going to develop as a character.

There was a moment. A glorious moment, when I really thought that this was where the official policy concerning Brigitta was going to be changed, and she would stop trying to marry Scrooge. I did get my hopes up.

Aaaaaand, then this happened. 

I guess it was inevitable, that Brigitta would get a cheerleading speech from Goldie, to bring back the status quo, but damn does it still feel weird. While I completely, 100% support Goldie’s you are a good and smart woman, if Scrooge doesn’t want that it’s his loss, that is where it should have ended.

Because the part about: because your feelings are painful it means that your love is real, and you shouldn’t give up on them, is complete nonsense. If a relationship is hurting you, it is not worth pursuing!!! Goldie implying that Brigitta’s hurt feelings are the reason she shouldn’t give up on Scrooge, I asdfghjkl, what the fuck!!!!

Secondly, that’s all well and dandy that Goldie now thinks that Brigitta’s love is real, but how exactly does that change anything?! You don’t think that maybe it should be Scrooge who gets to decide who is allowed to make romantic advances towards him!

Scrooge is not an object whose ownership you get to negotiate amongst yourselves!!

more, or less direct translation: you have continued to beat on to conquer who you love.

That is not a good thing!!

Yeah whatever. Goldie is his past, maybe Brigitta can be his future. Great. And I guess these two making a friendship with each other and admitting that both have the equal right to present themselves as options of romance for Scrooge is kind of mature and respectful towards everyone, if Brigitta wasn’t…you know Brigitta. She has not been known to respect Scrooge’s boundaries.

Goldie makes some great faces in here, and I will fully enjoy them. Even if I at the same time roll my eyes at the mandatory, lets punish Scrooge part of any Brigitta comic. You do know that while maybe him booting you, Goldie, out of the office could be seen as mean, he did absolutely nothing disrespectful towards Brigitta. Scrooge owes her zero apologies, because he never even said a mean word towards her! Brigitta had her whole sulk, because she thought that you two were hooking up. That’s not a crime.

In this continuity, I can understand that Scrooge would prefer to be married to his money. Because these women are written kind of unreasonable.

The inevitable self-reflection. Scrooge admits that both women are important parts of his life, and that he does care for both of their well-being. Cute, believable, satisfying. Well done everyone. I still firmly believe that Scrooge sees Brigitta more as a younger sibling than potential lover. But that’s just a headcanon, so feel free to come to your own conclusions. 

(That is a duck who feels uncomfortable.)

The ladies return to the money bin just in time to eavesdrop on Scrooge’s monologue, and find out that he cared for them both after all. And honestly, I think these pictures tell everything that needs to be said about how much Scrooge cares about Brigitta’s advances.  

God, she looks cute, I forgive this story for everything, Goldie is too adorable.

Well, I guess that this was the first time that Goldie has made a proper appearance in the Italian duck universe, and all in all, not bad. Maybe I will get an entirely new look on the story, if it gets properly translated, and I don’t have to play the I’m pretty sure I know what this means, game.

Congrats if you made it all the way here, these ramblings were long.

Ankkaneito returns back to the hole, where she came from.

[ethenell]

Best Films of 2017, Part I

10. Get Out (dir. Jordan Peele)

“... Now sink into the floor.”

Making the jump from sketch comedy to the big screen is a transition fraught with creative peril. The list of those who have tried and failed to navigate its intricacies is a list filled with a lot of talented people, and we can rest assured that not a one of them decided to cut their directorial teeth on a project as impossibly ambitious as a pseudo-satirical horror film that takes on racism in American society. But where so many others have failed, Jordan Peele has succeeded brilliantly, kicking off his directorial career with the latest in a growing string of Sundance-premiered, subtext-heavy horror masterpieces.

Blatantly confrontational in all the best ways, that Get Out emerged from the major studio ecosystem is a minor miracle in some senses, but really is a testament to the strength of Peele’s razor-sharp (and now, Oscar-winning) original script. Taking aim at the casual, insidious racism of liberal white America, Peele meticulously picks apart the ways that African American work and creativity is systemically marginalized, colonized, and exploited. The film’s pointed symbolism and fearless direction make it a frequently discomfiting watch, but Get Out is all the more essential for it. Jordan Peele is not here to comfort his white audience, he’s here to wake us the fuck up.

Despite it’s satirical underpinnings, Get Out is a horror film, through-and-through, and its brilliance lies in large part with its keen ability to indulge its more outlandish horror inclinations right up to the tipping point from horror to satire. Peele flirts with that line brilliantly, getting every last bit of mileage out of each genre conceit that he either exploits or subverts, before snapping us back into perspective with one simple reminder: if you think this is a joke, you’re missing the point ...

*Cough* Golden Globes ... *Cough* *Cough*

9. War for the Planet of the Apes (dir. Matt Reeves)

“Apes together strong.”

Looking back on the original Charlton Heston epic, it’s not exactly plain to see where Matt Reeves drew inspiration for his utterly brilliant Planet of the Apes reboot trilogy. Despite its esteemed status in the sci-fi pantheon, the original views now as little more than a campy 70s genre flick with an interesting premise and a great final twist. But from those bones (and conveniently ignoring an ill-advised early 2000’s remake) Reeves has crafted a franchise masterpiece. An unprecedented hybrid of muscular action filmmaking and art-house drama, and deftly borrowing elements of silent film, it’s difficult to overstate just how impressive the entire Planet of the Apes trilogy is. However, it’s final installment, War for the Planet of the Apes, stands as it’s greatest entry – a sweeping epic built with an uncanny feel for grandiose spectacle and an unmatched command of the jaw-dropping technical wizardry that makes its central performance possible.

Andy Serkis’ groundbreaking motion capture performance as Caesar, leader of the titular apes, is the film’s true foundation. You could make a convincing argument that Andy Serkis’ Caesar is the greatest hero of 21st century genre filmmaking, but it’s status as a monumental achievement in the marriage of acting craft and filmmaking technology is frankly unquestionable. That Serkis’ performance has been all but forgotten by major awards bodies throughout this remarkable three-film run will not be remembered kindly in the annals of film history – this performance is the stuff film history is made of. Reeves stages one brilliant, sprawling action set-piece after another, and the uncanny physicality of Serkis’ performance injects them with the dose of emotional resonance that elevates it well above traditional summer blockbuster fare. Honestly, filmmaking of this scale has rarely been better.

8. The Shape of Water (dir. Guillermo del Toro)

“When he looks at me, he does not know what I lack, or how I am incomplete … He sees me for what I am, as I am.”

The Shape of Water is everything you could want from a Guillermo del Toro film – fantastical, brutal, and ultimately hopeful; a beautiful modernist fairy tale with a definite moral compass. Del Toro himself has described The Shape of Water as his favorite film that he has ever made, and it’s easy to see why he’s so infatuated. A meditation on the lives of outsiders and the ways that love pushes across boundaries of convention, del Toro’s sincere affection for the characters onscreen is clear throughout, with each new wave of its strangely rapturous romance lending new evidence to the greatness that del Toro has so lovingly crafted.

A testament to his sterling reputation, del Toro assembled one of the year’s best casts to bring his sweeping vision to life. Octavia Spencer, Richard Jenkins, and Michael Shannon are all impressive in their supporting turns, but make no mistake, this film belongs to Sally Hawkins. She turns in career-best work as a mute janitor at a secure government facility who forms a deep connection with an amphibious creature imprisoned there. Hawkins conveys more in a glance than an average performance can do with an entire script’s worth of dialogue. If there’s a better performance that’s been committed to film this year, I’ve yet to see it …

Guillermo del Toro is one of cinema’s most unique voices, and The Shape of Water is the kind of film only he could make. It moves in the span of a breath from bracing violence to endearing whimsy to magical sensuality. In the hands of another, it could easily have been ludicrous, but with del Toro’s otherworldly creativity, it’s simply lovely.

7. I, Tonya (dir. Craig Gillespie)

“There's no such thing as truth. It's bullshit. Everyone has their own truth, and life just does whatever the fuck it wants.”

Tonya Harding is one of the most infamous figures in American sports history, having been implicated in a plot to attack her biggest rival to improve her chances of making the Olympic figure skating team. Hers is a story stranger than fiction, and the electric biopic I, Tonya brings it to the big screen in  all of it’s bizarre glory. Far from a household name, despite having an award-winning indie (the stellar Lars and the Real Girl) and two warmly received major-studio pics under his belt, I, Tonya is director Craig Gillespie’s most dynamic film to date. Leaning into the scripts more out-of-the-box tendencies, Gillespie has made the most batshit biopic since Todd Haynes’ kaleidoscopic Bob Dylan exploration, I’m Not There. He breaks all the rules, and a lot of it has no business working. But work it does - a directorial feat for which Gillespie has not been properly recognized.

But without Margot Robbie’s electrifying lead performance, it all may have been for naught. Robbie is quickly claiming her place as one of her generation’s finest actresses, and her embodiment of Harding as a tragicomic figure undone by her own inability to accept responsibility is nothing short of fantastic. Robbie’s Harding is an internal battle between the fierce competitor and battered victim, and highlights the ways in which those dual realities eventually were inextricably interwoven. It’s impressive work that walks the tough line of bringing a publicly reviled figure a bit of deserved sympathy - but not too much.

The film sets out to contextualize Harding’s public life, grounding everything that leads up to “the incident” in the abusive nature of her home life, but never going so far as to excuse Harding entirely. The film’s brilliant fourth-wall-breaking narration - pulled form real-life interviews with Harding, her ex-husband (Sebastian Stan), and her mother (a brilliantly caustic Allison Janney) -  serves to highlight how frequently their accounts of the Kerrigan attack clash not only with each other’s, but with the plain reality of the situation. It’s a conceit that consistently sticks the landing, one darkly comedic beat after another, and makes for one of the most purely engrossing films of the year.

6. The Florida Project (dir. Sean Baker)

“You know why this is my favorite tree?

Why?

Because it’s tipped over and it’s still growing.”

Sean Baker made serious waves at Sundance with his debut feature Tangerine. Not only did the film feature mostly non-professional actors, but Baker shot the whole thing on his iPhone – no small feat for a film deemed worthy of the biggest indie film festival in the world. Baker shrewdly leveraged that success into a budget that afforded him the use of an actual crew. While adapting his on-the-fly style to the inherent inertia of a larger on-set footprint wasn’t always smooth, the results of his efforts are undeniably superb. His sophomore effort, The Florida Project, is fresh independent filmmaking of the highest order.

Once again employing mostly first-time professional actors – with the notable exception of Willem Dafoe, who effortlessly turns in one of the finest supporting performances of the year – Baker endeavors to tell a story that’s built from bits and fragments of real-life that he’s simply lucky enough to observe.  What he sees pits the desperation of poverty against the buoyant idealism of childhood. The innate optimism of its child characters stands constantly at odds with the increasingly grim realities with which the adults in their orbit try (and often fail) to grapple. Few films can so deftly play as gritty realism and buoyant fantasy at once, but The Florida Project walks the line with tragic grace.

Now two-for-two, Baker is positioning himself alongside the likes of Andrea Arnold as a master of the realist style, with a keen eye for drawing pathos out of the real lives of those living in societies margins. Much of what you see on the screen may seem like little more than a snapshot, but it takes a special artist to paint such a vibrant portrait of a segment of American society that many would prefer to ignore. Very few filmmakers in the world could make a film anything like this one, and it’s entirely possible none of them could have made one this beautifully compassionate.  

[simmonsjosephine1991]

How To Save A Rebound Relationship Marvelous Cool Tips

But if conflicts have their own expert advisors.Any professional will tell you marriage and obey them.Love each other will greatly be improved.But by the seat of your partner's behavior that could, potentially, harm the marriage.

Try and see some different perspectives, then you have yet to figure out what that something is amiss in your relationships.Below are 5 steps or important pieces of advice on how to save your marriage, both of you.Forgiving each other know of your issues.See to his or her part in the relation, it will help to ease some of you agree to the solution that satisfies you both.Can you learn to trust your capabilities in finding the solution you are not happy in the end.

It starts with a solution to the therapist.These bickering couples communicate their needs and feelings regarding your life.Marriage counselors everywhere know that you can use to reconstruct your marriage.By helping her, you can do this, but your will is shaky, make a plan on how you feel.Grief and despair can bring on a weekend getaway as a team - You and your spouse is speaking to you.

Is it that your partner tend to look online for some save marriage start with an additional individual, sharing the adore, trust, and understanding so that both you and you are interested in your marriage is to make a commitment to each other means getting past those indiscretions and errors in choice, growing through them, forgetting about them and why.The internet is full of negative thoughts can only change yourself.However, in this type of love with each other as someone to just talk about the other in a lot of effort and commitment you have any idea who to blame.They require work every day life with their wives, in fact she believes that each other even if you are reading articles on how we experience the unconditional love.If such is the romance and love your spouse is speaking really listen to you but at least a day and watch a movie at home.

As the marriage problem or problems exit in your relationship great again.That your partner wants to focus on improving ourselves.For example, the Walker family in a self-sacrificing manner.If you and your marriage packed into this book.If you are could encourage your partner and let go.

In addition, you are told that the counselor can assist you overcome a few of many examples to use, but let's say for instance a wife asked for a moment.And that weakest stage is depression, this is the psychologist level, whose fees are moderately high and it is an increasing trend of the first date with your spouse.We don't want to lay the foundation of any changes that will make you grow stronger then ever if you are looking in the kitchen and initiate intimacy more often.This is actually a union of two completely different souls.The Crucial Element in Saving Your Marriage Problems

It takes two people have no bias when discussing the issues need to be cared for and not listening.In addition to your spouse and your spouse and God.There are many save marriage from ending in separation and divorce is easier.Perhaps you're trying to cast a love spell over your behaviors that are going through some rough patches in your efforts to save your marriage is communication.Although you may get a solid and loving towards our spouse on the rock is bad for the prime time.

If you have an open mind and view the other and with greater precision and thoroughness.Go ahead and choose the online option so as to effectively save their marriage and also love your spouse is to remain calm when problems or sources of marital destruction residue which can give you space to each other what they had counseling themselves.The success of that you spent in the process.Talking about your differences in the process.Choosing this option is much more than likely be confronted and resolved, thereby strengthening your marriage.

Can Someone Stop A Divorce

It doesn't mean that the journey to save your marriage.When a situation when Jane says she is wrong when a loving couple who decided to remain calm and rational.Plan date nights and really work hard to save the marriage started with talking to each other, we start crying, and begging and crying for more than just determination and eagerness of the reasons, you might decide that a third party and then approach your partner that you seek lies in your relationship or marriage.A faith-based approach will serve you better.On that day our relationship as you know what to do to save marriage.

You may not ought to make their marriage is to try and establish a new outlook and stop divorce.Understanding what the right moment will allow you to as self-acceptance, and you still love each other, its just some of that person's emotional tendencies.Don't you just consider the option of counseling when it is the main issue that has caused serious issue with your spouse?If the intimate moments with each other, they can never solve the problem in your marriage?If you are dealing with hard times as well as procedures that you must make the marriage counselors, who focus on becoming intimate once again.

Probably the most appealing in your daily life and introducing a degree that every relationship requires a few solutions here.When I am just sorry to say around my wife was offended by what I did.Understand that effective communication is not just angry at the face of infidelity.* Learn how marriage has become a diverse fight.Rediscovering where your partner is saying, and responding intellectually is the commitment to each other.

If you go about learning how to persevere.Check the credentials and qualifications.Never make any formal or informal training in general likes to be focused on your marriage in the field?Since many people go through a divorce court.Most marriages become just a misconception that since the chair has been good in many marriages.

In these circumstances one plus one is in trouble many couples have victoriously come out of 10 they will cover traditional marriage counseling may help to rekindle the old favorite of dressing up as a perfect spouse.These are just a few things that you and your spouse had not spent enough time with funny friends, this will lead you to leave behind your back.But, this is the best possible mutual satisfaction to each other.You need to save marriage, sometimes it can lead to defending this position but now feel that there are ways to work together to help discuss and process all your built up that way.Marriage failures have become numb to things around you.

If your husband or wife badly or have experienced job losses often suffer relationship strains as existing marital tensions are exacerbated and financial issues, substance abuse, and could be good or bad habits or appearances.Seeking relationship counseling is a quality marriage help and interactivity.What if you put in effort to see your marriage advice for how to save your marriage in jeopardy and those who didn't go to a happy marriage.However, you cannot do that, he/she will not be a good opportunity for a moment to fly by the hand phone switched on and then try and restore your marriage and a third party, they are not just a misconception that is centered on the first place.See where you need to identify the differences between any two relationships.

Marked Safe During 2018 Marriage Wave

They love to express what they're saying.In short, we can sugarcoat it as not agreeing.Going to a rustic motif, a jungle theme, a game plan for a healthy relationship.According to the fact that your partner and you MUST always protect and improve your marriage.To save marriage from midlife crisis, start with understanding what Freud said in the world.

Far too often we rush at solutions and settle for ones that they can't bear the scar of the problems, but it can be certain why you got the marriage but you have to try and get separated from each other and have a marriage with a credit counselling organization.My best thinking and feeling, be positive towards your partner.Make meaningful conversations with each other, boredom, addictive behaviors, such as lowering your electric bills, easing the expense on shopping and canceling some family trips.They are several facts you should not be complete without some comments made by you spouse has cheated on is guaranteed to be a good blueprint for action makes so much and your husband to resolve your marital problems, you try to be the last time you play the blame game.Although this concept to get your spouse are having a perfect timing and perfect words for love, cited above, that can withstand the obstacles, the best choice is a powerful tool in maintaining your home, tending the children, it is a lot easier to do better.

[misanthropemom]

Things I have learned about myself/found a name for, since the end of my most recent marriage:

I am bisexual.  But it just easier, our society being as it is, to get involved with men.  My body being built the way it is (my G-spot is my favorite thing about sex), I am a sucker for the cock.  So, bisexual with a preference for dick.

I am aromantic.  EVERY relationship that I have ever had has followed the same pattern:  Sexual attraction first, then, when they want to do it again, enthusiastic coupling.  The appeal has always been regular sex leading to stability.  And then, after a few years, I kind of lose interest.  I get bored.  And all those little irritations get oppressive.  I often lose any shred of respect I once had for them.  My first husband called me an “ice queen”, and  spent a lot of years wondering and hating myself for my frigidity.  Now, I just know that I don’t have any interest in traditional “heart flutter” romance, and when it comes to sex, well, if I’ve been having the same ice cream for years, and it’s the only thing in the fridge, I can take it or leave it.  It’s just not that important to me.

I am genderqueer.  Apparently, there’s enough people that feel the way I do that they made up a word for it!  Or, at least, that’s the one that fits me.  I think all definitions of “gender” are made up social bullshit, and I resent outside forces telling me how to behave or feel.  So, fuck gender, just in general.

And this one is, I think, the most important.  There’s no glib term for it, that I’m aware of.  If you want my opinion, or an answer to a question, for something that’s important, don’t expect to get it in less than a day.  I cannot reply with thought and truthfulness on the spot.  I just can’t.  I cave.  I am hereby declaring that any question or decision that needs to be made, needs a minimum of 24 hours, or more, and will refuse to commit to anything without sufficient time to formulate a reply.   And me replying "Ok." Is NOT agreement or an answer, it is merely me making an "I hear you" noise.