#sword based space battles?

[byrdstrolls]

every so often someone is like george lucas made star wars great by copying the heros journey, no, george lucas made star wars great by copying dune

[theresattrpgforthat]

Any recommendations for a rules-lite mecha game?

THEME: Rules-Lite Mechs.

Hello friend, I sure do! I had a really fun time putting this recommendation list together, so I hope you also find something fun in here!

Reactors & Romance, by JP Bergamo.

Reactors & Romance is a rules-light, narrative-focused, one-shot-oriented RPG featuring mechs and flirting.

Players take on the role of a hot-shot mech pilot with only two ways of problem solving: flirt your way through with your romantic charm, or fight your way out with your mech. Your ability to do either is measured with one stat, your HEAT. Your HEAT measures both how hot your mech’s reactor is getting, and how hot of a pilot you are. Your mech will get less and less reliable as it builds up heat and takes on damage. Fortunately, you have always done your best flirting under pressure.

Say hello to a beautiful, quick game that focuses on the emotions that sizzle inside the gigantic battle machines, as well as the fights that might make those relationships complicated. With a nod to Lasers & Feelings, Reactors & Romance has some additional bits and pieces to play with, such as heat, which both propels you into the danger zone and also makes you very attractive. You also have Keepsakes, which are meant to represent romantic connections that help you clear your Heat. The author references Thirsty Sword Lesbians, Promare, and Gurren Lagann, which all make me super excited about this game.

Mech and Kaiju, by Minbot.

You are the pilot and crew of the Dominator, an advanced bio-mechanical skyscraper sized battle suit designed and built to fight the Kaiju, gigantic leviathan creatures from beyond the depths of space.

Based on the popular Lasers and Feeling RPG by John Harper and created for the Minimalist TTRPG Jam 3.

Simple and descriptive, Mech & Kaiju asks you to determine a few traits of your characters, a few traits of the mech you pilot, and a few truths about the Alien Overlord and the Kaiju you're going up against. When it comes to rolling, it's typical Lasers & Feelings: roll under your target if the situation is related to logic, reason or technology, and roll over if your approach is related to emotion, reasoning, or biological understanding. If you want a contrast between flesh and metal, you might like this game.

Resonance, by Foolhardy Press.

You and your team are Pilots; called upon as a team to control a single Mech capable of defeating the Intelligence

With your skills combined, your party alone can pilot the mech via Resonance, a state of understanding acquired through intense training and compatibility.

Each of you has an individual role to be expressed through your control of the Mech; the Captain, the Gunner, the Engineer, the Hacker, or the Muscle.

You must defeat the enemy Intelligence within a constricted amount of rounds or fail your mission.

Resonance feels very much inspired by Pacific Rim, what with the idea that all of your team is responsible for piloting a single mech, and the fact that the game defines success as relative to a target called The Drift. I like the idea that success here is related to how aligned the crew is in regards to the goal; it's an excellent example of a game that tries to weave the themes of the story into the mechanics.

Mechers, by Jason Pickering.

Welcome to Odin Corp new employee. You get to start your exciting new career as a Mecher working with our resource gathering facilities on the planet Sif 11. Your exciting career will see you wearing an Odin Corp Mech Suit as you transport cargo and supplies between our many different planetary stations as well as light resource gathering duties. In your journey you will see the wondrous sights, flora, and fauna this planet has to offer. Yes! It’s dangerous work, but your hard work will allow the facilities to keep operating so we can supply Odin Corp products to families galaxy wide.

Mechers is a rules-lite ttrpg that uses a 2D6 system, to determine outcomes for player actions. Players pilot a mech equipped with gear and adventure across an alien planet dealing with wild flora and fauna and an overbearing corporation. So grab your Dice, Load your tools, and head out into danger.

If you love mechs but you want to do something other than fight, Mechers is probably where you'll feel most at home. Your players are using mechs as tools to help them explore planets, rather than fight battles, although I wouldn't be surprised if you have to get a little bit physical to get yourself out of some tricky situations. Getting past obstacles requires filling tracks to represent the effort it takes to work through difficult situations.

Attempting to overcome an obstacle involves rolling 2d6 and trying to get a 7 or higher, with results of 10 or higher being without any consequences. It feels very akin to PbtA in terms of result range, but I think the ethos is a little less about generating interesting results and more about using what resources you have to improve your rolls and reduce any damage you take.

Immortal Gambit, by TitanomachyRPG.

IMMORTAL GAMBIT is a pick up and play 1-page mecha TTRPG you can start as soon as everyone has arrived to the session. Every player picks a different role (Pilot//Pilot’s Mech//Battleship Captain// Faction Leader//Rival//Rival’s Mech) and their own goal. Try to accomplish your goal while deducing who you can trust--and who is working against you!

Immortal Gambit looks to be about pitting children against each-other in gigantic mechs, all for political gain. I think it's interesting that a character and a character's mech are two different roles that are played by different people. Each character has a personal goal, one that is hidden from the rest of the table. You take turns trying to turn the tides of battle in your direction, using a d20 and a coin. I think it's interesting that this game is very competitive, and encourages your characters to work against each-other. It's a little bit like a hidden role game, so if you like keeping secrets, I think you might like this.

Big Robots, Big Feelings, by RentAThug.

Prime your laser cannons, draw your energy sword, and pilot your mech to glorious victory the only way you know how: how by feeling more feelings than anyone has ever felt! Battle enemy mecha and your own raging emotions in BIG ROBOTS, BIG FEELINGS!

Big Robots, Big Feelings is a one page RPG designed for the 2024 One Page RPG Jam! The game uses a simplified version of the Powered by the Apocalypse system, with Action Rolls determining outcome. Inspired by mecha anime, these Action Rolls are influenced by your character's emotions and relationships with other characters, allowing you to literally use the power of friendship to destroy your enemies.

This game feels very in tune with the color-coded superhero genre, with bright colors and themes that really double down on tropes. Your character has a background, three emotions, and a Mech that's designed to reflect their personality. When you try to do something, you use 2d6, as per a typical PbtA game, with modifiers related to your emotions and your relationships. In Big Robots, Big Feelings, you truly do win fights with the power of friendship!

Sad Teen Mecha Pilots, by Unknown Dungeon.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION….

Over twenty years ago, the first Demon attacked. Humanity fought back, but suffered great losses in the process.

In the decades since, a secretive program was initiated to build monstrous bio-mechanical mechas to fight the Demons, and to train the young pilots who control them.

You are those pilots.

Sad Teen Mecha Pilots is a collaborative story-telling RPG about the lives of young people faced with the impossible task of saving the world, and the strain it puts on them and their relationships.

A simple one-page game, this is all about the motivations behind a war, and the strain of trying to hold off Doomsday. The lose state of the clock is represented in a Doomsday clock, which looks like it's already partially filled when you start to play the game, although I'm not entirely sure if that's the intention. When the clock hits the Eleventh Hour, your characters are pulled away from their teenage lives for a nearly-hopeless battle.

The bulk of the game is definitely focused on the daily lives of your characters; their family relationships, their struggles with school or friendships, and recovering from wounds. I'd be interested in seeing how this game might combine with a more mechanically complex mech game to provide a lot of pathos in between high-combat scenes - although you as a group would have to be OK with going up against pretty impossible odds.

Also Check Out…

Mechs Part 1 Recommendations

Mechs Part 2 Recommendations

Gundam TTRPG Recommedations.

Metal Sword, by Mousewife Games (simplified Beam Saber!)

If you like what I do and want to leave a tip, you can check out my Ko-Fi!

[ill-kidnap-all-the-stars]

Sokka

[ image description: digital drawing of Sokka from Avatar: the Last Airbender in my style. He is a dark-skinned man walking towards the camera but looking to the right/his left. He has blue eyes and his head is mostly shaved, with the top portion long and tied back into a ponytail. He is wearing a blue changshan with silver frog closures, silver moons on the collar and silver lion embroidery on his shoulders. He is wearing pale blue trousers and blue shoes with silver embroidery, and holding his space sword behind him. He is standing in front of a brown Water Tribe symbol ]

prints ✨ commissions

Continuing to repost older art, I have just decided that I am going to inflict upon you this entire project because it's cool as balls :) once again, the original influences and cultural exploration is under the cut (and once again noting that there is just so much nuance missing from these, since it's impossible to condense thousands of years and miles worth of culture into a few Instagram slides):

A Bit of Background:

The Water Tribes' culture is based primarily on those of Arctic and Siberian peoples. The Northern Tribe has more influence from Siberian peoples (for example, the Yakut, the Buryat, and the Evenk), while the Southern Tribe has more influence from Arctic peoples (such as the Inuit, the Sireniki, and the Yupik). Since the Southern Tribe was founded by ancient immigrants from the Northern Tribe, this reflects the real world relationship between Arctic and Siberian peoples. However, the Water Tribes also draw from other Indigenous peoples, such as Native American, Aboriginal Australian, and Polynesian cultures. And, like all cultures in the ATLA world, the Water Tribes also have extensive Chinese influence.

Some examples include: the igloos used by the Southern Tribe, which resemble those used by the Inuit; the Water Tribes' reliance on hunting and fishing, similar to the Inuit; Water Tribe warriors wear face paint into battle, a practice associated with Native Americans, as well as African and Southeast Asian tribes; Water Tribe boats are based on Polynesian catamarans; Water Tribe boomerangs are based on the “returning boomerangs” used by Aboriginal Australian tribes.

Standard Water Tribe Clothing:

Water Tribe clothing typically resembles the clothing of Arctic peoples. For example, the large, pullover coats are drawn from Inuit anoraks (also called parkas, although they are strictly speaking not the same). Anoraks are typically made from reindeer or seal skin and lined with fur.

Water Tribe shoes are influenced by the mukluks worn by Arctic peoples. These shoes are also made from reindeer or seal skin and are often worn with an inner liner and protective overshoe.

‘Hair loopies’ are also based on an Inuit hairstyle. While braided hairstyles are found in cultures all over the world, ‘hair loopies’ are based on a uniquely Canadian Inuit hairstyle and are called qilliqti in Inuktitut.

My Design:

Katara's warm-weather clothes are inspired by the Chinese cheongsam (Cantonese: 長衫; literally 'long shirt/dress'). It is typically a long, form-fitting, one-piece garment with a standing (mandarin) collar, an asymmetrical, left-over-right closure (右衽; youren), two side slits, and Chinese frog closures (盤扣; pankou).

However, Sokka's warm-weather clothing doesn't have a similar parallel, or even a less-clear influence. For this reason, I decided to draw Sokka in the closest male equivalent to the cheongsam, the changshan (Mandarin: 長衫; literally 'long shirt').

I embellished Sokka's changshan with embroidery of lions, which are a symbol of military prowess in Chinese culture — perfect for Sokka's smart strategies, don't you think? His shoes also have irises on them, which can represent insight, communication and conviction. Finally, I added two crescent moons on his collar because, while his sister of course has a connection to the moon, I also believe Sokka has one as well through Yue

[clowncryptids]

For some reason I was possessed to draw and redesign Kieth Voltron Kogane … yes I know it’s 2025.

This design is based off of a headcanon/ AU I have where the Galra are a shapeshifting species like the Alteans however the Galra do not have control over it, and instead their bodies fast evolve to better suit their environment. This is why Kieth looks mostly human on earth, his body is matching his surroundings. However I love the idea of him gaining more Galra traits as he spends time in space (since the Galra have far better space fairing traits) especially after being in the Blade of Marmora and accepting his heritage.

Anywayssss bonus features: his sword grows from the side of his Bayard bec I wanted it to have a proper hilt (I don’t love my bayard design tho). His black paladin bayard replicates his Blade sword so he can double wield them in battle!

Also I know his armor should cover his tail so you kno … he can go in space… but I don’t care aesthetics over logic ig.

-Cropped versions below!-

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Burn with Me

Pairing: Viserys III Targaryen (Game of Thrones) x f!reader Warnings: Smut, imbalanced power dynamics, abuse of power. Word count: ~2k

Summary: Viserys shares a piece of his ancestry with his concubine.

Author's note: Day one of Smuffmas - candlelight and collaring. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

She steps into the tent that has been erected to serve as Viserys’ personal bathhouse and is immediately enveloped in humidity that clings to her skin like a shroud, as the opening falls closed behind her. True to his Targaryen nature, he favours the heat and, as such, always demands that the water be scalding before it fills the wooden tub, with as many candles lit as the surrounding space will allow, to ensure that it retains its heat.

The atmosphere within the canvas walls is one of resplendence; the rounded tub that sits in the far corner wafts viscous steam up into the air. The water’s surface reflects the vibrant orange glow of more candles than she can possibly count, all casting flickering shadows that dance upon the ceiling. The heady fragrance of Myrish oils lingers in the air, a potent aroma of cinnamon and ginger. Viserys refuses the use of Dothraki spiceflower in his bathwater, despite it being in abundance, and far less costly than oils and spices from the Free Cities.

“It is insult enough that I must exist among these savages,” he had once told her, “I will not smell like them too. See that my command is heeded, or you shall wake the dragon.”

He stands beside the bathtub, spine rigid and eyes narrowed in annoyance. She had come to him the moment she was summoned, yet she can tell from the subtle flare of his nostrils that he is impatient already.

Despite the gossamer fabric of the dress that drapes over her body, she can feel sweat prickling the back of her neck, dampening the hairs that rest at the base of it. She knows this is due to the stifling heat of the bathing tent, but the fearful hammering of her heart as Viserys eyes her in displeasure only serves to exacerbate it.

“About time,” he snaps irritably, beckoning her closer with a restive click of his fingers.

“Your grace,” she greets courteously, before he has the chance to scold her further, “allow me to help you.”

She steps in front of him, deft fingers moving over the forest green wool of the tunic that covers his lithe frame. It is a wildly impractical choice of fabric, considering the climate of Vaes Dothrak, but Viserys shuns more traditional garb in favour of wool and silk. One by one she pulls open the clasps, revealing the creamy, white flesh beneath.

During her time in the pleasure houses of Lys, she had lain with many men and grown accustomed to the sight of skin marred by battle scars and hardened by the ravages of hard labour. Viserys bears no such afflictions. He is thin, an unfortunate consequence of a life lived in squalor, but he has never known battle, he is soft and smooth, unblemished by conflict. She has silently wondered on many occasions how he could possibly ever hope to rule as king of Westeros if he is not competent with a sword, a musing she will never give voice to, lest she pay with her life for it. She has no doubt he will take no issue in wetting his blade with her blood, if provoked into doing so.

Despite his rakish appearance and short temper, she cannot help the appreciative gaze she casts upon him as she strips him of the remnants of his clothing. For all his flaws, Viserys is a handsome man; soft, silver waves of hair frame the hard lines of his face, a strong nose and chin accentuate the pierce of his gaze. His eyes carry madness within them, enticing with dangerous allure.

“Careful with that,” he commands, nodding to the tunic which she has picked back up to fold, “what’s in the pocket is worth at least five times more than what I paid for you.”

“Of course, your grace,” she replies simply, noticing the subtle weight the garment has to it that isn’t usually there.

“Bring it here,” he says to her, stepping into the tub and sitting down. The motion causes steamy water to slop over the sides, soaking into the clay coloured earth of the ground below, as he leans back, resting his elbows behind him on the edge.

“Not the tunic, stupid girl,” he spits, scowling as she steps forward with it, “just what’s in the pocket.”

She blinks rapidly, bowing her head, a fruitless attempt to will away the humiliation that burns hotly at her skin. Reaching into the pocket, she wraps her fingers around something hard, that feels cold against her skin despite the heat that hangs heavy in the air.

Pulling it free, she can see that it is a steel choker. Thick silver plates inlaid with large rubies make up the bulk of it, with a dainty chain that fastens it at the back. She has never held anything so valuable in her hands before, the very weight of it feels representative of its significance.

“I don’t suppose you have ever seen such opulence before,” Viserys tells her, drawing her attention back to him, to where he reclines in the bath, a smug smirk upon his face as he regards her pridefully.

She places the choker in his upturned, waiting palm. “Won’t it rust if you get it wet?”

Viserys grins, the gesture lighting up his face in a way that seems almost unnatural, as the ever present madness dances within the lilac of his eyes. “It is Valyrian steel, forged in dragon fire, it won’t rust, it can’t. Now disrobe and join me.”

He plays idly with the choker, running the chain through his fingers and holding the rubies up to the candlelight as she undresses, though it does not take her long. The near translucent dress is the only item of clothing that he will allow her to wear when tending to him, and it is rare that it stays on for long.

She hisses quietly at the burn of the water against her flesh as she climbs into the tub, the all encompassing heat making her legs tingle. She does not understand how Viserys can stand it, but then there is blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, so she supposes he barely notices it.

“Turn around,” he instructs, and she does as she’s told, presenting her back to him as she faces away. She can hear the splash of the water as he advances upon her within the small space, feel the water moving with him.

Dampened hands scoop her hair away from her neck, before he places the choker around it, carefully fastening it. It chills her skin, a strange juxtaposition to the clamminess that their surroundings elicit. It feels heavy and tight around her throat, more like a collar than a necklace, and as Viserys turns her roughly to face him, sending yet more water cascading over the sides of the bath, she can see that that was precisely his intent.

His eyes are wild as he appraises her, lips slightly parted. “This is hundreds of years old, it would have been worn by a Targaryen princess from the days of Old Valyria,” he tells her, his voice lowering, taking on the seductive timbre that he affects only when aroused. He hooks two fingers beneath the centre ruby, giving it a tug. “How does it make you feel?”

She swallows thickly, considering her answer, wanting to offer words that will please him. “It makes me feel…fortunate…to have the opportunity to wear something of such significance.”

He hums, clearly satisfied with her answer, giving a slight nod as he grasps her hips beneath the water and manhandles her into his lap. She can feel his hardened cock prodding insistently at her most intimate area as she settles into the position of straddling him, winding her arms around his neck, as his hands keep a firm grip of her.

“Ser Jorah came by this on his travels,” he tells her, eyes fixated upon her throat, “he was going to give it as a gift to my sister, but I have taken it for myself. I do not see why she should lay claim to such a valuable piece of our shared ancestry, just for spreading her legs and siring a whelp for that savage, Drogo.”

The tone of his voice drips with jealousy, and it makes her uncomfortable to be faced with his arousal, not for the first time, while he speaks of Daenerys. She knows that the Targaryens existed on a foundation of bloodline purity, however, those customs are queer to her and to be faced with the reality of their incestuous nature makes her stomach churn.

All thoughts leave her mind, however, as he tugs her downwards to meet his upward thrust, spearing her open on his cock with a grunt elicited through gritted teeth. She moans at the exquisite stretch, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as she clings tightly to him, her breaths hot against his wet skin.

Viserys keeps his hands upon her hips, helping to guide her movements as she rolls her pelvis against his, bouncing herself upon his aching length. Though he is often cruel to her, when he holds her close like this, and it is just the sounds of their mingling pants for breath and the slap of their skin, it is easy for her to forget that she was purchased for his pleasure, a means to distract him from the want to defile his sister.

When he holds her close, his harsh features contorted in ecstasy, the madness that dances within his eyes conveying only lust, she can allow herself to believe that she is special, that he chose her alone to travel with him and warm his bed because he wanted only her, not because the Beggar King could not afford more than one concubine. 

In her own foolish heart, she has allowed gratitude to be misplaced for love. The fondness she feels towards him for him having taken her from the pleasure houses of Lys, and rescuing her from the life of a common whore, in her mind, is romantic. 

So when he takes one of the stiffened peaks of her nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches harshly, she mewls wantonly as the sensation causes her sensitive walls to clench around him, wanting him to know just how good he makes her feel, how eager she is to please him.

If he did not return her affection, why else would he allow her to wear the choker that currently sits snug against her throat?

She speeds up her movements, the bathwater undulating around them with more intensity. The head of his cock bullies relentlessly at a spot inside of her that, coupled with the lightheadedness she feels from the heat of the water, makes her forget herself entirely. Before she can stop them, the words tumble carelessly from her lips.

“I love you.”

He halts all movements, and she freezes, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage as she realises what she has just said. She opens her mouth, wanting to apologise, to take it back, to beg for forgiveness, but before she can he’s grasping her jaw, forcing her to meet the intensity of his stare.

“Say it again,” he orders quietly, leaving no room for argument.

She is hesitant at first, but he tangles his fingers into the back of her hair, not allowing her to look away, so she relents. “I–I love you.”

He snarls, tugging harshly at her hair as he resumes his brutal thrusts up into her. “That’s right, you fucking do.”

For the briefest of moments, she had allowed herself to believe he might say it back, and is not even given the respite to experience disappointment, as he chases his release within her. Her confession of love having been enough to stroke his ego to the point of climax, evidenced by the insistent pulsating of his member as he pumps it in and out of her with renewed vigour.

He holds her tightly against himself, pushing himself as far up into her as he can go as he peaks, spilling inside of her with a shameless groan, before settling back down, her body pliant against his as they both catch their breath.

“I’m finished with you for tonight. Leave me,” he says despondently, as his rapidly softening cock slips free of her.

She offers a curt nod, disentangling herself from him and climbing on shaky legs from the tub, bathwater and Viserys’ seed both dripping down her thighs, as she reaches for her dress, clutching it to herself to protect what little remains of her modesty.

“Wait,” he snaps, and for a moment she believes he will tell her he has changed his mind, that he longs for her company. Instead he snaps his fingers, gesturing to her neck. “The necklace.”

Her heart sinks, but she forces her expression to remain stoic, unclasping it and depositing it back into his outstretched palm. Her neck feels immediately lighter, having been freed from the weight of it. However, as she walks from the tent, it is replaced with a heaviness upon her heart that reminds her irrevocably of her place - or lack thereof - in the world of Viserys Targaryen.

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Game of Thrones masterlist

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[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

[sweetlittlehoneybun]

Stress + Zoro = little moss head

Zoro gets super stressed and ends up hiding up in the crow's nest of the thousand sunny as he regresses to the age of a toddler to relieve stress. However, he didn't tell the crew about it as Sanji finds him crying leaving Sanji super confused.

Zoro, the 3 sword-style swordsman, stood at the bow of the Thousand Sunny, the cool ocean breeze ruffling his green hair as he stared out at the endless horizon. The ship sailed smoothly on the calm sea, the sails full of wind. It was a rare moment of peace for the Straw Hat Pirates. However, Zoro's mind was anything but calm. The weight of recent battles and the ever-growing list of challenges ahead pressed on him like a heavy iron anchor, each thought a new link in a chain that threatened to drag him under. His brow furrowed, his eyes tightened, and his teeth clenched.

Without a word, Zoro abruptly turned and sprinted to the base of the main mast. He took to the steel ladder in a swift, practiced motion, climbing higher and higher until he reached the crow's nest. The wooden planks creaked under his feet as he settled into his safe haven, his usual stoic expression replaced by one of intense contemplation. The crew below, accustomed to Zoro's sudden spikes of stress, gave him space, knowing he needed to be alone.

Zoro, overwhelmed by stress, silently climbed to the crow's nest of the Thousand Sunny for solace. The crew, used to his stressful episodes(most of the time he just exercises), allowed him his space, unaware that his mental state had regressed to that of a toddler's.

In the quiet solitude of the crow's nest, Zoro felt his thoughts become a whirlwind of childish fears and worries. As he tries to workout, silently hoping that exercising will silence his fuzzy brain. His grip tightened around one of his dumbells as the ship swayed gently, his eye widens as he began to tear up. The stress of the past battles, the pressure of his role as the crew's protector, and the looming shadow of the New World overwhelmed him. In his heart, he was no longer the strong swordsman that the crew relied on, but a scared, overwhelmed child seeking refuge from the world.

Meanwhile, Sanji, the ship's chef, noticed Zoro's erratic behavior from below. Sanji's instincts told him that something was wrong, but he couldn't resist the urge to test Zoro's limits. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he began to climb the ropes to the crow's nest, he feels a burn in his legs, you could tellthathe was itching for a fight. His mind raced with the thrill of an impending confrontation.

As he approached the crow's nest, he could hear faint sniffles and the sound of someone trying to stifle their sobs. Pausing in his climb, Sanji's confusion grew. Zoro, the epitome of stoicism, crying? It was unheard of. But his curiosity and concern outweighed his initial amusement, and he quickened his pace.

Finally reaching the top, Sanji poked his head over the edge, only to find Zoro sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest, with tears streaming down his face. The swordsman looked up, his eye red and puffy, and immediately tried to hide his face, but it was too late. Sanji's expression shifted from one of battle-ready excitement to utter bewilderment.

"What's going on, Zoro?" Sanji asked, his voice gentle. "You're not hurt, are you?"

Zoro looked up with a wet, pleading eye. "anji, go 'way," he sniffled, his voice unusually high-pitched and childlike as he also struggled to say Sanji's name right. Zoro holding himself in a hug like fashion.

Sanji's brows shot up in surprise. "What's wrong, Zoro?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine concern. He had never seen the swordsman in such a state. He stepped into the crow's nest, his boots making a soft thud on the planks.

"I said go 'way," Zoro repeated, his voice still high-pitched and trembling. He scooted back, trying to put as much space between them as possible in the small space. His cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, and he buried his face in his arms.

Sanji's eyes widened, and he took a step back, holding up his hands in a non-threatening gesture. "Okay, okay. I'm sorry, Zoro. I didn't mean to scare you." He tried to keep his tone light, but the sight of his usually fearless crewmate in such distress was unsettling.

Tentatively, Sanji sat down a few feet away, his eyes never leaving Zoro's huddled form. He studied the swordsman, noticing the way his shoulders heaved with each sob and his fingers gripped his arms with a strength that belied his size and would most definitely bruise. It was clear that this was not a simple case of nerves or exhaustion. Something deeper was troubling Zoro, something that had stripped him of his usual stoic facade.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the rhythmic creaks of the ship and the distant calls of seagulls. Sanji waited patiently, knowing that pushing Zoro would only make things worse. Finally, the swordsman looked up, his eye brimming with unshed tears. "S-anji... I-I don't know what's happening to me," he whispered, his voice cracking.

"It's okay," Sanji assured him, his voice soothing. "Just take a deep breath and tell me what's going on."

Zoro sniffled and took a deep, shuddering breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked at Sanji with the wide eye of a lost child. "Everyfing's just... too much," he murmured, his voice still high and trembling. "The fighting, danger, pressure... I just want to be safe agains, like when I was little."

Sanji's heart went out to his friend. He had never seen Zoro so vulnerable. "You don't have to be strong all the time," he said softly, reaching out a hand to pat Zoro's back awkwardly. "We're all here for you."

But Zoro just shook his head, his grip on the himself tightening. "No, no, no," he repeated, his voice growing more insistent. "I need to be strong, for the crew, for Luffy. I can't be a burden."

Sanji sighed, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. "You're not a burden, Zoro," he said firmly. "We're all in this together, and sometimes, it's okay to lean on your friends."

Zoro looked up at him, his eye filled with a mix of frustration and gratitude. He knew Sanji was right, but the thought of admitting his fears to the rest of the crew was unbearable. "They'lls laughs ats me," he whispered, his bottom lip quivering. "Theys won't take mes ss-ser-eriously anymore." Zoro says struggling with the word seriously.

Sanji frowned, his eyes searching Zoro's. "They're not like that," he said. "They'll understand."

But Zoro was lost in his own world of doubt. His mind was a tumultuous sea of fear and inadequacy, the words of his comrades just distant whispers on the wind. The stress had taken its toll, and his thoughts had regressed to a time when the world was simpler, when the biggest challenge was climbing a tree or catching a fish. He wished he could be that carefree again, if only for a little while, but he had to protect the crew.

Sanji watched as Zoro's body remained taut and tense, despite the childlike whimpers that escaped him. It was a surreal sight, one that made the cook's heart ache for his friend. He knew Zoro was struggling to reconcile his adult responsibilities with the desperate need to be comforted like a little kid.

"You know," Sanji began, his voice gentle, "sometimes, even the strongest people need a break." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "When I'm stressed, I just think of the warmth of freshly baked bread or the taste of a perfect steak. It helps me feel a bit more... grounded."

Zoro looked at him with a mix of wonder and despair. "Dat's your way," he said, his voice still high-pitched. "But why dos I have to be like this?" He gestured to himself with a trembling hand. "Why can't I just... I don'ts know, punch somefing or yell and feel better?"

Sanji nodded, his eyes never leaving Zoro's. "Everyone has their own way of coping," he said, his voice gentle. "And maybe, just maybe, your mind is telling you that you need a different kind of comfort."

Zoro wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his eye never leaving Sanji's face. "But why a toddler's?" Zoro whined, his voice cracking with emotion. "Why do I want to cuddle up in a blanket and hold onto a dumb stuffy?"

Sanji chuckled, his expression warm and understanding. "You know, everyone has their quirks," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Zoro looked at him skeptically, his eye still filled with the pain of his inner turmoil. "But why a toddler's?" he repeated, his voice small and lost. "I'm a swordsman, nots a baby."

Sanji gave a soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "You know, Zoro, sometimes our minds are like an animal," he said, leaning in slightly. "You've got all these claws, all this strength, but even the toughest animal has a weak spot."

Zoro looked at him, his expression unchanged, but the tightness around his eye eased a fraction.

"But... buts everyone will fink I's gone soft," he said, his voice still high and trembling. "They'll fink I can't handle being a pirate no more."

Sanji leaned back, folding his arms. "You think Luffy's got it easy because he's carefree?" he asked, a smirk playing on his lips. "Or Usopp, because he runs away from fights?"

Zoro considered this, his brow furrowed. "But they're not likes me," he murmured.

Sanji shrugged. "Luffy finds strength in his childlike wonder, and Usopp in his vivid imagination. Maybe this is just your way of dealing with things, Zoro."

Zoro pondered Sanji's words, his thumb knuckle finding its way to his lips as his mind continued to regress. The gesture was involuntary, a habit from a time when the world was less demanding, and fears could be soothed with the simple comfort of sucking his thumb. The feeling was strange yet oddly comforting. He felt his shoulders relax, and his breathing even out as the stress started to wash away, replaced by a warm fuzzy feeling in his head.

Sanji noticed the change in Zoro's posture and watched with a mix of concern and curiosity as the swordsman's features softened. He could see the cogs turning in Zoro's head as he grappled with the idea that it was okay to seek solace in his childish ways, even if only for a brief escape. The silence between them grew thick, punctuated only by the occasional sniffle from Zoro.

Finally, the swordsman spoke again, his voice still small and tremulous. "anji, promise me you won't tell the others."

Sanji nodded solemnly. "Your secret's safe with me," he assured, his voice low and soothing. "Now, let's get you a nice, warm blanket and something to eat. That always helps me feel better."

Zoro nodded, his thoughts drifting to the idea of a plushie, something soft and comforting to cling to. He remembered the small, one-eyed bear he had as a child, how it had been his constant companion during thunderstorms and nights when the darkness felt too vast. His eye searched the crow's nest, longing for something similar to provide him the comfort he desperately needed.

Sanji watched as Zoro's thoughts seemed to drift away, his eye misting over with longing. The cook couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for his friend. He knew that in their line of work, it was easy to lose sight of the simpler things that brought happiness. The thought of Zoro craving something as innocent as a plush toy was both endearing and heartbreaking.

Zoro's whines grew softer as he remembered the plush bear he had lost long ago. It had been with him through countless nights, the silent guardian that had seen him through his early days as a pirate hunter. He missed the comfort it had provided, the way it had made the vast, unpredictable world feel just a bit less big and less frightening.

His thoughts grew fuzzy, and he found himself wishing for a similar object to cling to. A soft plushie, or a soft blanket, something that could absorb his fears and soothe his frayed nerves. He pictured himself hugging it tightly, his face buried in its fur, feeling the warmth and safety that had been missing for so long.

The memory of his childhood plushie grew more vivid in his mind, the feel of its worn fabric under his tiny fingers, the smell of home that lingered on it despite the years of travel. Zoro felt a pang in his chest, a yearning for that innocent time when battles were just imaginary and friends were never in danger. His eye searched the crow's nest again, desperately seeking something to fill that void.

Finding nothing, Zoro's frustration grew, his toddler mind unable to reconcile the lack of a familiar comfort object. He let out a wail, his fists pounding against the wooden railing. "I want my teddy!" he sobbed, his voice cracking as he dropped the dumbbell he had been gripping and his arms flew up furiously trying to wipe the tears running down his face. The sound of his distress echoed through the ship, reaching the ears of the confused and concerned crew below.

Sanji's eyes widened in surprise at Zoro's sudden outburst, but he remained calm, his hand still resting comfortingly on Zoro's back. "It's okay, Zoro," he murmured, trying to soothe the distressed swordsman. "We'll find something to help you feel better."

But Zoro was beyond consolation. His frustration boiled over into a full-blown tantrum. He kicked his legs out, his feet thumping against the planks of the crow's nest. "No, no, no!" he wailed, his voice reaching a pitch that would put a banshee to shame. "I want my teddy now!"

Sanji's eyes darted around, searching for anything that could serve as a makeshift plushie. Spotting a rolled-up shirt in the corner, he grabbed it and held it out to Zoro. "Here," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "This can be your teddy for now."

Zoro's eye lit up for a moment, but as soon as the fabric of the t-shirt brushed against his skin, his expression crumpled into one of discomfort. "It's scratchy!" he wailed, his voice piercing the air. The realization that his own clothes were also scratchy only added to his distress, and his screaming grew louder, his sobs more intense.

Sanji winced at the sound, his hand hovering over Zoro's shoulder, unsure of what to do next. He had never seen his friend in such a state, and the sight was both heart-wrenching and alarming. The crew below grew more concerned, exchanging confused glances as the swordsman's cries echoed through the ship.

With a sudden idea, Sanji turned to the supplies in the crow's nest, searching for something that might resemble a plush toy. His eyes fell on a rolled-up piece of cloth, likely used to protect the ship's lookout equipment. He unfurled it, revealing a soft, red material that looked surprisingly snuggle-worthy. He approached Zoro cautiously, holding out the cloth with both hands like an offering.

"Here, Zoro," he said softly, "This could be your temporary teddy."

But Zoro was lost in his tantrum, his cries piercing the calm of the sea. He pushed Sanji's hand away, his face a mask of despair. "No, no, no!" he screamed, his voice raw with emotion. "It not same!"

The chef looked on, his heart in his throat. He had never seen the swordsman so vulnerable, so utterly lost. The usually stoic Zoro was now a tempest of toddler emotions, inconsolable in his distress. Sanji's mind raced for a solution, desperate to provide his friend with the comfort he so clearly needed.

In the midst of Zoro's wails, a new sound reached their ears. It was the thump of hooves on the mast, growing louder with every passing second. Sanji's eyes widened as he recognized the source of the commotion. "Chopper," he murmured, a mix of hope and trepidation coloring his voice.

Chopper, the ship's doctor and a reindeer-human hybrid, poked his head into the crow's nest, his expression one of bewilderment. His eyes grew wide when he saw Zoro's state, his antlered head tilting to the side as he took in the scene before him. "Sanji? What's wrong, Zoro?" he asked, his voice filled with concern and worry.

Sanji saw his opportunity and took it. He swiftly scooped Chopper into his arms, despite the latter's protests. "Hold still, you," he murmured, his movements surprisingly gentle given his usual exasperation with the doctor's antics. "You're going to be Zoro's teddy for now."

Chopper squirmed in his grasp, his eyes wide with shock. "Sanji!, what are you doing!?" he squeaked, his voice high with confusion and a hint of fear.

Ignoring the doctor's protests, Sanji held Chopper out to Zoro, who had stopped crying to stare at the bizarre sight before him. "Here," Sanji said with a hopeful smile, "Chopper can be your teddy for now. He's soft and warm, just like the one you used to have."

Zoro's eye lit up with hope, and he reached out tentatively to touch the reindeer's fur. Chopper, still bewildered, allowed Zoro to clutch onto him tightly, his eyes wide with shock. The sudden weight of the swordsman's burly arms was a surprise, but he remained still, sensing the gravity of the situation.

As Zoro buried his face in Chopper's soft fur, his body began to relax. The warmth of the reindeer's body and the comforting texture of his fur calmed the swordsman down a bit. The sobs grew quieter. His breathing evened out, and his body melted into the embrace.

Chopper, still in shock, patted Zoro's back gently, his own heart racing. He had never seen the swordsman so distraught and didn't know how to handle it. But as he felt the tension seep out of the pirate's muscles, he realized that perhaps Sanji's strange solution had worked.

The crow's nest grew quiet, save for the sound of Zoro's muffled sniffles and the occasional squeak from Chopper as he tried to adjust to his new role. The doctor's mind raced, trying to understand what was happening, but he knew better than to disturb the fragile peace that had settled over the swordsman.

As Zoro's cries grew softer, he felt his eyelid droop and a yawn slip through his mouth. His eye grew heavy with the weight of exhaustion and the gentle swaying of the ship. He leaned into Chopper, his body feeling boneless with relief. The reindeer's soft fur was surprisingly comforting against his cheek, and the steady beating of the doctor's heart beneath his ear was a lullaby that promised safety.

Sanji watched as Zoro's breathing grew even, his eyes closing as he drifted into a peaceful slumber. He couldn't help but smile at the sight of his tough comrade holding onto Chopper like a cherished plushie. It was strange, but seeing Zoro find solace in something so innocent was oddly endearing.

Chopper, now accustomed to his role, allowed Zoro to use him as a pillow. He could feel the swordsman's thumb knuckle making its way into his mouth, and his eyes grew wide with surprise. He'd heard of thumb-sucking as a childhood comfort, but he had never seen it in action, especially not from someone as formidable as Zoro.

The sound of Zoro's gentle snores filled the crow's nest, a stark contrast to the fierce battles he usually dominated. The blue-nosed reindeer looked to Sanji for guidance, his gaze questioning. Sanji just shrugged and chuckled, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Let him be," he whispered. "We all need our comforts."

Chopper nodded, his concern for Zoro outweighing his own discomfort. He shifted slightly to get more comfortable, feeling the warmth of the swordsman's body seep into his own. The sea breeze picked up, sending a shiver through him. Sanji noticed and pulled out an extra blanket from the supplies, carefully tucking it around them both. "You two take it easy up here," he said, his voice low so as not to disturb the sleeping pirate.

Sanji descended the ladder, his mind racing with the events of the last few minutes. He knew the commotion had to have alerted the rest of the crew, and they would be worried about what had happened to their comrade. As he reached the deck, he found the Straw Hats gathered in a concerned huddle, their eyes on the crow's nest.

Luffy looked up as Sanji approached, his eyebrow raised in question. "What's wrong with Zoro?" he asked, his voice filled with genuine concern. Sanji took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain the bizarre situation without causing unnecessary alarm.

"He's just... having a rough time," Sanji replied, his voice carefully measured. "I think the stress is really getting to him." The rest of the crew exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of confusion and worry. They had all seen Zoro stressed before, but never like this.

Luffy's eyes widened in concern. "Is he okay?" he asked, his voice filled with a rare seriousness.

Sanji nodded. "For now, he's just... sleeping," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "But we should keep an eye on him. Make sure he gets plenty of rest and doesn't push himself too hard."

The crew murmured in agreement, their faces a mirror of worry. Sanji knew he had to be the one to explain, to prepare them for the changes in Zoro's behavior. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the conversation to come.

"Look, guys," Sanji began, his tone serious. "Zoro's been dealing with a lot of pressure lately, and I think he's just reached his breaking point." The pirates looked at each other, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern. "He's been bottling up his stress, trying to be the stoic swordsman we all know and depend on. If he wakes up he might be a bit different than the swordsman's were use to "

Nami stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'different'?" she asked, her voice tinged with skepticism. Sanji rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward.

"Well, it seems like... Zoro's mental state has kind of, uh, regressed," Sanji stuttered, searching for the right words. "He's acting like a... a toddler right now."

The Straw Hats gaped at him, their eyes wide with astonishment. Luffy's hat tilts back, revealing his puzzled expression. "What do you mean, Sanji?"

Sanji sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He's... not quite himself," he says, his eyes darting to the crow's nest above. "His mind's kind of gone back to when he was a little kid."

The Straw Hats stare at him, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. Usopp's hand shoots up. "You mean like, he's going to start playing with toys and asking for bedtime stories?"

Sanji nods, a small smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, something like that. However I'm not completely sure."

The crew exchanges skeptical glances, their expressions a mix of confusion and concern. "But why?" Usopp asks, his voice a high-pitched squeak. "Is he okay?"

Sanji nods firmly. "He's okay," he reassures them. "It's just his way of dealing with stress." He pauses, weighing his words carefully. "You know how Luffy gets all excited and hyper? Or how you get all scared and imagine things?"

The crew nods, understanding the varying ways each of them dealt with their own stress.

"So what do we do?" Nami asks, her eyes never leaving the crow's nest.

Sanji scratches his head, his mind racing. "For now, let him rest," he says finally. "We'll see how he is when he wakes up. Maybe it's just a one time thing."

The girls exchange a look, nodding in understanding. "I've got some plushies in my room," Robin offers, her voice gentle. "I'm sure he can borrow one if it'll help."

Nami nods in agreement, her expression thoughtful. "I'll grab some of my stuff too," she says, already turning to head below deck. "Maybe something from my childhood will work."

Usopp looks at Sanji, his face a mask of confusion. "But, what if he wakes up and starts crying again?" he asks, his voice quivering slightly.

Sanji nods, his eyes serious. "Chopper's with him," he says, his voice firm. "If Zoro needs anything, Chopper will be there."

Luffy, who had been quietly listening to the conversation, suddenly bursts out in laughter, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Haha, Zoro's finally cracked!" he says, a wide grin spreading across his face. "It's about time he deals with all that stress he's been hoarding!"

The crew looks at their captain, a mix of shock and concern etched on their faces. Sanji sighs, knowing that Luffy's innocence sometimes leads to insensitivity. "Luffy, it's not something to laugh about," he says, his voice a gentle reprimand. "Zoro's going through a tough time."

But Luffy's grin doesn't waver. "I know, I know," he says, his eyes sparkling. "But think about it! Zoro's usually so serious and tense. Now we can finally play together!" He claps his hands together, his enthusiasm infectious. "Maybe we can have a game tag, ooooooo I can teach him some of my cool moves!"

Sanji sighs, knowing that Luffy's intentions are pure. "Keep it down," he murmurs, a hint of a smile playing on his lips despite the situation's gravity. "We don't want to disturb him."

Luffy nods, his excitement momentarily dampened. The crew stands in silence for a moment, the only sound being the gentle slap of waves against the Thousand Sunny's hull. They all knew Zoro well enough to understand that his stoic exterior was a shield, one that had clearly been breached by the weight of their pirate life's stresses.

Nami breaks the silence, her voice filled with a hint of amusement. "You know, it's kind of refreshing to know that even Zoro can't handle everything all the time," she says, a smirk playing on her lips. The tension in the air lightens, and the others chuckle in agreement. It was true; the swordsman's unshakeable demeanor had always made them wonder if he ever felt fear or doubt.

Robin nods thoughtfully. "Perhaps this is his way of letting us in, of showing us that he's not invincible," she says, her voice soft. The crew exchanges knowing looks. They had all seen the weight Zoro carried, the silent burden of being the crew's protector and Luffy's right-hand man.

[evilminji]

You know what's my JAM?

Extremes being treated as the Serious Dangers they ARE, even when they aren't "oooh its a spooky Grey morality and BADness!" Extreme.

Like? No, people. ALL of them are bad. They are ALL face melting dangerous. The void may crush your soul, but look upon the Face Of GOD? Not gonna be having a fun time! Doesn't MATTER if he's a cool dude! Face melting!

We are creatures of BALANCE. Tiny, fragile, little motes of dust. That can only exsist in the careful, blended, dances of territories and powers that be. We squishy.

Ghosts? Less squishy.

Poor impulse control, too. Especially ones with Fenton genetics. ABSOLUTELY ones with Fenton genetics and a trauma based aversion to therapy. That one? Pretty hardy. Made pretty tough, what with being Fates third favorite chew toy. But? Still gets the Sads, you know? The slightly longer then just seasonal depression.

Would medicine and some therapy help? Oh like a dream!

If medicine WORKED on his Ectoplasmicly contaminated ass. And he TRUSTED therapists.

But... surely, Danny thinks, as he sits grossly in his Depression sweatpants and eats suspect pizza on the floor of his moldering shoebox of an apartment, there must be SOME way to address his Depression? He should... he should DO something about it. Take a break maybe. Look up some ghost doctors or something.

.....

Oooooooooor..... >.>

He could break out that OMENIOUS af, bound in suspect leather, Big Book Of Forbidden Knowledge(TM) that he got from Pariah's.... what, fourth? Fifth? Library? Fuck that Lair is huge. He's STILL cleaning it out and it's been over half a decade. He swears it spawns more floors just to mock him. Bastard. Don't know HOW a building can be a Bastard, but it sure found A WAY.

Anyway!

Book it is! *horrifying Eldritch light as he opens it* huh. Neat. Comes with its own visual effects. *another bite of suspect pizza* Funky.

And so! Danny, the depressed King Of The Zone... fucks of to go cheer himself up in the Fields Of Bliss(TM), an area of Absolute Bliss. Which! Sounds GREAT in theory, now don't it? Lovely even.

Remember that little comment about extremes?

You can ENTER those fields. But no one leaves. No one CAN. The deeper you go? The more doomed you become. Less will to do anything at all. Eat, talk, move. So much as think. Like ALL extreme "Goods", it sounds lovely, but the reality is no gentle little thing.

It's a glue trap.

But how could Danny have known? Honestly, who would have TAUGHT him? Textbooks can only go so far, after all. And placing blame will not rescue the young monarch.

I imagine it's one of his helpers that pieces together what's happened. Come for further clarification on WHERE exactly he wants certain statues moved. Only? Your Majesty? Your Majesty...? Where ever could he BE? Oh? He's left out some of his books. Well, I'll just assist by putting them away for-.....

Oh.

OH ANCIENTS, NO.

But! What can the poor man DO? Ghosts are Beings of Will, Emotion, and Obsession. Were it some sort of Holy Blade or Sentient Tree, you know, something INDIVIDUAL with a will they could FIGHT? Oh no problem. But an area of effect? Especially an EMOTIONAL area of effect!? Ooooooh, this is bad. The Zone can't AFFORD to lose ANOTHER King!

We JUST GOT THIS ONE!!!

Wait. He's heard that there's an organization for this! That loudly cursing fellow who got violently thrown back into the Zone. "Ruined his fun" and all that! Perfect! He'll just hire THEM!

Smashcut? To a nice, peaceful, everybody's screaming Justice League Meeting. John's cursing life, extremely hungover. Zatana still has three cracked ribs. Wonder Woman is enjoying the new sword she... liberated... mid battle. Truely stunning craftsmanship. When?

Knock Knock!

Heads swivel. There... is a glowing green... accountant? Dandy? Dandy accountant. With an equally radioactive day glow green Actual Pirate's Chest Of Treasures, floating next to him. In the void of space; Just beyond the glass. What, the, fuuuuuu-

He seems to be under the impression they are some sort of Heroic mercenaries. And has come to request the retrieve-

"NNNNNOPE! Pariah can SHOVE it!" Snarls a suddenly very awake John Constantine, sitting up straight for the first time in hours. The rest of Dark grimly nod in agreement. Let the fucker rot. It's a kinder fate then he deserves.

No, no, NO! King PHANTOM! Pariah's SUCCESSOR by right of combat! They are not, and were never, allied in any way!

Well, all right then. Road trip to save a young idiot then.

@the-witchhunter @hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @mutable-manifestation @nerdpoe

[lady-forest-1142]

hiii I'm reposting my review of cordelia's honor here from my goodreads bc I need more ppl to share in my obsession dammit! (also if I've misspelled any names have pity on me, I read this on audio)

an instant favorite? an instant favorite that I read on audiobook?? in this economy??? unequivocally, yes. holy fuck. this had everything. large cast of compelling characters, fast-paced plot, romance, explorations of war and violence and power and motherhood and disability and morality, tight writing, dry humor - the works. I wish Barrayar had been six hours longer. I need to start the next book immediately. I don't know that I can do it justice in a review.

Shards of Honor: okay, after all that gushing this was only ("only") a 4.5. we've got a survival story, a galactic war, a psychological thriller, and a romance all combined, and the plot shifted tones and focuses just a little too much for me (plus I'll admit the space battle parts lost me a bit). we're following cordelia naismith, a research officer on assignment on a (unbeknownst to her) politically-advantageous planet. cordelia's base is ambushed by a mutineering band of barrayaran soldiers, the enemies of her people of beta colony, and she finds herself stranded on the planet with the notorious barrayaran admiral aral vorkosigan. the plot escalates in leaps and bounds from there - to outline anything more would be a spoiler. needless to say, cordelia and aral fall in love, against a backdrop of the aforementioned mutiny, a war, a scheming emperor on his deathbed, and a masochistic officer. cordelia is a soldier, a captain, a captive, a prisoner of war, a psychic patient, and a lady in the course of 336 pages. and I love her. she's an absolute badass, she's deeply compassionate, she isn't afraid to call anyone (particularly aral) on their shit, she's reckless. she waterboards someone in a fish tank. she utters possible the most metal romantic line I've ever heard ("when he's cut, I bleed"). I want to be her when I grow up. aral falls sickeningly in love with her - he literally admits that he first got a crush on her upon seeing her throwing up in a creek and proposes marriage to her after less than two weeks. he's also a (CANONICAL) disaster bisexual whose idea of therapy is getting drunk in hideous hawaiian shirts with sentimental value and he has a sadistic murdering ex-boyfriend. actually this is a great book to read as a bisexual. I want to be their third so bad.

Barrayar: yeah this is the book that sealed the brainrot for me. political intrigue, a fancy-dress ball, assassination attempts, high emotional stakes, cordelia being the only rational person in the room 80% of the time, the BEST side characters, all escalating to a civil war that, naturally, involves cordelia beheading people? sign me the fuck up. I'm not gonna talk about cordelia and aral again save that I love them even when aral is being a moron with a horrible father. he doesn't rly deserve cordelia and he knows it. ok. now. koudelka is my babygirl and can literally do no wrong, okay? even though he is a moron of the absolute highest order who needs to be slapped approximately every 50 pages (cordelia usually takes care of it). (actually all the men in this book are morons and the women are perfect. no wonder I like it!) hottest man to carry a walking stick / sword since jem carstairs. droushnakovi my QUEEN, idolizes cordelia (as she should) bc barrayaran society is stupid and misogynist and she's never seen a female soldier before, deserves every good thing in the world (first and foremost a briefing on feminism). bothari....I am clenching my fist in emotion. when we are talking of COMPLEX MORALLY GRAY MEN....look no further. when he calls himself cordelia's pet dog???? gnawing at the bars of my enclosure. he is FAR from perfect and I'd probably want to be at least 500 meters away from him irl but GOD does he get in my FEELINGS. plus also girl dad, so we have to cheer. ohhh my god and I haven't even gotten into the politics and social structure of barrayar and how it is so similar to our own and how cordelia is in the perfect position to critique it bc beta colony is suuuper different and way more advanced, and critique it she does. the conversations about motherhood and the expectation that mothers carry their children to term biologically even when technology exists elsewhere in the galaxy to literally replace and replicate a uterus? actually every single discussion about motherhood and social expectations on barrayar vs beta colony. frighteningly prescient for a book published in 1991!! ALSO the conversations on disability and the validity of disabled life that I am sure will only continue?? (count piotr can go kick rocks btw). can you tell this is my favorite book of the year yet?? jesus christ. I need the next one immediately.

[le-clair-de-lune]

for the lovely anon from this request: !Jealous Edmund Pevensie but shes a queen of Narnia too and they're "enemies."

hope you like it!! ended up longer than expected!! Since there was no specific time you wanted, I just based it during 'Prince Caspian'

You awoke to a still atmosphere, only the soft breaths of your friends to signify life. You hated it. You missed the life that once surrounded this place. The whispering of the trees as they danced, the laughs that echoed through the forests, the community that once made Narnia no longer existed.

Guilt washed over you as you thought of your friends, your people, you had abandoned them. And now you return a thousand years later, not as the mighty Kings and Queens they told tales of, but as helpless teenagers.

After you had left the first time, all you had longed for was to return. Now? you feel out of place, as if you are of no use.

Returning from your thoughts, you stretched your arms out with a groan. Sleeping on the forest floor was definitely not easy on your back. You rubbed softly at your eyes before they widened, eyeing the empty space Peter had once occupied.

Worried thoughts filled your head as you ran towards his makeshift bed, searching for any signs of what could have happened before reaching for the person closest to you. Who just happened to be Edmund.

"Wake up!" Edmund groaned at your vigorous shaking slapping at your hands "Get UP"

His eyes opened to see your panicked face. "Get the hell off of me" he scoffed shoving you causing you to fall back.

Normally you would have fought him for this, but you had other things on your mind. "He's gone" you exclaim pointing to where his brother should have been.

This caught attention, quickly rising grabbing his sword. As you moved to get up, Lucy and Susan had began to get up at the ruckus. All four of your froze when you heard the sound of clashing metal through the trees.

Edmund grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you up, both of you frozen in place when your chests brushed against each other. Your eyes widen at the closeness before shoving him with a scoff. "Let's go"

Following your 'Dear little friend', as Lucy so affectionately called him, you were lead to the scene. Peter battling a boy that seemed to be about your age, a handsome boy at that.

"Peter" Susan shrieked, gaining there attention.

----

The boy, Caspian, seemed to have taken a liking to Susan based on the looks they shared. But you said nothing of it whilst walking to where the army Caspian had gathered were.

Once Peter stopped to Caspian you immediately pulled him into a hug before slapping him upside the head. "You arse!" you exclaim, as he rubbed his head "I thought something happened to you"

He smiled sheepishly before apologizing, only to stop mid sentence when his brother roughly pushed past you.

"What the hell, Edmund" you gasped

The boy turned towards you, walking backwards as you approached him. "You were in the way" he shrugged

"You were in the way" you mimicked sticking out your tongue "Piss off"

As you both bickered, with shoves and eye rolls, which became more aggressive with each passing moment, Caspian turned to the others. "Are they always like this?" he whispered worried.

The siblings rolled their eyes, before nodding.

----

You were a family friend of the Pevensies. Your mothers had become friends due to you and Edmund being in the same class.

During the war, both your parents had been deployed. Your mother a nurse, and your father on the front lines. With no other close relatives you were taken in by the Pevensies. Much to Edmunds dismay.

You never got along with the boy. You both always had different views and opinions. That along both of yours competitive nature, did not mix well. You always ended in an argument.

The arguments got worse over time, to the point you couldn't stand being near each other.

The only time it had simmered down was during you life in Narnia, in fact you had both found that, more than once, you found pleasure in each others company.

Then you returned to your world. At it went back to the way it was.

----

"Oh shut it, you imbecile" you rolled your eyes having enough of Edmund's antics, walking towards Peter.

You had made it to the tomb.

"Oh yeah, go back to Peter" he let out, a look you hadn't seen before in his eyes. "Love Peter, don't ya?"

"Wha-"

"Peter's best friend, care about him so much" his voice growing louder.

"Why are yo-"

"Why don't you just go marry him?" he seethed

Your eyes widened at his words. "What are you talking about?"

He scoffed walking towards you "Oh please" he rolled his eyes "I thought something happened to you" he pouted mimicking you "I was soooo worried. I love you Peter. You mean so much to me. Why don't you just shag alre-"

You hand collided against his cheek. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

His eyes caught your glossy ones. "I-"

You walked away, not wanting to any more from him.

----

You heard footsteps behind you, whipping around prepared to shoo off Edmund. Only your eyes met those of the young prince instead.

"Are you alright you majesty?"

You let out a soft laugh, "You don't have to call me that"

He sighed clearly glad at your kindness.

"Would you like to join me?" you asked moving over.

You both sat in a comfortable silence. "I grew up hearing stories of you" He shared with a chuckle. "Stories of your travels, the way you took down the White Witch, do you know what each story mentioned?"

"Why not?" you shrug, no harm in hearing some stories.

"The bond you all had, the love you all had for each other, and" he paused looking at you "The love you and Edmund held for each other"

"W-what?" you sputtered "No" you shook your head "We can't stand eachother, we- we hate eachother"

"Well" Caspian smiled amused "People who 'hate' each other, don't look at each other the way you do."

You stayed quiet, looking over all the interactions you had with Edmund. The way you felt about him. Perhaps Caspian was right.

"The way we look at each other?" you questioned

Caspian nodded.

"The same look you and Susan share?" you cheekily smiled

Caspian grew pink but stayed silent. He was luckily saved by a cough behind you.

Edmund.

"I should go review the plan" Caspian left with a nod.

The room grew silent once more as you turned away from Edmund.

"I'm sorry" he sighed. "I don't know what I was thinking, I just-"

"You were just... jealous?" you cut him off

His eyes widened before he made his way in front of you. "Perhaps"

Your head shot up, locking eyes with him.

"Really?"

"Mhmm, I didn't realize it at first but" he kneeled in front of you "But I care for more deeply than I thought." he took a deep breath before letting out a quiet "I love you"

When he did not hear your voice, he turned away prepared to be turned down.

Your hand reached for his cheek, forcing him to look at you. "I love you too" you let out before meeting his lips.

The kiss was passionate, all the years of pent up emotions released in a single moment.

You were the one to pull away, resting your forehead against his.

"All the years of arguing, and we could have been doing this instead" he smirked.

"Shut up, Ed" you shoved him softly.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Silk & Dagger: A Sensible Drow RPG and Drow Gender

There’s a lot going on in Silk & Dagger: A Sensible Drow RPG that I haven’t talked about yet, so I’m taking the opportunity to make this a pride month post about gender in Silk & Dagger’s society.

For men, there’s of course “men” and “wo-men” (strange customs from the surface, not worth talking about or examining closely), for dark elves, they’ll tell you there’s dark elves, and dark he-elves. They’re a self-admitted matriarchal society, and so dark elves hold much more social capital be default than dark he-elves. That’s it. But it might not be so simple..

This unfortunately means I might have to explain almost the entire lore of the game but I’ll try to keep it need-to-know.

In this dark and cramped subterranean society, “Drow” is a title, one attainable only by a dark elf(or in very rare cases, a wo-man) who has proven herself to other Drow, passed a series of trials, and continues to uphold a series of behavioral ideals thereon. In this matriarchal society, these ideals of a superior class are feminine ideals.

Drow control just about everything in this society, anything a Drow says goes, provided she has the reputation to put behind it, with only a minuscule number of actual written laws constraining their behavior. The society is divided up into “palaces,” which are just that, “large” ornate living spaces carved out of the stone itself, in close proximity to farming caverns and natural resources. Each palace is typically owned and ruled by a single Drow, with anyone else allowed to live there so long as she likes them and/or they make themselves useful, mostly the latter.

There exist dynasties, families of Drow which look out for each others’ interests, and other types of alliances based on friendship or mutual interest, but each palace is supposed to be fully independent. There is no money, war, enslavement, or government in this society, each Drow is her palace’s one-elf army, and is entitled to all that she can take by force. Actually killing another Drow is deeply shameful, but fighting is expected. When conflict arises over the rights to certain resources, duels or small group skirmishes are held, which are as much a performance as a contest of martial arts. It is rarely enough just to win, a Drow has to win impressively enough that it doesn’t look like a mere fluke, for her reputation. If it looks like she barely scraped by, she’s easy pickings. All this resulting in Drow regional politics looking something like if pro wrestling was real and they sometimes used swords.

(art by team artist @chaospyromancy, a Drow may wear this to battle, because it looks good. This is also featured in her own artbook, A Squad of Drow.)

You should see now how that reputation is key. Even though it’s a granted title, a Drow is only a “real Drow” as long as she looks and acts like one, and can inspire the kind of reverence a Drow is supposed to be afforded. There is a very complex code of conduct for how a non-Drow is to address and interact with a Drow, and how a Drow is to carry herself and interact with those in her domain. It’s so complex, strict, and high-stakes that it forms the foundation of the gameplay itself.

A non-Drow failing to show a Drow adequate respect reflects badly on them, and can even lead to severe physical punishment, but most importantly (according to the Drow), it can severely impact the Drow’s reputation. If a Drow isn’t Drow enough to make lowly servants treat her like one, she’s going to be eaten alive out there by the real Drow.

Nominally, there are two elf genders, but elves who have failed to live up to the pinacle of feminine gender roles are nevertheless relegated to a class below those who succeeded. This may sound familiar.

[gazelles-gazelles]

Adora and Catra as rose brides

Like anthy, the rose bride, says: in the end, all girls are like the rose bride

Adora is shown to embody, experience and exhibit many aspects of what it means to be the rose bride because it overlaps a lot with the mythical legend entity she inhabits.

She’s first and foremost dehumanised, she’s not seen as a person with nuance and dimensionality, which includes flaws, she’s seen as flawless, perfect. She’s idealised, they don’t see her true personhood but the image they have of her based on who they want her to be or who they already think she is. She’s seen as beautiful, inhumanly and otherworldly so, like a statue or mural found in temples and ruins. She’s deemed a goddess, scared and holy and therefore revered and deified, put on such a high pedestal that isolate her. 

Even more strongly than her dehumanisation, is her exploitation. Her power and lineage and destiny make her a tool, a weapon, an object, a resource. She’s coveted and sought after by many sides, to be possessed, to be used. As a pawn in their game, a part of their machine, an instrument in their orchestra, a role in their play. The sole point of her isn’t who she is but who she can be, what she can do.

She’s been grown since childhood for obedience, to listen and do exactly as she’s told, ordered. The place where her true self and personhood, her desires and wants, should exist in is a void, an empty space. She lost it, erased it. She’s been forced to ignore and repress her emotions and feelings, her thoughts and ideas, her doubts and questions forever. To contort her mind and heart as to only echo other people’s goals and desires, never her own. Her agency and autonomy and identity is a foreign thing. It never mattered what she wanted or thought.

Not even her body is her own. It’s changed and transformed, violated without her consent or full knowledge of what’s happening, and it keeps happening. From her actual anatomy, her hair’s and eyes’ colors, her muscles and bones. To what it’s clothed in, what uniform, what crown, what sword. To what she does with it, what battles she fights, what services she provides, what fealty she swears, what weapon she activates. Her body is forced to become a costume she wears and a doll other people play with.

And after all of that, she barely realises the pain she was dealt, the wrong that’s been done to her. She believes in the facade, the lie, and she’s comfortable in it. She convinces herself it’s all her in control, it’s always been her choices and decisions, but that couldn’t be further from truth. She comes close to the realisation but the full truth of it is scary, that she’s not invincible, that she’s breakable (already broken?), that she might need help or saving is terrifying. So she closes her eyes and refuses to see it, confront it. It’s better to cry from the despair and hopelessness and failure, in the darkness, in the cage, all alone, than to do that. But then there’s a hand, and there’s a light, and there’s love. And she can’t be forced to it, she has to reach out for it, to speak honesty, to finally accept it and believe it and when she does, only then is she finally free.

Catra is also a rose bride, but, befitting her own narrative uniqueness, a less poeticised and more explicitly rather than implicitly a tragic and gruesome version.

One of the first and most definite information we got of Catra is that she’s osctarcissd, excluded, othered. She’s a black sheep, an outcast, a pariah. Her circle consisted of only two persons and only one brought her happiness. She’s a loner, she doesn’t have many friends, not many people associate with her, she’s too weird, off-putting, unnerving, difficult, different, because yes wounds and pain do make one different, it makes them bleed and cry and scream and many don’t want to see that so they shy away from it. They want her exiled to the shadows, unseen and unheard, invisible, nonexistent.

The other thing we learn is Catra’s role as the scapegoat, the whipping girl, the one to blame, who the finger points at, the vessel of everything and everyone that is wrong and bad in the world around her. And she’s being punished for it. She’s blamed since childhood for things that were never her fault to begin with and was consequently hurt for it, and then older she becomes blamed for her own hurt. She’s been stabbed by the swords of hatred almost everyday of her life until it became unquestioned, nornalised, natural, a fact of the world that she is to be in pain, that she deserves her pain, and that there is nothing to do about it.

The worst of Catra’s tragedy is her awareness of the world and her place in it, and her complicity in it. She’s not blinded, she’s not tricked, she’s wide awake, she knows. She knows of the system, she knows what it will do to her and others like her, she has a predetermined unquestionable image of what the future would look like, and maybe it’s not the best, but it’s the best she can hope for. She knows of the system, but she doesn’t fight it, she’s too busy surviving in it. The cage hurts but at least it’s familiar, the world outside is foreign, maybe even worse, so she will try her hardest to keep herself and her loved ones with her behind the bars.

Catra’s autonomy is stolen from her so violently, twisted into something evil and then is advised against it. Every person in her life treated her autonomy, her power, her ability to make decisions, as a bad thing. It’s something she’s not trusted with, she’s too irrational, too wild, too volatile, the world would hurt from it, so it will be better for all if she just stopped. Let other, much more stronger, people handle her, fix her, tame her. To save and protect her. She can never be in control, and if she fought to have it, bad things would happen. She will only bring ruin.

So Catra learned her lesson, she closed her heart. She had loved once, she was kind once, and she was betrayed over and over and over. She vowed to never love again, to never be honest, to never be or vulnerable or else she’ll get hurt, and Catra was so done with hurting. But pleasure isn’t the opposite of pain, numbness is, and sometimes numbness is worse. So when the world opened for her and there in the distance she could see a chance for a change and chance for something better, she became brave, she trusted herself and her loved ones and she finally stepped forward and stepped out of the cage.

[raspberrighost]

I finally finished the ref for Crosswind! I love her sm. Shes just kind of a big ol pookie.

She's calculating, a lil loud, but mostly just doing her best.

Shes a wee bit shorter than Jetfire despite her alt-mode being larger than his. She's just compact!!

Info stuff down below :V

Crosswind has a deep running loyalty for the autobot cause and anyone who is under her direct care. This loyalty often leads to her calculating high risk, high reward situations in battle to ensure everyone makes it home. This willingness to engage in risky actions makes her come across as a lil’ unhinged, but she is assured in her abilities and driven by her need to keep casualties down.

When in battle she is seen in the skies, offering support in many forms. Often she is found evacuating injured parties, and containing the fight to its current area to minimize casualties. If able she will intervene in active gun fights, using her size and speed to ensure whoever is pinned safety. 

She has a decent amount of combat experience,  and what she doesnt know she makes up for in her ability to process information and throw her weight around. Fighting against similarly sized bots means she has to rely on her smarts more than experience and fire power. If others are present and at risk she will continue to engage until they can get to safety or she dies. 

The only way she will disengage is if someone can convince her processor that her present calculation is incorrect. 

-

Generally very pleasant and kind off the field, she does keep a distance, rarely indulging in her personal thoughts and past experiences, but enjoys small talk with the other bots around the base and learning about them. Gets along with most everyone at a base level, but struggles to make deeper connections because of it. It’s a mix of both fear of not seeing them again, and self-doubt. 

Despite this hesitation, she is fairly close with some bots like Jazz, Sideswipe, and surprisingly Ratchet. She does work closely with Prowl off the field, and while they hold a mutual respect, her propensity to disregard rules and risk her own safety means they often butt heads.

She adores the Earth's fauna and flora, adopting the color green quickly for her altmode when she arrived, as green is not commonly found on Cybertron in such beautiful abundance. She kept parts of her orange coloring as a tactical choice so she is easy to see in forested areas and the sky for her team to quickly locate for evacuation. This is a double edge sword as it makes her visible to the enemy, but it's a risk she has been willing to take since the beginning. 

Prior to the war she was an intelligence analyst, constantly searching for flaws and ways to mitigate long term risk for multiple clients. Once the war started she hesitated to join a side, unable to convince herself that a side ran mostly by the previous militia’s personnel was good let alone a side where brute strength seems to rule all. She believes this hesitation led to the loss of some of her closest friends. 

Quick tid-bits:

She is built for long hauls, and landing in tough terrain. This makes her use essential when hunting for energon in remote locations.

She has the ability to survive for longer periods in harsh climates. She is often used as a warming hub/base of command during these missions in order to prolong their mission. 

Her support varies on the needs of her team. She can put out encroaching fires to minimize damage, contain fights, remove injured, or transport. 

Crosswinds altmode is an Illyushin, a multi-purpose strategic airlifter, built to haul 88k lbs 3,100 miles in under six hours (thats from southern Cali, up to Maine in less than six hours for perspective). The build also makes them perfect for landing in rough terrain and taking off on short notice without much runway space. Occasionally used as a command center.

They were built to be all-arounders, and therefore I wanted Crosswind to represent that. They even come equipped w two rear guns, but it wasn't their obvious purpose.

lil close up of her pre-war look, and a comic close up

[capriceandwhimsy]

Sailor Moon vs. The God Emperor of Man

As fun as it's been seeing the argument over who would win in terms of Sailor Moon vs. The God Emperor of Mankind, I think we're ignoring an important factor: setting rules.

Power Scalers always ignore that characters don't exist in a vacuum. They're a part of the universe they're in. And the universes of Sailor Moon and Warhammer 40,000 operate on very different themes and tropes.

=====

See, if Usagi and the Sailor Senshi were in the 40k universe, all their adventures would be portrayed as legends of an ancient time, before the current fallen state of the Galaxy. The major theme of Warhammer 40,000 being "The good old times are over, there is only decay and rot." It's not that all the things she did didn't happen, they just didn't mean anything when looked at through the lens of deep, DEEP time.

So Usagi would end up becoming the Queen of the Ancient Fallen Empire of the Moon Crystal Kingdom, and would be a million-year-old God Empress with her legions of Sailor Senshi super-soldiers, their bodies twisted and their minds degraded from aeons of battle against The Warp, each usage of their Sailor powers sapping some of their humanity until they are but empty husks of their former selves.

Each of the Sailor Senshi would be a hero model on a 50mm base and would cost about $40 msrp and 300 points to run. Usagi herself would be on a big oval base and be represented sitting on a giant crystal throne with an enormous number of crystal spires around her, shooting Moon Crystal Energy. She would be a god-level threat with the ability to destroy planets with a wave of her hand.

A named Ultramarine without a helmet would probably ruin all her plans and solo Sailor Mars. Because the only thing more powerful than galaxy-destroying psychic powers is plot armor.

=====

If The God-Emperor were in the Sailor Moon universe, he'd be a seasonal villain, like Queen Beryl or Sailor Galaxia. Each episode or two, he'd send a different Primarch to cause trouble, each of whom would use a different power set (Primarch Vulkan with his flame powers, Primarch Lion'el with his forestwalking powers and his skill at swords), and each one would be defeated by the Sailor Scouts.

At the end of the season, it would turn out that the Emperor's plan was to use up his Primarch Senshi and reclaim their soul energy, and thus enact his Great Crusade to conquer the galaxy. The Sailor Scouts would be slain, and Usagi would be destroyed, but at the moment of her death, she would have a vision of the Emperor as a young man, a scientist and a father who truly cared about his Primarchs and wanted to create mighty heroes to help humanity, but was twisted and turned to evil by the Lords of Chaos.

Usagi would defeat the Lords of Chaos with the help of the souls of the Sailor Senshi and the Lost Primarchs, as well as calling upon the last bit of nobility in the Emperor's Soul to help destroy the Lords of Chaos at their source.

In the end, the timeline would be reset, and all would be forgotten. But as Usagi goes to school the next day, she would find out that there's a new teacher at her school: Mister Jimmy Space, a transfer from another school. And he'd have brought nineteen new transfer students with him.

[justanoasisimagines]

Lyks

Summary; While training with Aemond, Criston gets a pleasent time which leads to a reveling conversation. Pairing; Criston Cole x Wife!Reader WordCount; 422 Warnings; N/A A/N; This turned out to be based off an idea I have a potentional series. I'll be writing the first part soon. Also requests are open! Credit to @cafekitsune for the banner and the divider

Criston swung his sword with expert precision. His practice partner was no match for him. One day he would, no doubt the young Prince would beat him soon enough.

Criston peered up at the women and children observing the training session unfold. Momentarily distracted, the sword was expelled from his hands.

"My sister has distracted you Ser Criston," Aemond noted as Criston leaned down to retrieve his sword.

"She is a welcomed distraction, one I am always willing to take." Criston observed the young boy begin to sprint down toward the training ground.

"Kepa, Uncle, can I join?" Aeryn yelled as he slid to a halt. Aemond reached out to stabilize the four-year-old.

Aemond grasped his nephew throwing him into the air. Aeryn's laughter echoed through the courtyard. Criston's eyes flickered up back towards the woman standing above them. A smile graced his lips while his heart filled with adoration.

"What do you say? Shall we beat your father again?" Aemond grasped the sword, allowing his nephew to wrap his hand around it also. The whole scene was touching to observe. Aeryn was not strong enough to hold a sword yet but he would be.

Criston prepared his stance as the two lunged at him, the clashing of swords as Aeryn's laughter brought lightness to a usually monotonous occasion. Aeryn's brows frowned the concentration hard on his face.

The "Battle" continued for some time. Criston suddenly let the sword "slip" out of his hand onto the ground.

"Mama, look, Uncle and I won! Did you see it? Did you see?" Aeryn exclaimed. You began to walk down toward, the three of them.

"I did. You are going to be as strong as your Kepa and Uncle one day" Aeryn looked at his mother with such adoration, While Criston admired how far his family had come.

Aeryn squirmed down as he led his little sister Aslyanne to check out all of the weaponry laid out for training.

"My father has not done much in attempting to provide this family with any peace. Not since he declared Rhaenrya as heir, Yet allowing you to marry her, my older sister was the best decision he ever made," Aemond regarded as he stepped closer into Criston's space. Observing his niece and nephew interact, the fascination in his nephew's eyes.

"She is the link between you all. I don't doubt tensions would fray further if it was not for her. She is the peace, the harmony, the love and the patience you all need in one person."

"I must agree with you she is. Time will tell how influential she is in maintaining the peace within this family."

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Do Not Go

Vax’ildan x Reader

Words: 2349

Part One of Two

Summary: Separated from the others in a brutal battle, Vax tries to save you before you fall to your injuries. 

Notes: You guys knew this had to be coming eventually. I have so much angst planned for this man, it isn’t even funny. Also, I’ve never written for an animated character before (let alone one based on a DND campaign) so hopefully this goes well. I’m playing around with jumping around in a timeline, so bear with me. I love Vax so much. 

-

“This way!” 

“No, you idiot. This way!” 

“Close the gate!” 

“Hurry!”

The voices shot over your head like the arrows that were actually shooting over your head. Ahead, the large metal gate began to lower. 

Shit shit shit shit. 

The whole group ran faster. 

Scanlan and Grog got under first, Grog nearly smacking his head against the bars. Then Pike, then Keyleth. Vex ducked under the closing bars. You and Vax were only seconds behind. You stopped when you heard him cry out. An arrow grazed his leg, making him fall. 

“Go!” He yelled to you, voice urgent and out of breath. 

You looked at the closing gate and turned on your heel, sprinting to his side. You grabbed a hold of his arm and helped him back to his feet. 

“I’m not leaving you.” 

The gate crashed down with a dooming thud. 

“Vax!” Vex screamed, reaching her hand through the bars.

 Soldiers descended upon you. 

“We’ll hold them off.” He told her, readying his daggers for a fight. 

She remained, along with the rest of the group, eyes wide and panicked. 

Vax put a hand on hers. “We will find another way around. Go.” 

Vex’s eyes snapped to you. “Keep him alive.” 

All you could do was nod and she reluctantly pried herself away from the gate. The group disappeared into the dark hall. 

Vax watched them go, keeping his back to the soldiers. He turned his head towards you. “How many?”

You scanned the crowd before you. “Fifteen, give or take.” You shrugged. 

He smirked. “Better get to it then.” He whipped around, throwing one of his daggers into a soldier’s eye. 

Arrows shot past your head, nearly slicing your cheek. Three soldiers with swords charged you. You cast a bolt into two of them and watched them crackle into dust. The third swung at you. His sword only collided with your wrist guard, but the impact knocked you backward into another guard. A sharp, burning pain radiated from where you collided with him. 

“Son of a-” You gasped. 

He charged you again. 

You grabbed both of them and cast your personal favorite spell. They both collapsed with a painful scream. 

Vax finished off another soldier, his dagger cleanly slicing open the man’s throat. Five more rushed down the hall towards you. 

“I thought you said there were only fifteen!” He yelled. 

“I believe that’s our cue, darling!” You shouted over the clashing metal. 

Vax took your hand and the two of you started to run. You cast a handful of ball bearings onto the floor, buying you at least a head start. 

You sprinted around corners and ducked into dark halls, hoping to lose them. Finally, Vax found an open door and pulled you through. It opened directly to a flight of stairs. Neither of you caught it in time and you both tumbled down into the dark. You caught the door with your foot, thankfully, closing it so the soldiers wouldn’t find you. 

You landed on a hard, stone floor. Pain radiated through your body. You could hardly move. Even when Vax helped you to your feet, there was a stinging, awful ache in your back. 

“Right. A little light, love?” Vax said. You cast a small fire and lit up the space. It appeared to be a cellar. “Perfect. We can wait for the soldiers to pass and then we can go find the others.” 

“Vax-”

“We make a pretty good team, don’t we?” He chuckled. “I have to say, I’m impressed. The way you handled yourself was incredible. That spell? Those men didn’t stand a chance.” His lips formed a victorious smirk. 

“Vax…” Your voice was weaker now. 

His hazel eyes turned from amused to worried in an instant. 

You took a step towards him and immediately collapsed into his arms. 

“Y/N, what is it?” He asked. As his hands reached to hold onto you, he felt a wetness below your ribs. His hand came away bloody. “No. Gods, no.” He gently lowered you to the ground, pulling you into his lap. 

“I guess,” you gasped in an attempt to laugh, “I guess adrenaline has more power than I thought. I hardly feel-” You cried out as another jolt of pain shot up your spine. 

Vax’s face contorted as if he too were feeling your suffering. “It’ll be alright. We’ll use that  healing potion you bought from Gilmore and everything will be-”

“I used it.” You coughed. “I used it on Keyleth during our last battle, remember?” 

“We’ll figure out something else. We’ll…” His voice broke into a panic. 

You reached up and touched his cheek. Your fingers were cold. 

“Shh,” You soothed. “Can you just… hold me?” You managed a small smile and hoped that his beautiful hazel eyes would be the last thing you saw- just as they had been the first when you met.

-

The fire lit only a small circle. The trees loomed over you like tall, ominous shadows. You’d never been a fan of darkness. Too much could await you. Too much of the unexpected lurked in the pitch. 

There, in the dark, you could see them. Staring at you. The rest of the group seemed unaware, but you couldn’t help but stare back. You weren’t frightened, exactly. There was no malicious intent in their eyes. Instead, there was a curiosity that equally intrigued you. 

“Oh, stop it with the theatrics, will you?” Percy scoffed. “That’s Scanlan’s job.” 

“Yeah!” The gnome agreed, giving you a wink. 

You laughed and rolled your eyes. You took another swig of ale but nearly choked on it. 

A figure stepped out of the darkness. From his alluring presence to his smirking lips, you found yourself utterly entranced. 

“Y/N, this is Vax’ildan, but everyone just calls him Vax. Vex'ahlia’s brother,” Percy said. 

“This little mouse is Y/F/N Y/L/N,” Vex snickered to her twin. “She’ll be joining us, apparently.” 

The woman half-elf’s skepticism towards you hadn’t gone unnoticed. Not that you blamed her. Times like these, everyone had to look out for themselves. Honestly, the only member of the group enthusiastic about your joining was Scanlan and you were pretty sure he was trying to bed you. 

But you couldn’t take your eyes off of the dark-haired rogue. 

He looked at you intently and you felt the burning heat of blush rush to your cheeks. You gave him an unbearably awkward wave. Fates, what were you doing? 

“Hm.” He dismissed you with a nod and took his place beside his sister. 

-

“Do you remember?” You laughed weakly. “Do you remember how nervous I was? All of them were intimidating, but you frightened me the most. With your dark gaze an-and your smolder. You fucking smoldered at me!” Your laughing turned into violent coughs. 

Vax held you closer. 

“I remember,” He said. The reassuring smile he gave you didn’t reach his eyes. “Try and hold still. The others will find us soon. You’re going to be fine.” 

“Vax, I-” 

Footsteps thundered overhead and Vax’s body jolted and you slid ever so slightly out of his grasp. The sudden movement sent another fit up your back. You muffled a pained scream by biting your lip so hard it nearly bled. 

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He muttered, arms wrapping tightly around you once again. “The others will be here soon. Pike will heal you. They’ll find us. Everything will be fine. They’ll find us.” His words were barely more than a whisper as if he were more reassuring himself than you. 

“It’s okay,” You said. You tucked a lock of his dark hair behind his ear. “I’m okay.” 

“Don’t…” He clenched his jaw to keep his chin from trembling. 

“There was a night- gods, it feels like it was yesterday-” You took a deep, shaking breath and tried not to wince. “There was a night in that awful tavern. Everyone had gone up to their rooms but us and we stood outside for what must have been hours. We talked about, well everything, and I can still remember your hand grabbing mine. I thought I’d surely stopped breathing.” You closed your eyes and smiled sadly. “I’m sure you don’t remember. The next morning we were both so hungover from all the ale and you didn’t seem to recall anything that had happened.” 

Vax felt a pang of guilt. That night, he’d let himself feel vulnerable in a way he hadn’t in years. It scared him. The next morning, he could hardly face you. He let you believe it didn’t mean anything. That the secrets you trusted him with were forgotten in a haze of the morning. It was one of his greatest regrets. 

“I remember.” His hand held yours and his lips pressed gently against your palm. “I remember.” 

Perhaps it was you who didn’t. Not entirely.

-

“Look there!” You exclaimed. You pointed to the sky so enthusiastically that you lost your balance and stumbled into him. You both, however, were too drunk to care. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” 

“The shooting star, silly! It was right there!” Your words were hardly understandable, but he still nodded, listening intently. “In my village, we used to say that shooting stars were souls being brought back from the dead.” Your goofy grin dimmed. “You know, for a long time, I’d see them and I would think that maybe, just maybe, those stars would be my parents coming back to me.” 

You felt his eyes on you and fell silent. You let your gaze fall back to the street around you. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

“Nobody ever asked.” You shrugged. “And it’s not something I like to talk about, so…” You bumped your shoulder against his to try and play off the situation. “Unless I have a few drinks in me, apparently.” With a nervous laugh, you took another swig. 

The dark memory faded almost as quickly as it had come, thanks to the haze of intoxication floating around your head. 

Vax’s eyes didn’t leave your face as he took another drink of his ale. He’d lost count of how many he’d had, but he was fairly certain you’d had half as many. Yet drunken giggles tumbled out of your lips like flower petals in the wind and he couldn’t help but smile. 

“I used to be scared of you, you know. You and Vex,” you said. You laid your head on his shoulder with an absentminded snicker. “I’m still scared of her! But you,” you jabbed a finger at his chest, “you’re just a big softy, aren’t you? You act like you don’t care, but you do. I can tell.” 

You let your hand fall back to your side, but your head stayed on his shoulder. Both of you looked back at the sky. Something grazed your palm. Your breathing hitched. Vax’s fingers laced with yours and his warm skin sent shivers up your arm. 

Vax couldn’t move. Gods, he could hardly breathe. Just the feeling of holding your hand made his heart pound like it never had before. The urge to take you completely in his arms was fought only by the towering fear in his mind. He pressed his lips to your forehead and closed his eyes, trying to commit the feeling to memory before the darkness in him ruined it. 

He felt vulnerable when he was with you. Weak. He wanted to protect you. He never wanted to be without you. 

And that terrified him. 

You were right. He cared more than he cared too. 

-

You were growing paler by the second, which hardly seemed possible. 

Vax was covered in your blood.

The rest of the group was still nowhere in sight. 

“Vax,” You gasped. He lifted you slightly, holding the back of your head in his hand. 

“I’m right here, darling.” 

“I need you to tell them…” You winced. Just speaking was taking more energy than you had left. “I need you to tell Vox Machina that I- to tell them I-” 

“You’ll tell them as soon as they arrive and Pike heals you.” He didn’t let the hope in his voice falter. If he could convince you, maybe you could hold on just a little longer. 

Your expression saddened. “Tell them thank you. My life is richer for knowing each and every one of you.” 

“Please.” His voice cracked along with his heart. “Please, just hold on a little longer, Y/N.”

“Vax’ildan,” You used the rest of your strength to hold his face in your hands. “The things I should have told you sooner…”

“Y/N, I beg of you, do not go.” He held back a sob. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have a choice, my love.” Your words shot another arrow through his heart. Love. You weren’t afraid anymore. Your heart may be slowing, but it felt fuller than ever. “My Vax’ildan. How am I ever to repay you for what you have given me? For the love you have reminded me I am still capable of?” 

“Don’t leave me.” He pleaded. “You can make it. You’re so strong. Please. Don’t go. Please, Y/N, I…” His words caught in his throat. 

Your hands fell away from his face. Your head tilted back and one final breath parted your lips. 

Like that distant night, Vax couldn’t move. He was frozen, staring at your still body, and waiting for you to wake up again. But your skin was cold in his grip, slicked with your blood. 

“Y/N?” He put a hand on your cheek.

It was like ice.

“Don’t you dare leave,” Vax cried. “Don’t you do this. We need you. Please. Y/N.” He shook you gently. “Y/N, please!” His cry rang through the chamber. He pulled you to him, burying his face in your hair. He whispered against the coolness of your cheek. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you.”

Everything fell silent, save for the sound of his sobs echoing back to him from every dark corner. Even the shadows seemed to mourn.