#sign of the thyme

[sunriseverse]

// GUARDIAN //

[thewaywardabbey]

Taurus Zodiac Charm $8

Rose Petals, Heather, Thyme, & Rose Quartz

This charm is meant to help balance those born under this zodiac. The 2mL miniature glass jar contains dried herbs and stone or crystal chips associated with that chosen zodiac.

Other signs available! Please allow for variation from photos.

All miniature jar purchases come with approximately 30” of black satin rattail cord. Materials are ethically sourced.

https://thewaywardabbeystore.etsy.com/listing/941309064/zodiac-charms-aries-taurus-gemini-cancer

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~Blessings~Courtney

Image created with Fotor Editor & Adobe Photoshop Express

Copyright – The Wayward Abbey 2025

[milfsloverblog]

hola!! I would like to request larissa x reader where they broke up years ago and when larissa sees reader again she finds out reader has a daughter who looks just like her 👀 lots of angst please

All the Quiet Things

Larissa Weems x fem!reader

A/N: Ngl, I usually wouldn’t write fics where a kid is involved, but reading this request my brain was immediately flooded with angst ideas…. I hope you’ll enjoy it, I sure enjoyed working on it! Oh and happy pride month!

She tells herself it’s the books.

There’s a stall in Greymoor Square that sells rare volumes. Bindings cracked from age, typefaces long since faded. The woman who runs it speaks only in riddles and won’t haggle for anything less than a poem. It’s charming, Larissa tells herself. Worth the hour’s drive, if only for the atmosphere.

That’s why she’s here.

She repeats it like a mantra as she steps onto the cobbled main street of the town just past Jericho. Her heels click sharply against stone. The air smells of baked bread, cherry blossoms, and something sweeter underneath. Something she refuses to name.

It’s early yet. The market is just waking.

Sunlight stretches pale across the awnings, catching on glass bottles filled with syrup and honey. Someone’s tuning a fiddle in the corner. Wind stirs the edges of paper signs.

Larissa inhales. Exhales. Keeps walking.

She should be back at Nevermore, revising staff evaluations, fielding calls from the board, dealing with that absurdly smug fencing instructor who’s started teaching metaphors alongside parries. Instead, she is here, in a town she once passed through and never returned to.

The lie still holds.

Barely.

She stops at a table of marmalades, nods politely to the vendor, pretends to study the jars. Her gloved fingers pass over labels—plum-rose, blackberry-thyme, fig and burnt orange. The colors are rich and glimmer faintly in the morning light.

She does not buy anything.

Instead, she drifts. Watches the life of the market unfold in pieces. An elderly man arguing about tomatoes. A pair of girls balancing loaves of bread between them. A woman with a sleeping child tucked against her chest, the tiny hand curled in soft trust.

Larissa’s stomach turns.

She pauses at a flower stall. The scent is almost overwhelming: lilac, sage, and freshly cut mint. She remembers the smell. Not the exact one, but the shape of it. You once carried mint on your fingers, tucked wild herbs into your pockets. You used to tell her she smelled like winter, and you were determined to warm her up.

She hadn’t thought of that in years.

Hadn’t let herself.

But now the memory presses forward uninvited, and she cannot push it away.

Because someone said your name.

It had been nothing, really. A casual remark over coffee in the staff room. One of the teachers, cheerful and unobservant, had mentioned passing through the Greymoor market the weekend prior.

“Oh, and I could swear I saw a woman who used to work at the Academy years ago… What was her name? The one with the clever mouth. You know, the one Principal Weems was always—well. Never mind.”

Larissa had smiled. Tilted her head. Raised one perfectly plucked brow.

“You must be mistaken,” she had said.

But her tea had gone cold in her hand.

That night, she couldn’t sleep.

And this morning, after the groceries, her car somehow veered west instead of north.

And now, now she is here. Pretending not to search for something she has no right to find.

She rounds a corner and sees the bookseller’s stall in the distance.

Her breath stutters. Not because of the books.

Because someone just turned away from the herbs stall, and she would know the shape of your shoulders anywhere.

There are moments the mind saves for after the fall.

Not the arguments. Not the leaving. Just the quiet before it all began to end.

It comes to her now like mist curling through an open window. Soft and familiar, tinged with the ache of what she never gave.

You used to come to her only after dark.

Never earlier than midnight, never later than two. The hours when the halls of Nevermore slept, and her corridors belonged to no one but ghosts. You never knocked. You didn’t have to. The door was always unlocked, cracked just slightly as if her restraint had slipped at the last minute.

She remembers the sound of your steps.

Barefoot on stone. Careful. You used to hum to yourself on the nights you thought she wasn’t listening.

She always was.

Her quarters were colder than they should’ve been. A high-ceilinged thing with windows far too large, draped in velvet so deep it swallowed moonlight whole. You hated the curtains. She used to watch you wrinkle your nose at them, mutter something about feeling like a kept secret.

And you were.

She made you one.

Every time you touched her, she felt seen in ways she didn’t know how to bear. You peeled her open with fingertips and laughter and soft, unrelenting trust. And what did she give in return?

Nightfall. Shadows. Silence.

You’d crawl beneath the covers beside her, skin warm from sneaking across cold floors. Your body always found hers instinctively, one knee slipping between her legs, one hand brushing her hip like you had every right. You’d smile into her collarbone and call her headmistress in that irreverent way that made her shiver.

She let you shift her. Literally, sometimes. Those were nights she gave in to the instinct buried deep in her kind, the one that allowed her to change shape and body, to take on something heavier, harder. You liked that. She did too. Not because of what she became, but because it was still her, and you never flinched.

But even then, in the dark, there were boundaries she never let you cross.

No hand-holding outside.

No pet names. Not where anyone could hear.

And always—always—you left before dawn.

She told herself it was protection. That if the wrong person knew, your job would be in danger. That you didn’t want that kind of attention. That the board wouldn’t understand. That she was sparing you.

But the truth lived deeper.

She didn’t want to risk herself.

It was easier that way. To keep the thing sacred only in secret. To let love bloom behind curtains, never in daylight. She convinced herself you understood. That the way you curled closer afterward, pressing your forehead to her sternum like it was the only place you slept well, meant you were content.

But she remembers the last night.

You’d said it like it didn’t matter.

“I won’t do this forever, you know.”

Your voice had been soft, almost sleepy. You were lying on your side, hair mussed from her pillow, fingers tracing idle circles over the inside of her wrist. Larissa had stilled. Not enough for you to notice, not enough to seem afraid, but she had felt something tighten.

You didn’t look at her when you said it. You looked at the drawn curtains, the ones you always hated, as if they were the ones holding you captive.

“I can’t keep being nothing in the daylight.”

And Larissa, she didn’t answer.

Not with anything that counted. Just touched your hair, pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, and pretended the moment hadn’t happened. She thought, maybe, if she stayed quiet long enough, you'd stay too.

But you didn’t.

You left before dawn, as always.

Except you never came back.

She had told herself it was for the best. That you’d moved on. That some bright-eyed suitor had offered you a life that didn’t involve shadows and silk-draped secrets.

That it was easier this way.

It’s what she clung to—until now.

Because now, in the center of the market, the crowd parts for just a moment—and you’re standing not ten paces away.

Older. A little.

Your hair is longer. Or maybe shorter. She can’t tell. Her breath has stilled in her throat like a bird caught behind glass.

You haven’t seen her yet.

You’re studying a jar of jam like it contains the answer to something complicated. The sun lights your cheekbone in the exact way it used to when you turned toward her bedside window. She feels the past stretch toward her like an echo trying to find its source.

It hits her all at once:

You’re real.

You’re here.

You suddenly lift your eyes.

And the world stops.

Larissa doesn’t remember stepping forward. Only that your face is exactly as she remembers, and nothing like it at all. Softer around the edges, perhaps. More tired. Or maybe just sharper, carved by five years of silence and everything they didn’t say.

Your expression changes.

Not shock. Not warmth.

Something colder. Something closed.

Her breath stumbles. She swallows it.

“…Hello,” she says.

It lands with all the grace of a stone dropped in water.

You don’t smile. Don’t look away. You just set the jar down on the table—deliberate, controlled—and straighten.

“Principal Weems,” you say, voice dry as paper.

That stings more than she’ll let show.

She gives a small nod, trying to hold herself upright beneath the weight of her own cowardice. “You… look well.”

“Do I?”

There’s no warmth in your voice. No invitation. But you don’t walk away.

Larissa seizes on that small mercy and steps closer. The space between you is measured now, not by feet, but by regret. The kind that yawns wider the longer it’s left untouched.

“I didn’t expect—” she starts, then stops herself. She can’t say she came looking. Not like this. Not when she barely deserves your gaze.

You raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t expect to see me? Or didn’t expect to see me here?”

The market bustles around you, oblivious. Somewhere nearby, a fiddle begins to play. It’s light, cheerful. Out of place.

Larissa draws in a breath. “I heard your name. A colleague mentioned seeing you. I… didn’t believe it at first.”

Your jaw tightens, just slightly.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back this way,” she adds.

“I didn’t,” you say flatly. “Not until recently.”

A beat.

She wants to ask everything. Where you went. What you’ve done. Who you became without her.

But you speak again before she can find the words.

“You look exactly the same,” you say, tone unreadable. “I guess time doesn’t touch you the way it does the rest of us.”

Larissa flinches inwardly. “That’s not true.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Isn’t it?”

Her throat closes.

There are a thousand things she could say. Apologies she’s rehearsed in the silence of her chambers, explanations that don’t excuse but still try to make sense of her choices.

But you glance to the side. Just slightly. As if checking for someone. Your posture shifts, not in fear, not in nerves, but in the guarded way of someone who has something precious nearby.

A little girl—no older than five—comes sprinting toward you across the square. Pale curls bouncing, face alight with joy. You bend slightly as she flings her arms around your waist, and you catch her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like you have always done it.

Like you are her mother.

Larissa can’t breathe.

The child turns and looks up at her. Wide blue-grey eyes. A dimple in her left cheek. The shape of her nose, her chin, the curl of her lashes…

Larissa staggers a step backward.

“She looks like me,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Larissa can’t move.

Because suddenly, the past five years shift. They realign. Every breath, every sleepless night, every echo of your body in her bed.

It all collapses into this one impossible truth:

She hadn’t just left you behind.

You hold your daughter a little tighter.

It’s instinct. Not fear. Just the kind of silent tether a mother keeps when the ground starts to tilt.

You don’t look at Larissa. Not right away.

Because you can’t.

Not when her eyes are locked on the child like she’s seen a ghost. Not when her voice trembles with that awful, fragile kind of disbelief.

“She looks like me,” she says again.

You breathe through your nose. Slow. Measured.

You’ve practiced this.

You’ve practiced everything.

The way you kept your voice steady through the morning sickness. The way you signed the birth certificate without a second name. The way you buried that old photograph, the one where you lay half asleep, curled into her bare chest, her fingers still tangled in your hair.

You buried it all.

But it still breathes.

Your daughter shifts in your arms, resting her head against your shoulder. Her curls brush your cheek. You close your eyes.

She smells like sun-warmed linen and lemon soap and the apricot pastry she insisted on having for breakfast. She smells like home.

You open your eyes and finally meet Larissa’s.

She’s pale. Paler than you’ve ever seen her. Her lips parted. Her hands slack at her sides.

You don’t want her to look at your child like that. Like she’s a riddle. Like she’s an answer. Like she’s a revelation Larissa didn’t earn.

So you speak. Soft. Sharp.

“Don’t.”

It stops her cold.

Her mouth opens. Maybe to ask. Maybe to apologize. But you cut in before she can do either.

“You don’t get to look at her like that.”

Your voice doesn’t shake, but your fingers do.

Just slightly.

Larissa notices. Of course she does.

“I didn’t know,” she says. “God, I didn’t—I didn’t know you were—”

“Pregnant?” You exhale. “Neither did I. Not when I left.”

The words sit heavy between you.

“I wasn’t hiding her from you,” you add. “I just didn’t know she existed yet.”

Larissa stares. Frozen. Like if she breathes, the world will split open.

You look down at your daughter. Your voice softens without meaning to.

“I left because I was tired of being a secret, Larissa. Not because I stopped loving you.”

She looks like she might fall over. Like the ground has opened and nothing is holding her up anymore.

“I would’ve stayed forever,” you say. “If you’d let me exist in the daylight.”

The silence that follows is raw. Almost sacred. The kind that only lives between people who were once everything.

Your daughter stirs, blinking up at you.

“Everything okay, Mommy?”

You brush a strand of hair from her forehead. Smile, soft and instinctive. “Everything’s fine, sweetheart.”

You glance back at Larissa. Her face is shattered.

You should walk away. You know you should.

But something stops you. Not pity. Not cruelty.

Just history.

Just love. Old and threadbare, but not quite dead.

So your voice gentles when you speak again.

“I didn’t plan to hurt you.”

You shift your daughter higher on your hip, thumb smoothing the back of her dress.

“I didn’t plan any of this.”

You start to turn away. Then pause.

And when you meet her eyes again, something quiet lingers there. Not forgiveness. But not quite blame, either.

“If you’re wondering,” you say, “I named her Solene. she’s kind. And she’s bright. And she likes to sing when she thinks no one’s listening.”

A breath.

“She got that from you.”

A silence.

A heartbeat.

Then you’re gone.

The car door slams harder than she means it to.

Inside, the silence is too much. The stillness. The absence.

Larissa grips the steering wheel with both hands, but it’s pointless. Her palms are damp and shaking. The leather is warm under her fingers, but she’s cold. Icy, bone-deep cold.

She stares straight ahead.

The market is still busy. Families move between stalls, children tugging their parents toward sweets and painted wooden toys. Laughter floats through the air. Bread, flowers, the sharp salt of feta samples. It all smells like life continuing. Like nothing has happened.

But something has.

You.

And the child.

Her child.

Larissa shuts her eyes.

“She looks like me,” she had said.

And it was true. God, it was true. Those wide grey-blue eyes. The dimple. That nose. That mouth. It was like someone had taken the smallest, most human parts of her and carved them into new life.

A daughter.

Your daughter.

She presses her forehead against the steering wheel.

You didn’t tell her.

Not because you wanted to hurt her. Not because you meant to hide it. You just… left.

Larissa feels the ache of it now. The terrible symmetry of what she did to you—hiding you behind drawn curtains and late-night shadows—and what you had to do in return. Raising a child alone. Bearing the weight of both your griefs in silence.

She had no idea.

All these years, she thought you walked away out of pride. Out of anger. That you’d found someone new. That the pain she’d tried not to feel was mutual, deserved, symmetrical.

But you didn’t know you were pregnant.

And you still chose to walk away, because Larissa never once gave you the sun.

She breathes through her teeth.

Something hot and acidic swells in her chest. Grief, yes, but something else too.

Longing.

Want.

Not for the past.

For now.

For that child who looked up at her like she was no one. For that child who should’ve known her. For the curve of your voice when you said she sings when she thinks no one’s listening.

She should’ve heard that.

She should’ve known that.

Larissa shoves the door open and climbs out.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t lock the car. Doesn’t glance at the market square. She just walks—quickly, eyes darting, scanning for any glimpse of your silhouette, your hair, that soft blue dress your daughter wore.

She doesn’t care how foolish it looks. How desperate. How loud.

She needs to see you.

Not to apologize.

Not to explain.

To ask.

To beg.

Let me try.

Let me meet her. Let me know her name. Let me hold her just once. Let me be the thing I never thought I was allowed to be.

Let me be her mother.

She turns a corner and sees the crowd begin to thin.

Shops give way to cobblestone alleys and quiet cafés. She slows slightly, eyes searching every step ahead.

She has no idea what she’ll say when she finds you.

But she knows she won’t let it end in silence again.

She sees you half a block ahead.

Near the bakery. That little one with the peeling paint and the lavender hanging in the window.

You’re slower now. Your daughter’s hand is wrapped tightly in yours. She’s walking on the low stone edge of the path, carefully balancing herself as you guide her. You glance down every few steps, steadying her with just a brush of your palm.

Larissa doesn’t call your name. She doesn’t think she could if she tried.

She just walks faster.

You hear her steps before she’s close enough to speak.

You stop walking. Don’t turn around—just stand still, spine straight, hand still curled protectively around your daughter’s. You murmur something to the little girl, and she hops gently off the stone ledge. You gesture toward the bakery door.

“She’s hungry,” you say as Larissa slows to a stop behind you. “We came here for bread and I let her get distracted. She loves the cheese twists.”

Larissa swallows. “You do too.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

“She’s five,” Larissa says, quietly.

“Four and a half,” you correct. “Birthday’s in November.”

There’s silence. A breath too long. A breath too charged.

You sigh.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

Larissa’s voice is hoarse. “Because I didn’t get to say anything.”

You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“She asked who you were,” you say. “I told her your name. That’s all.”

“And if she asks more?”

“She won’t. Not today.”

Larissa nods. She deserves that.

You shift slightly, just enough to glance at her over your shoulder.

Your eyes are tired. Not just from today. From years of it.

“She doesn’t know,” you say. “Anything. She doesn’t know you exist.”

The words land with a weight she can barely bear.

“And it wasn’t to punish you,” you say again. “I didn’t do it out of spite. I did it because I didn’t want to give her a ghost.”

That’s what Larissa had become, after all.

A name unspoken. A grief unshared. A memory too sharp to explain to a child with nothing but questions.

“But now I’m not a ghost,” Larissa says. “I’m here. And I want…”

You turn fully now. Still holding your daughter’s hand. Still standing between them.

Larissa’s voice cracks.

“I want to know her.”

You say nothing.

“I want to learn her favorite color. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to know she came from something… from someone who would have loved her so much if she’d only known.”

You blink, and something shifts in your face. Not forgiveness, not yet. But a fissure. A place where something old has started to melt.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Larissa steps closer.

“I’m asking you not to shut the door. I’m asking you to give me a chance to meet my daughter. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. Just…” Her voice breaks again. “A beginning.”

Your daughter tugs lightly on your sleeve.

“Mommy,” she says. “Is she sad?”

You crouch to her level, brushing a curl from her face.

“She’s someone I used to know,” you murmur. “And maybe… maybe someone we’ll get to know again. What do you think about sharing your cheese twist?”

The little girl looks at Larissa.

Then nods.

Larissa doesn’t move.

You rise slowly and tilt your head toward the bakery. “Come in, if you want.”

Larissa breathes. For the first time in minutes. Maybe in years.

You’re not promising anything.

But you’re not walking away.

Not this time.

————————————————————————

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[najia-cooks]

[ID: A decorative orange ceramic plate with a pyramid of green herbs and sesame seeds, topped with deep red sumac and more sesame seeds. End ID]

زعتر فلسطيني / Za'tar falastinia (Palestinian spice blend)

Za'tar (زَعْتَر; also transliterated "za'atar," "zaatar" and "zatar") is the name of a family of culinary herbs; it is also the name of a group of spice blends made by mixing these herbs with varying amounts of olive oil, sumac, salt, roasted sesame seeds, and other spices. Palestinian versions of za'tar often include caraway, aniseed, and roasted wheat alongside generous portions of sumac and sesame seeds. The resulting blend is bold, zesty, and aromatic, with a hint of floral sourness from the sumac, and notes of licorice and anise.

Za'tar is considered by Palestinians to have particular national, political, and personal importance, and exists as a symbol of both Israeli oppression and Palestinian home-making and resistance. Its major components, olive oil and wild thyme, are targeted by the settler state in large part due to their importance to ecology, identity, and trade in Palestine—settlers burn and raze Palestinian farmers' olive trees by the thousands each year. A 1977 Israeli law forbade the harvesting of wild herbs within its claimed borders, with violators of the law risking fines and confiscation, injury, and even death from shootings or land mines; in 2006, za'tar was further restricted, such that even its possession in the West Bank was met with confiscation and fines.

Despite the blanket ban on harvesting wild herbs (none of which are endangered), Arabs are the only ones to be charged and fined for the crime. Samir Naamnih calls the ban an attempt to "starve us out," given that foraging is a major source of food for many Palestinians, and that picking and selling herbs is often the sole form of income for impoverished families. Meanwhile, Israeli farmers have domesticated and farmed za'tar on expropriated Palestinian land, selling it (both the herb and the spice mixture) back to Palestinians, and later marketing it abroad as an "Israeli" blend; they thus profit from the ban on wild harvesting of the herb. This farming model, as well as the double standard regarding harvesting, refer back to an idea that Arabs are a primitive people unfit to own the land, because they did not cultivate or develop it as the settlers did (i.e., did not attempt to recreate a European landscape or European models of agriculture); colonizing and settling the land are cast as justified, and even righteous.

The importance of the ban on foraging goes beyond the economic. Raya Ziada, founder of an acroecology nonprofit based in Ramallah, noted in 2019 that "taking away access to [wild herbs] doesn't just debilitate our economy and compromise what we eat. It's symbolic." Za'tar serves variously as a symbol of Palestinians' connection to the land and to nature; of Israeli colonial dispossession and theft; of the Palestinian home ("It’s a sign of a Palestinian home that has za’tar in it"); and of resistance to the colonial regime, as many Palestinians have continued to forage herbs such as za'tar and akkoub in the decades since the 1977 ban. Resistance to oppression will continue as long as there is oppression.

Palestine Action has called for bail fund donations to aid in their storming, occupying, shutting down, and dismantling of factories and offices owned by Israeli arms manufacturer Elbit Systems. Also contact your representatives in the USA, UK, and Canada.

Ingredients:

Za'tar (Origanum syriacum), 250g once dried (about 4 cups packed)

250g (1 2/3 cup) sesame seeds

170g (3/4 cup) Levantine sumac berries, or ground sumac (Rhus coriaria)

100g (1/2 cup) wheat berries (optional)

2 Tbsp olive oil

1 Tbsp aniseed (optional)

1/2 Tbsp caraway seeds (optional)

Levantine wild thyme (also known as Bible hyssop, Syrian oregano, and Lebanese oregano) may be purchased dried online. You may also be able to find some dried at a halal grocery store, where it will be labelled "زعتر" (za'tar) and "thym," "thyme," or "oregano." Check to make sure that what you're buying is just the herb and not the prepared mixture, which is also called "زعتر." Also ensure that what you're buying is not a product of Israel.

If you don't have access to Levantine thyme, Greek or Turkish oregano are good substitutes.

Wheat berries are the wheat kernel that is ground to produce flour. They may be available sold as "wheat berries" at a speciality health foods store. They may be omitted, or replaced with pre-ground whole wheat flour.

Instructions:

1. Harvest wild thyme and remove the stems from the leaves. Wash the leaves in a large bowl of water and pat dry; leave in a single layer in the sun for four days or so, until brittle. Skip this step if using pre-dried herbs.

2. Crumble leaves by rubbing them between the palms of your hands until they are very fine. Pass through a sieve or flour sifter into a large bowl, re-crumbling any leaves that are too coarse to get through.

Crumbling between the hands is an older method. You may also use a blender or food processor to grind the leaves.

3. Mix the sifted thyme with a drizzle of olive oil and work it between your hands until incorporated.

4. Briefly toast sumac berries, caraway seeds, and aniseed in a dry skillet over medium heat, then grind them to a fine powder in a mortar and pestle or a spice mill.

5. Toast sesame seeds in a dry skillet over medium heat, stirring constantly, until deeply golden brown.

6. (Optional) In a dry skillet on medium-low, toast wheat berries, stirring constantly, until they are deeply golden brown. Grind to a fine powder in a spice mill. If using ground flour, toast on low, stirring constantly, until browned.

Some people in the Levant bring their wheat to a local mill to be ground after toasting, as it produces a finer and more consistent texture.

7. Mix all ingredients together and work between your hands to incorporate.

Store za'tar in an airtight jar at room temperature. Mix with olive oil and use as a dipping sauce with bread.

[harkness-pet]

my house of stone, your ivy grows, and now I'm covered in you - pt. 1

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader

Plot: you are a gardener who starts working for Agatha, a housewife of a rich man who’s never home. as the summer blooms, so does the tension between you two.

Tip me if you like my work and want to support me :)

You weren’t looking for anything special that summer, but since the flower shop you had been working at closed, you needed something new, preferably something that was outside. 

When Mrs. Agatha Harkness Whitmore posted a notice at the town’s market bulletin board, asking for someone to care for her garden through the summer, your fingers had plucked the little white card without hesitation.

The house she owned stood at the edge of town, wrapped in ivy. It was enormous and you could only imagined it went back generations of Whitmores. It seemed to be full of ghosts.

But the first time you met Agatha, she wasn’t some brooding figure in the shadows. She wasn’t even the owner, she was the owner’s wife. 

She was lounging by the pool, sunglasses perched in her wavy, dark hair, skin already kissed bronze by the early summer sun. She looked like a 1970s movie star.

“You must be the new gardener,” she said, a slow smile blooming across her lips.

You nodded, trying not to stare. She looked like a painting — all curves and calm and careful elegance.

“My husband’s been pestering me about the garden for ages, but I just don’t have the green thumb.”

You tried to smile politely, your hands stiff at your sides.

“You’ll find the tools in the shed. But if you have questions,” she added, lifting her glasses just enough to meet your eyes, “ask me. Not him.”

Then she settled back, arms behind her head, and let the sun drape itself over her body. That day, you clipped roses with shaking hands.

~~~

The days passed slowly. You wore cutoff shorts and tied your hair back with a scarf, sometimes humming Fleetwood Mac songs under your breath. Agatha rarely left the house except to sunbathe. 

But when she stretched out in her chair, the silk of her robe falling open just enough to show the dark line of her bathing suit beneath, your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know how to breathe.

But she always watched you.

At first, it was little things, a glass of lemonade left on the table, her voice drifting out through the open French doors, murmuring about how “the petunias look like they might finally cooperate.”

Then came the conversations.

You would be kneeling in the dirt, hands deep in rosemary and thyme, and she would call to you.

“Do you like Fleetwood Mac?” she asked once, lazily twirling a glass of iced tea in her fingers.

You looked up, sweat on your brow. “Who doesn’t?”

She smiled faintly. “You remind me of Stevie. Wild. Young. Intense eyes.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. So you smiled and changed the subject.

But the conversations kept happening.

Books. “Have you read The Bell Jar?” she asked one afternoon. You had, and you talked about it for nearly an hour. 

Dreams. You told her about wanting your own herb shop someday, a big garden with a greenhouse and a crooked little sign by the road.

She listened like no one ever had.

Once, on a blistering afternoon, you were on your knees trimming lavender when her voice floated over.

“You’re baking out here,” she said. “Come have a drink.”

You turned. She was sitting up now, that same black one-piece clinging to her like it had been painted on. Her hair was pinned loosely, neck bare, skin glistening. You hesitated, hands dirty.

She lifted a glass and tilted her head. “Come on. I won’t bite.”

You stood, wiping your hands, trying not to feel every inch of her gaze travel over you. She handed you the glass — lemonade with fresh basil, ice clinking — and smiled when your fingers touched.

“I like watching you work,” she said casually. “You have this way of moving. Very... focused.”

You swallowed too quickly. “Thanks.”

“I used to love gardening,” she continued, looking out over the beds. “When I was younger. Before the house got too big and the marriage too... dry.”

You didn’t know what to say. You took a long sip and let the silence stretch.

“I wanted to be a writer,” she said almost as an afterthought. “Before I became Mrs. Whitmore. Before I became someone’s trophy.”

“What would you write?” you asked after a while. The surprise etched on her face made you hesitate whether you said something wrong. “Sorry, you don’t-“

“I’d write historical fiction,” she confessed, voice almost a whisper. “Ask me more things.” 

You stared at her, wordless, and her hand reached out and squeezed your arm. “Please.”

That was the first time you felt the heat shift — not the sun, but something between you. Something that wasn’t just your wishful thinking. 

A week later, she asked you to put lotion on her.

It was late afternoon, the sun dropping gold across the pool deck. You’d just finished laying mulch in the herb bed, your shirt sticking to your back with sweat. She was already there, as always, reclined, skin glowing.

She turned her head lazily as you passed. “Sweetheart,” she said, that husky drawl of hers curling around the word, “would you do me a favor?”

You stopped. “Of course.” Of course. Anything. Everything. 

She held up a bottle of sunscreen. “My back. I’ve been out here too long and I can’t reach. You don’t mind, do you?”

You took it from her, your fingers brushing hers. She turned over slowly, her robe slipping away entirely, and the sight of her — bare back, curve of hip, the way the suit dipped low… made you thirsty and lightheaded. And it was definitely not the sun’s fault. 

Her skin was golden, glowing. You knelt beside her, your legs brushing the warm stone tiles, and uncapped the bottle.

You squeezed the lotion into your palm. You swallowed, rubbed your hands together, and then laid them gently on her back.

Her skin was hot beneath your fingers. You moved slowly, careful, tracing the edges of her shoulder blades. She let out a low hum, not of discomfort. Approval, maybe. Her head turned slightly, her cheek resting on the towel.

“Your hands are strong,” she murmured.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t trust your voice. You just kept rubbing, watching the way the light danced across her spine, trying not to fall apart at the seams.

As you slowly worked the lotion in, you could hear her humming under her breath, a sound that filled the silence, made everything feel intimate. It wasn’t a song or a tune; it was just a soft, satisfied hum, like she was savoring every moment.

You applied more lotion, your fingers now pressing gently into the muscles of her shoulders, working out the tension there. The motion of your hands on her body became more methodical, more thorough, and you felt the muscles in her back relax beneath your touch.

She tilted her head back slightly, closing her eyes as if giving herself over to the moment. Her breath became slower, deeper. And just as you reached the curve of her spine, she let out another soft sigh, her body tilting slightly, giving you more access.

"That feels good," she murmured, her voice a little thicker now, like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself. “You know exactly where to press…”

You smiled, feeling her soft skin slip under your fingertips as you continued. Her skin was warm, almost burning in the heat, but it was comforting. With each glide of your hands, you could feel her breath getting heavier.

You leaned in closer, your hands traveling down her back, pressing deeper into the small of her back. You could hear her heartbeat pick up ever so slightly, the shift in the rhythm unmistakable.

"You’re tense," you said softly, pressing your palm against her lower back and kneading gently.

Her breath caught, and she let out a tiny, involuntary moan, the sound like a secret shared between the two of you. You couldn’t help but smile at the way her body reacted to you, how she seemed so alive under your touch, as if your hands were pulling something from her she couldn’t hide.

Without thinking, you moved lower, your hands gliding down her back to her hips. The lotion left a trail of smoothness behind, and as you moved lower, your fingers brushed against the side of her ribcage, feeling her body shift ever so slightly under your touch.

She let out a small gasp, her eyes fluttering open, meeting yours for the briefest of moments before she turned her head away, biting her lip as if to hold back the emotions rising in her. Her legs shifted slightly, her thighs pressed together. The gesture wasn’t intentional, but it was enough to catch your attention.

You could feel your own pulse quicken, your breath coming a little sharper now as you continued.

"Tell me if I’m hurting you," you murmured, but there was a teasing edge to your voice.

She shook her head slowly, her voice a quiet whisper. "No... don’t stop."

Her words felt like a challenge. She wanted you to keep going. 

You let your hands roam a little further, your fingers now massaging the back of her thighs. You couldn’t stop yourself. It wasn’t just the way she had asked, nor the hum of pleasure that escaped her lips. It was the way her body responded to every movement of your hands, the way she needed this from you.

Then her phone rang and it broke the spell. You flinched back as if someone had slapped you. 

She seemed to also realise the position you were both in and she didn’t meet your eyes again. She reached for her phone and murmured a quick “thank you”. You turned away and pressed your eyes shut when you heard her answer the call with “hello, darling.”

You saw Agatha’s husband only a handful of times. He didn’t seem to be home very often. Agatha once said he only came home late and expected warm dinner and warmer bed. You didn’t want to think about that. You didn’t want to think about him too much because you hated him far too much for someone who had never even met the guy properly. 

Your mind didn’t have that much space for hatred, though, as it was entirely occupied by Agatha. 

How she tilted her head when you talked about your garden. How her eyes softened when you told her about the basil you were growing from seed. How she listened. Really listened. 

One morning, you nicked yourself on the rusted edge of the pruning shears. A clean slice across your palm, blood welling before you could even curse.

You pressed your shirt to the wound and cursed under your breath, wondering if you should run into town for antiseptic. But before you could make up your mind, Agatha was there.

Barefoot on the flagstones, a linen blouse knotted loosely at her waist. Her robe draped over one arm. Her expression was unreadable.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, but she was already crossing to you.

“Sit.” Her voice was softer than usual. No teasing. Just quiet command.

You obeyed. She knelt before you, brows drawn in a line of concern you hadn’t seen before. She cradled your hand in hers, gently tugging the cloth away. Her thumb brushed near the wound.

“You really should be more careful,” she murmured.

She disappeared into the house and returned with a small tin. Rubbing alcohol. Gauze. A bandage. You watched her move, quick, efficient, but still elegant, like everything else she did.

When the alcohol touched your skin, you hissed.

“Shh,” she said, glancing up at you. “Almost done.”

Her fingers worked gently, but something about the moment slowed time. The way she touched you. The way her brow furrowed, eyes flicking up every so often to meet yours. And you... watched her the whole time.

She looked at you then. Fully. Something in her face softened even more, and for a breathless second, it seemed she might kiss you.

But she didn’t.

She patted the bandage gently and stood, brushing her hands on her thighs. “There. Good as new.”

You were not good as new. You were ruined. And she had no idea.

Or maybe she did.

You didn’t mean to fall under her spell. She was older. Married. Untouchable. But those long, sun-warmed days blurred the lines between right and wrong. There was something about her, something caged and dangerous, something soft and aching, too. You saw the way her eyes lingered on you a second too long. You heard the way her voice lowered when she asked how you slept the night before.

You caught her watching you from the upstairs window. You were trimming the hedges, sweat dripping down your neck, and something made you glance up.

She didn’t move away when you met her gaze. She didn’t pretend she wasn’t staring. She just stood there in the thin white curtain, dark silhouette against the glass. Watching. Wanting. Waiting.

You didn’t wave. You didn’t smile. You just let her look.

And then one day you stayed too late. The sun had already begun to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows over the lawn. You packed your tools slowly, unwilling to leave, your skin still humming from the way Agatha’s hand had brushed your wrist earlier while passing you the clippers. A touch that meant nothing. A touch that meant everything.

She’d gone inside an hour ago. She didn’t say goodbye. Just disappeared through the French doors. 

You almost didn’t go looking for her. You told yourself she was fine. She always was. Sharp and composed and untouchable.

But something tugged at you. You wandered around the side of the house toward the open window in the sitting room. The lights were off inside. You were just about to call her name when you heard it.

Not a sound you’d ever heard from her before.

A choked inhale. A low, soft sob.

You froze. For a moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard. You could leave now. Walk away. Let her have this private storm.

But your feet moved before you decided. You stepped up to the open door and found her there.

Agatha was curled in the corner of the couch, knees tucked under her, one hand pressed to her mouth. Her other hand clutched a glass of wine, nearly full. Her head turned slightly when she heard you, but she didn’t lift her face.

“I didn’t expect you to still be here,” she said, voice rough, almost hoarse.

“I was just leaving.”

She nodded. Wiped her cheek quickly with the back of her hand. “Sorry. Don’t— It’s just a headache.”

You stepped closer. “Agatha…”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, sharper this time, her armor trying to snap back into place. “I don’t need—”

But you crossed the room before she could finish. You knelt in front of her.

Gently, you reached out and brushed the tear from her cheek. Your touch was feather-light and her breath caught.

Her eyes locked on yours, wide and dark and full of everything she wouldn’t say. Sadness. Fear. Hunger. Loneliness. She didn’t flinch when you touched her. She didn’t move at all.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you see me.”

“I do see you.”

That undid her more than anything. Her chin trembled, just for a moment. Her grip tightened on the wineglass like it might be the only thing anchoring her to the world.

You cupped her face fully now, thumb smoothing across her temple. You didn’t kiss her. You didn’t say anything stupid or brave. You just stayed there for a breath too long.

And then you stood.

“I have to go,” you said quietly.

She nodded, still watching you. Neither of you said goodbye.

You walked out into the dusk, heart hammering, and knew that whatever was happening between you, this wildfire, this slow ache, was no longer something you could control.

And neither could she.

~~~

The next day, with the sun burning high and no breeze to speak of, Agatha appeared on the poolside again. It looked like whatever happened the day before had been a mere dream, but her expression revealed that something had changed. 

She wore a sheer white robe that slipped off her shoulders, revealing a dark purple one-piece that clung to her. You noticed her watching you several times and you were waiting because you knew. You knew that the barrier between you was crushing down. 

“You must be boiling out there,” she said finally, her voice low.

You wiped your forehead with your sleeve and internally exhaled. Here it was. 

“Come cool off,” she said, and this time it wasn’t a suggestion.

You hesitated. The pool shimmered in the blazing sun.

“Is your husband home?” you asked, careful.

Her mouth quirked. “He’s away for the week. Business. Or golf. Or another woman. Who knows.”

You walked toward the water.

“Strip,” she said, before you reached the edge. “You’ll ruin those clothes.”

So you did. You peeled your shirt off slowly, eyes on hers, and felt a thrill run up your spine when she didn’t look away. Her gaze was direct, unflinching. You almost stopped breathing when you realised that what you saw in her eyes was hunger. 

You slid into the water only in your underwear and let it envelop you. She joined you. Silent. Close.

And when your fingers brushed hers beneath the surface, neither of you moved away.

She tilted her head at you and moved closer, her fingers intertwining with yours. “I didn't expect you when I put the ad for gardener.”

“What did you expect?” you asked and your hand was already sneaking around her waist below the water and you were pulling her closer ever so slowly.

Her eyes burned at the move. “Someone quiet, who comes and gets the job done.”

“Oh I can definitely get the job done,” you promised with a smirk as you finally pulled her flush against your body.

She whimpered and raised her legs around your waist. “You’re dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” you echoed. “Me?”

She laughed softly. “You act innocent. But these words and… I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

You grip her hips firmly. “And how exactly is that?”

She hesitated and then her voice dropped. “Like you want to do very bad things.”

You leaned in just enough to feel the warmth of her breath.

“Maybe I do,” you said, eyes locked on hers. “But I think you’d let me.”

That surprised her, the shift in tone, the confidence in your voice. Her mouth parted slightly. “Oh?”

You tilted your head. “Look where we are. You. Me. Alone in your pool. No husband. No excuses.”

She gripped your shoulders firmly and then her hands trailed up to hide in your hair. “Hm,” Agatha hummed and god, you felt the sound in every cell of your body.

Then the world stopped as you stared into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily even though you didn’t even kiss each other yet.

And in that moment you finally kissed her.

No hesitation. No testing the waters. You took her mouth like it was something you already knew. Her lips parted under yours with a soft gasp, one hand instinctively curling around your hair harder, tugging.

The kiss went on. Her breath hitched, her body instinctively moving even closer. For a moment, she let herself be kissed, kissed like a woman someone truly wanted.

When you pulled back, just slightly, her lips were parted and flushed.

She stared at you for a long second, expression unreadable.

Then: “Christ. I really should fire you.”

You grinned. “But you won’t.”

“No,” she admitted. “I really won’t.”

And this time, it was her who reached for you with a hunger so fierce it left you both breathless.

~~~

You were still feeling almost high after the intense make out session in the pool. It was a shame you had to leave, but Agatha’s friends from a book club were coming and it was better for you to leave. 

She planted a soft kiss on your lips and pressed a note into your palm before she opened the door for you to leave. 

You read it with shaky fingers on the way to your car. 

Come tonight. Midnight. The greenhouse.

Your heart leapt.

~~~ 

Midnight came slowly.

You didn’t sleep. You laid in your room, the attic room you rent above the bakery in town, and stared at the ceiling fan spinning shadows overhead. Every time you blinked, you saw her. Agatha. In the pool. In the lounger. Her eyes locked on yours.

You dressed quietly. Soft jeans. A loose cotton tank. Nothing that screams intention but everything that could be slipped off in a moment, if needed.

You walked the two miles to her house by starlight. The air was thick and warm, the night breathing around you. Crickets sang in the tall grass.

The greenhouse stood at the edge of the garden, tall and domed, a cathedral of glass and iron that always felt a little sacred, even in daylight. Tonight, it glowed faintly from within.

A single lamp burned inside, tucked behind a pot of orchids.

And she was there.

Agatha.

She stood among the ferns, barefoot, her silk robe falling open at the collar to reveal a satin slip beneath, dark plum, clinging to her in all the right places.

“You came,” she said.

You swallowed. “You asked me to.”

A faint smile played at her mouth. She closed the space between you slowly. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Why?”

“Because this…” Her hand lifted to touch the edge of your shirt. “Is a line neither of us is supposed to cross.”

You breathed in. She smelled like roses and wine. Like summer nights.

“But you want to.”

She nodded. “I think I’ve wanted to for longer than I’ll admit.”

You touched her then. Your hand, light on her waist. Her breath caught.

You could still walk away. You knew that. But your hands were already memorizing her curves, already pulling her in.

And then her mouth was on yours.

The kiss was quiet at first. Just the slow press of mouths learning each other. Her hands found your hair. Yours found her back, the silk slipping beneath your fingertips.

She moaned, soft, surprised, when your lips parted hers, when your tongue brushed hers. The sound shot straight through you.

You guided her back against the potting table, orchids and ivy swaying around you like a jungle. The greenhouse was humid, the glass fogging, the smell of soil and citrus all around you.

She broke the kiss, only to whisper, “Take this off.”

You obeyed, shirt falling to the floor without a second thought.

Her fingers trailed down your ribs. “You’re so… young,” she said, but her voice shook. “Too young for me.”

“I’m old enough to know what I want.”

That did something to her. Her eyes darkened. She pulled you closer and kissed you like she was starving. Like no one had touched her in years. Maybe no one had.

She guided your hand to her hip. “Then show me.”

Your first time together was a mix of lips at your throat, whispered orders, hands guiding yours. But her body betrayed her, however much she wished for control, she found herself surrendering to you. 

You found the places that made her gasp. The way her hips rolled when you kissed the hollow of her throat just right.

She laid back like she belonged there, bare legs tangled, hair fanned around her. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her lips were already red from your mouth. Her fingers curled against the stone.

You kissed her throat, her shoulder, the place just under her ear that made her gasp.

You moved slowly, not to tease, but because she deserved to be cherished.

Every time your hand moved lower, she arched into it. Every time your lips found skin, she broke a little more.

When you finally touched her, your fingers gathering the wetness between her legs, your fingers curling inside her, she bit her lip so hard you thought she’d bleed. You found the rhythm that made her shake with pleasure as she was desperately grasping at your shoulders.

“Please,” she whispered, not to beg, but to give permission.

You didn’t rush. You gave her everything she didn’t know how to ask for.

And when she broke beneath you, trembling, breathless, cursing softly into your shoulder, she clung to you like she didn’t want to come back from wherever you had taken her.

Her voice, after, was barely a whisper. “God, what are you doing to me…”

And in that moment, she was yours. Complete, fierce, and helpless.

Afterward, you laid on the greenhouse floor, tangled in your discarded clothes, half-covered in a blanket she had pulled from a storage bench.

She brushed your cheek with the back of her fingers.

“You scare me,” she said softly.

“Why?”

“Because you make me feel alive again.”

She fell asleep in your arms that night. 

When you woke up, the sun was beginning to rise. The greenhouse was golden again and forever drown in your passion.

Agatha was still there, curled against you, hair messy, lips bruised, a faint smile on her face. 

And you knew you were fucked. 

[padfootagain]

I'll Have You To Take Care Of Me

Hi!! Answering a request by an anon here! Thank you for your request!

Hope you like it! It’s short but pretty sweet! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem! Reader

Warning: Fluff, comfort, taking care of your partner when they’re sick

Summary: Andrew has caught a bad cold and you take care of him, despite the risks of catching his virus too.

Word Count: 1123

Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Andrew should have known better.

He shouldn’t have let himself be fooled by the sunny morning, the warmth of the wind. It was Ireland. And he was Irish. He knew very well that the weather back home could change in a matter of minutes. Why on earth did he think the sun would shine all day?! It hadn’t, obviously. And now, there was Andrew, lying on his couch with one of the worst headaches he had ever had, unable to breathe through his nose and with a burning in his throat that started to seriously worry him about the state of his vocal cords.

He was sick, he would have argued that he was very sick. After spending two hours under the cold rain as he was surprised by the sudden change of weather, he had started showing the first symptoms of a cold mere hours after coming home. Three days later, he kept on getting worse.

You had accompanied him to the doctor this morning, as he was too weak to drive. He had insisted that he could go alone, unwilling to bother you, but you hadn’t trusted him with his own safety behind a wheel. Considering how he could barely keep his eyes open now, he couldn’t blame you.

He didn’t hear you coming in. Didn’t notice the padding of your steps on the wooden tiles. He usually did. He could have recognised the pattern of your walking anywhere, even in a crowd. A sign that he was really sick, if there was need for one more proof.

He loudly sneezed, reached blindly for a tissue on his nightstand. He jumped as he heard your worried sigh.

“Poor thing, you really are going through it, huh?”

He looked at you then, blowing his nose while you put down a mug of warm tea by his side.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, not recognising his voice.

His fingers rubbed at his Adam’s apple with the pain that scratched at his throat as he spoke.

“You need to rest your voice, honey,” you admonished.

He looked up at you, eyes made teary by sickness. He hummed, picked up the mug. Your old recipe. Water, thyme, lemon, honey, and a touch of ginger. It didn’t exactly taste good, but it was efficient. He had seen the results of this recipe of yours before, it wasn’t your first time taking care of him this way.

You reached up to touch his forehead with the back of your hand, frowned at the result.

“Christ, you’re still boiling, love.”

You tutted, disapproving of his illness, and he couldn’t help the fondness that grew over his heart and was shown on his features. You were so damn adorable sometimes…

“Do you want anything? Need anything?”

He shook his head. He would have wanted to cuddle, for you to run your hands through his hair, for you to kiss him until he felt better again… but he didn’t want to take the risk to make you sick.

“You’re sure? You’re not hungry?”

He shook his head again. When he whispered, he could barely recognise his own voice, it was too raspy, too weak.

“Thanks, love.”

You nodded, but didn’t seem convinced.

“What about we watch a movie together?”

But he shook his head.

“You’ll get sick,” he argued, but you rolled your eyes.

“I live here. I sleep in the same bed as you. Watching a movie with you won’t change a thing. Besides… in sickness and in health, right?”

You moved away before he could react. Did you see the way his eyes grew round? Did you hear how his breath got caught in his throat?

Jesus… you couldn’t play with his heart like that, quoting wedding vows out of the blue… what did it mean? Had you guessed that he was thinking about proposing to you? That he had been browsing through engagement rings lately? That he had weighted the pros and the cons and that the pros always won?

You came back to bed with your laptop and some snacks, found him still dumbfounded, staring at the wall. You frowned at the sight.

“You’re alright?”

Andrew shook himself, hummed as he nodded and averted his gaze in an attempt to hide how strongly he was blushing. He hoped that his sickness would help conceal how his cheeks were burning now.

He pushed the thought away, focused on you again, watched as you settled in bed next to him. In casual clothing, wearing some comfortable sweatpants and one of his black hoodies from his merch. It was one of his, and the thought made him smile. The fact that his name was embroidered on your heart didn’t go unnoticed. He wasn’t proud at the feeling of possessiveness that shook him, nor at how warm the room had become at the thought…

“Alright… is there anything you’re in the mood for?” you asked him.

He shook his head. You heaved a sigh.

“Letting me do all the work, huh?” you joked, poking at his chest and making him chuckle, which caused him to cough. He winced at how painful his throat became, like it was being burnt from the inside…

“Alright, nothing too funny,” you winced. “What about a rom-com?”

He nodded, although he would have nodded to anything you proposed. He didn’t care about the movie. He cared about how domestic you looked, how soft, how your heat warmed the covers, how the mattress dipped under your weight in a pattern he knew like the back of his hand. You were taking such good care of him…

He finished the drink you had prepared for him, settled more comfortably against his pillow. He raised a surprised eyebrow when you pouted at him.

“You don’t want to cuddle?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I’ll make you sick…”

“You’re in pain, you need cuddles!”

He chuckled, but you opened your arms for him, and he couldn’t find any solid argument to stay away from your embrace. You were even pouting…

He heaved a sigh.

“Don’t complain if you get sick…” he warned you.

“Shhh… you need to rest your voice,” you admonished, holding him against you, his head in the crook of your neck, and you felt him instantly relax when you ran your fingers through his hair. “And I won’t complain. I’ll be fine. I’ll have you to take care of me.”

Andrew smiled, held you closer.

“Of course, you will.”

“Shh! Your voice! Don’t mess up, we need it to earn a few extra million euros!”

He laughed at that, tried not to cough too hard as a result, but he kept quiet after that.

You hadn’t even selected the movie yet, that Andrew was already out like a light.

[aydracz]

Crowley's mail for The Ineffable Con

Here's a detail of Crowley's mail that Shax was handing out to The Ineffable Con participants as a gift.

Making these brought me immense joy because it felt like giving back to the fandom, which is full of amazing people whose creations I enjoy every day. So these are for all of you, my dears!

And there was a little surprise in each of them

Some of the letters are still up for grabs at the Bandstand in Battersea Park in London together with some amazing art by @drimmsydra and @fuzzywhispersbear! (See details in the previous post.)

Aubrey Thyme's sign was created by @onlylurkingreadingstuff and used with their permission.

[rozecrest]

hold out if you can hold out my sweet -> i am married just not to a man -> as you abandoned me. you did, don’t deny it, stop those lightning bolt looks at me, i won’t have it -> you were devoted to glinda you were everyone knew -> [the night elphaba is “vanquished”] lady glinda had a bad night, a night of shakes and regret and pain; she guessed it was the early signs of gout from her rich diet. but she sat up half the night and lit a candle in a window, for reasons she couldn’t articulate. the moon passed overhead in its path from the vinkus, and she felt its accusatory spotlight, and moved back from the tall windows. -> “tell me what you need, tell me why i should help, and i’ll see what I can do. in memory of elphaba. you knew her.” her head tilted again, but up, this time, and it was to keep the sudden wetness from spilling into her carefully colored false eyelashes. “you knew my elphie!” + her hands reached out hungrily for the cape and rubbed its hem, as if it were leaves of thyme or hyssop. + glinda reached out and took the charred broomstick and cradled it. -> “oh, oh,” she managed, “i don’t know that i’ll see you again…and you remind me so of her.” + “her power was only part of it,” said glinda. “she was brave, and so are you.” -> [at the mauntery of saint glinda] i suppose i shouldn’t be surprised to find you here. after all, elphaba was here for a while, you know. it’s one of the reasons i like to support it. + glinda raised her chin. “no, liir. she lives. people sing of her. you wouldn’t guess it, being you—but they do. there’s a musical noise around her name; there are things people remember, and pass on.” + you refuse to be consoled, don’t you? well, that’s as much proof as i could ever need that you’re kin to her. she was the same way. the very same way. -> “didn’t elphaba trust you once to try? it’s your turn.” / i don’t mention her name,” said glinda. not coldly, but in deference.” -> her thoughts returned to elphaba thropp. It was more than fifteen years since they had parted ways. what an uncommon friendship they had had—not quite fulfilling. yet nothing had ever taken its place. years later, when that boy liir had shown up at glinda’s house in the emerald city, she had known him at once for elphaba’s son, though he seemed in some doubt on that matter. (children.) he had had elphaba’s broom, after all, and her cape. more to the point, he had had her look: that look both haunted and thereby abstract, but at the same time focused. a look like a spark on a dry winter’s day, that staticky crackle and flash that leaps across the air from finger to the iron housing of the servant’s bell. -> she didn’t believe she dreamed of elphaba; she didn’t have the kind of aggravated imagination that loitered in dreams. maybe she dreamed of a door opening, and elphaba coming back from the afterlife. to settle glinda’s consternation; to save her. or maybe this wasn’t a dream, just a foundational longing.-> for a moment, or ten, she was back in shiz, darting up some alley of flowering quinces, racing elphaba to the fountain at the back of the quad. elphaba was glowing with the effort—glowing emerald!—and glinda, in her dream, was almost absent to herself, caught up in admiring her friend. it happened so seldom, vacating the prison of one’s limited apprehensions. even dreams seemed ego-heavy, she thought as she was waking. but oh, to see elphaba, even in dreams, is both reward and punishment, for it reminds me of my loss. -> “here i go.” please, lurlina, please. or the unnamed god. anyone who might be paying attention. elphaba. -> “besides, i was hardly a stranger. i had known your grandmother. we were like this.” she twinned her second and third fingers together as if they might strangle each other. -> her glasses had broken a year ago. she didn’t need them anymore, not really. she knew who was turning the door handle of her cell. she called her name sleepily, and added, “you wicked thing. you’ve taken your own sweet time, of course.”

[pirateprincessblog]

contract

𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫.: a witcher (polish: wiedźmin) is someone who has undergone extensive training, ruthless mental and physical conditioning, and mysterious rituals in preparation for becoming an itinerant slayer for hire. this witcher is currently in novigrad, and is overshadowed by his fellow brother. whenever a contract for a monster is issued, it is geralt of rivia they expect. seonghwa has grown tired of the disappointed faces that greet him when he accepts a contract, and thus has decided to rest in the big city and let the other witcher do the job. even after geralt left for skellige islands in search of his daughter cirilla, seonghwa decides to keep aside out of spite.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: park seonghwa x f!reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.3k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: witcher!seonghwa, catschool!seonghwa, highervampire!reader, f!reader, the witcher universe, smut, angst 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: oral(f!receiving), fingering, squirting, bondage 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: blood, violence, alcohol, nsfw, vampires 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: replaying witcher 3 and I absolutely love this universe! i hate what netflix did to it, it made it all gloomy and sexual and has little to no connection to the lore and aside from henry cavill and his sexy ass voice the show is a complete disaster. if you want to know more about this universe before reading, i suggest you watch this(these animations contain violence, nudity and blood in them!): https://youtu.be/1-l29HlKkXU?si=HAI0GckIcphtcTRa and https://youtu.be/c0i88t0Kacs?si=vvXEaYu_SThzEPNT

not entirely proofread forgive me! 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

the witcher sips his drink at the rosemary and thyme cabaret. the redanian lager in the wooden pitcher has never tasted worse, and the music has never scratched his ears as badly as tonight. he hated what jaskier has done with the brothel. a cabaret, he scoffs to himself.

"oi, witcher!"

the man sighs. even though he was forcing himself to drink the beer and didn't enjoy it, he also didn't enjoy being interrupted.

"'ave you checked the notice board? there's a witcher contract hangin' there for weeks!" the accent behind him is rough. a dwarf, he guesses. but he doesn't have to guess, because the short figure appears in front of him and slams the crumpled piece of paper on the wooden table. "while you're 'ere tryna plough some whores, there's a threat inside the city gates!"

"geralt can handle that." the witcher mumbles, pushing the paper away. he drinks another sip of the warm beer, eyes fixed on the discarded medallion next to his two swords on the table. "he is the mighty wolfie. i'm sure he'll handle it."

"in case ya haven't noticed," the dwarf dares to get into the witcher's face, even goes as far as to flick him on the forehead. "the white wolf has gone lookin' for his lost lass. he is probably already in skellige, solvin' contract after contract and still workin' on finding cirilla. like a true witcher."

when the witcher's eyes start glimmering a familiar yellow, and his irises resemble the cat's, it is a sign for the dwarf to back away. the man places the pitcher with a loud thud on the table, then slowly stands up. his armor clinks as he moves, and his glowing eyes drill into the man's scared ones. still, the shorter male doesn't flinch, even if his eyes give away his emotions.

"when the white wolf comes, he can solve your fucking contract." the witcher doesn't need to raise his voice. the way he growls is enough to make a beast tuck its tail and lower its gaze. which is what the dwarf should be doing now. "as if you know what a true witcher is. stupid humans, hiding in your houses at every wolf howl and owl hoot, burning mages and sorceresses at stakes because they are different than you, casting elves out, calling us witchers mutants, yet crying for help and leaving pathetic notes and contracts on notice boards when you realise just how weak and mortal you are compared to all of us."

"young lasses 're getting killed left and right, and you only care about yer dick and where to get drunk."

"well, certainly not here anymore."

the taller man throws a few coins on the table, not bothering to pick up the ones that fell on the ground. he then takes his swords and puts them on his back, along with the crossbow. the medallion necklace rests in his pocket this time instead of around his neck.

as he makes his way outside, the music doesn't stop, nor do any of the guests or dancers turn to look. they are used to the moody witcher by now. yet the dwarf doesn't give up.

"ye know, i wish geralt were here. he has a daughter. he wouldn't think twice before accepting this contract. you? you are just a coward."

"hey, hey! seonghwa, endarn! you're upsetting my guests!"

"mind your business, jaskier. i am out of here anyway. doubt i'll come back any time soon. you and your cabaret." the dark haired witcher, seonghwa, spits on the ground.

the young bard rolls his eyes. if he didn't know geralt, he would have a very bad opinion about witchers. "passiflora is just a few blocks away. you know, a real brothel. also, not to be rude, but you were a few crowns short back there."

seonghwa grunts. he reaches into his pocket and finds a few more coins, then throws them behind his back and follows the trail to the famous brothel.

"are all witchers 'xcept geralt like that?" the dwarf asks, disappointed.

the bard takes the contract from his hand, looking at the messy hand-writing, then at the stumbling witcher. "no. just the cat school ones. or so i've heard."

meanwhile, seonghwa has found his way to the passiflora brothel. he isn't usually like this, really. but recently, people have been asking for witchers, and when he'd show up, they'd be disappointed it is not his friend and colleague geralt. witchers are not supposed to feel or show emotion. but seonghwa has had enough. just a week ago he had slayed a striga, and the only gratitude he got was a raw fish into his face and a few crowns. he wasn't sad. he was angry that these people had the audacity to plead for help and be picky about it.

he wasn't ploughing anyone. the brothels were the only place where he had peace. people too focused on lust and fun, it allowed seonghwa to sit in the corner and sip his favourite kaedwenian stout in peace. he'd sometimes take a girl upstairs, only to give her a pouch of coins so she can leave him to sleep in peace. some would be relieved, some offended. but seonghwa didn't care. all he wanted was rest.

tonight, however, he needed to switch locations. ever since jaskier met his soulmate, his brothel has transformed into a cabaret. yes, the bard wanted to do that before meeting her. but he delayed it. and seonghwa liked it. now? everyone was at his neck, especially since they discovered that jaskier knows not one, but two witchers. favor here, problem there, and seonghwa couldn't catch a break. this one has rats, this one has a ghoul in his basement, and this one wants to act tough and challenge him to a fist fight so he can win a girl over.

the dark haired man glances at the wooden sign that reads passiflora, before carefully entering. he is greeted with a rather sweet scent and sensual music. the people inside aren't half naked like they were back in rosemary and thyme. they were dressed in prettiest dresses, had their hair decorated with all sorts of pins, and were in elegant make-up. a true refreshment. the place didn't reek of sweat, and wasn't loud at all. no sights of shirtless men with their hairy belly out, no women with missing and unbrushed teeth, no stench of alcohol and bodily fluids. seonghwa was pleasantly surprised.

"ah, a witcher!"

and there it is.

"please, do come in. care for a drink? your first one is on the house."

odd. the middle aged woman didn't bombard him with a plea for help. nor did she look at him with judgement. "thank you...?"

"mathilda is enough." she smiles at him. seonghwa can't remember the last time someone smiled at him genuinely.

"thank you, mathilda."

mathilda turns out to be the owner of the brothel. she has black hair, with dozens of grey strands blending in it. her face has minimum makeup, or so seonghwa thinks. what does he know about makeup? her dress is modest, and he comes to a conclusion that she might be retired. she is also very pleasant to speak with. so pleasant that the witcher doesn't realise how fast the time is passing and how much more talkative he is getting.

"so, which one of the girls has caught your attention?" the woman turns away from the bar, and so does the witcher. he sips his third drink of the evening as the woman points at the girls in the room. "we've got a few new girls, eager to prove themselves. how do you like them?"

when seonghwa glances at the clock, he decides it might be time to go and rest. so he skims over the pretty girls that dance and speak to other customers. some of them are relaxed, as if this is their home, and some are stiff and nervous. his yellow eyes then pick up a figure in the corner, standing all by herself with her arms folded across her chest. her hair is decorated with gold hairpins, and head chain sits prettily on her forehead. it reminds seonghwa of an elven princess. her dress is a deep green, parting at her thighs and falling to the ground. it has a deep cut that goes to her stomach, and it seems that she is trying to hide her exposed skin.

"ah, y/n." mathilda notices his lingering gaze. "good luck with it. i gave her another week to relax, i won't push her yet. if she doesn't change within a week, i'll have to fire her. shame, really. she is gorgeous, and has brought me many new customers."

seonghwa hums. he then locks eyes with the beautiful figure's ones, and downs his beer. to both his and mathilda's surprise, the young woman makes her way towards the bar. for a moment, they think that she might pass by them and just order herself a drink. instead, she places her hand on the witcher's chest, feeling the cold silver armor under her palm.

"good evening, witcher." her voice is as sweet as honey in seonghwa's ears. he is mesmerized, and she has only spoken a few words to him. "come to release some stress?"

seonghwa watches as her glossy lips move while she speaks. subconsciously, his hand reaches for her cheek to cup it, thumb grazing over her bottom lip and eyes focused on the tongue that peeks out to lick the tip of his finger. he almost shudders at the action. the young woman is determined to prove herself, and goes a step further. she wraps her small hands around his big one, and guides his thumb between her lips, gently swirling her warm tongue around it and sending shivers down the witcher's spine. seonghwa feels his trousers tighten; something he hasn't felt in a while.

she releases his finger with a soft pop, but keeps his hand safe in hers near her chest. "i've always wanted to meet a witcher."

and how could seonghwa refuse her, when she looks at him with big pleading eyes, her chest heaving, and with her lip gloss smeared. the desire to smear it further awakens in him, and he wastes no time in paying for his drink and thanking mathilda. the young woman keeps the witcher's hand in hers, intertwining their fingers as she leads him upstairs and into one of the rooms.

usually, this is the part where seonghwa explains that he is not interested in any sexual interactions. but the way the green dress slides off her body, and the way the fireplace illuminates her skin makes his head spin. she turns around, body bare except for the cotton panties that sit on her hips. seonghwa, however, is still in his witcher gear. the feline armor is suddenly too heavy on him. she seems to hear his thoughts, because she is quick to approach him and press her warm bare chest against his clothed cold one. her delicate hands slip around his waist, and on his back, until they reach the belt that holds his weapons.

"may i?"

it only takes a nod from him to get rid of the entire armor and the clothes underneath. he is now also left in his underwear, and he can't wait to take them off too.

"can i give you a massage, witcher?"

seonghwa swears he hasn't heard a voice so seductive... ever. smooth, sweet, breathy. the way she sighs and breathes against his neck as her fingers work on the knots on his shoulder blades relaxes him. before he can fall asleep on the chair in front of the mirror, she wakes him up with a playful hair pull. he only scoffs with amusement. his eyes follow as her last piece of clothing slides down her smooth thighs and pools on the ground. then, she herself gets on the ground on all fours, and crawls over to the stunned witcher.

"what are you-"

"hush, pretty." if seonghwa had anything to add or even finish his sentence, a gasp stops him. he watches as the young woman catches the string of his underwear between his teeth, and pulls until they come loose and fall to the ground.

is she really new?

seonghwa does not complain. he does complain however when she stands up, taking his rough hand in her soft one and guiding him towards the bed. the sight of someone like that getting on her knees for him was a first, and he wanted to savor it just a tad bit longer.

"talk to me, witcher." she climbs on top of him, soft smooth skin caressing his scarred and rough as she lays on top of him. her breasts are squished against his hard chest, and his hands immediately reach for her waist to hold. "tell me what you want. i'll give you all of it."

seonghwa stops for a moment. he isn't sure what he wants. yes, he slept with women before. he slept with sorceresses too. all of them were the same; get it in and over with. seonghwa would simply lay there and let them chase their own pleasure. he would reach his own too, and he never thought further of it. they even complimented him, saying how no man has made them feel that good, that their partners would usually do it for themselves and leave them to finish on their own. now, however, seeing this beauty pressed against him and looking at him with pure desire, he might discover something new. he might put himself first. not that he didn't enjoy the previous encounters. he is just eager to see what she has to offer him. "i give you full freedom to do whatever you wish to me."

her lips stretch in an excited smile, and her eyes have a certain glint. if seonghwa wasn't so painfully needy right now, he would've questioned it. true witcher style.

"just... one thing."

"yes?"

seonghwa's hands reach for the green dress that was dropped on the floor. he hands it to her, and she looks at him with confusion. was he rejecting her?

"put it on."

"but- why?" her lips form a pout. "did i displease you somehow?"

the dark haired witcher smiles. he then simply sits up on the bed, hands still firmly planted on her waist as she fumbles with the green fabric. "no. you just look too stunning in it to leave it on the floor. no panties."

"oh." she exhales, relief washing over her body. "you do realize that you're the first man i've given myself to in this building and you're asking me to cover up?"

seonghwa doesn't respond, but instead watches her dress. her look is complete once again, except for the heeled boots that still lay on the floor. not a single sorceress he has met could compete with her. "so you were waiting for a witcher to be your first?"

"perhaps." her hands reach for the pins in her hair, but seonghwa stops her there too. she then scoffs in disbelief, but obeys anyway. "whatever i want, huh?"

"whatever you want." seonghwa sighs, body fully relaxing on the soft bed and eyes closed. his hands remain on her now clothed waist. he doesn't know what it is, but it gives him a sense of dominance, even if she is the one on top. her body feels small and fragile, and he has the urge to hold her, as if to protect her.

a sweet scent of berries envelops his senses, as well as his mind. her breath warms his neck, just a small warning before her lips attach to his skin. he can't help but flinch. she smiles against him, grazing his neck with her teeth. "found a sensitive spot it seems."

seonghwa only hums. his grip on her waist hardens as she kisses along his jawline, and her nails softly graze the path from his chest, down his stomach and to his defined v-line. finally, she attaches her lips to his. her other hand finds its way to his dark hair, softly massaging his scalp and lightly pulling the strands as he kisses her back. seonghwa feels as if this is his first proper kiss. nobody has ever kissed him before with such desire.

she grinds her hips against his, core lightly grazing his aching crotch, not yet giving him what he needs. as if he wasn't burning with need already, feeling her wet core slide against him only set him further on fire. he never said he was a patient man anyway.

he flips her on the bed with ease, now him being the one on top and in charge. his lips hungrily search for hers, tongue yearns for hers, and hands play with the sheer fabric of the dress. he doesn't care where he touches her. he just wants to feel her.

"thought i had full freedom?" she teases into the kiss.

he doesn't reply, instead biting her lower lip and sucking at it. she whines at the sweet pain, and if seonghwa didn't feel her body arch against his, he would've stopped. his lips chase hers, and no matter how many times his tongue rubs against hers, teeth clash against hers, and lips wipe the remaining lip gloss off hers, he can't get enough. "you taste so sweet."

even though he could spend the entire night just kissing her and feeling her body squirm under his, seonghwa proceeds to leave kisses down her neck, then the exposed skin between her breasts and all the way to her belly. the dress opening ends there, but it doesn't stop him. he disappears under the green ruffles, nose bumping against the soft folds and tongue searching for the source of heat. 

he never did it. he wasn't exactly sure how. all he knew is that he needed to taste her, all of her. with a single swipe up her folds, he has her squirming. he subconsciously grabs her thighs and pulls her closer to his face, holding her in place and burying himself into her core. she does taste as sweet, and smells as delightful. the noises that travel to seonghwa's ears are new to him. never did he hear a woman be so whiny and loud. moans? sure. but whines? that was new. and he wasn't sure if it is a good or a bad thing.

"please..." she finally mutters a word.

the witcher emerges from the green ruffles of her dress, sending her a questioning look. when he sees her flustered face and heaving chest, sleeves pushed down so that her breasts are exposed and her hands playing with the tense nipples, seonghwa realizes what he has been missing out on. there was more to it all than just an orgasm.

and he was going to savor all of it.

"please." she begs again. "i'll be good, just please..."

"please what?" the witcher questions.

"give me something. anything." she shudders when his finger grazes her tense clit. "please."

seonghwa doesn't wish this to end yet. he is loving the impact he has on someone. on her. he can't get over her beauty, or her taste. when he finishes taking in the sight of her half naked and flustered state, he attaches his lips to her clit once again, tongue swiping over the sensitive bud in circular motions and fingers searching for her leaking hole. her moans are more high pitched, and the grip on his hair stronger as he slowly inserts his finger inside. he wastes no time in adding another one, slowly pumping in and out and exploring which motions make her louder and her fingers pull at his hair harder. when he finds a certain spot on her upper wall, he abuses it, to the point where she shakes under his touch and moans turn to a blubbering mess.

"oh, witcher-" she gasps, body suddenly tensing and thighs squeezing around his head.

seonghwa doesn't have time to process what is happening, because he is greeted by clear fluid splashing his face. he doesn't stop yet, even though he wasn't exactly sure what happened. the young woman is a twitching mess under him, grinding her hips against his face and riding out her orgasm. when she starts pulling at his hair to pull him away from her, he takes it as a sign to stop.

"well," he flips the bottom of her dress over, exposing the abused core to the cool air that comes from the open balcony door. "i've never done that before."

"me neither." she admits, face red with embarrassment when she sees the witcher's soaked face. "i'm sorry."

"don't apologize. i am the one that should be apologizing."

"what for?"

instead of answering, he simply kisses her once again, savoring every caress of her tongue against his and every little noise she makes as his hands travel up her body and to her exposed breasts. the rough skin of his worn out fingers give her tense buds a gentle sensation. just enough to have her body arching against his and seek more of his warmth and touch. as she busies herself with playing with his hair and caressing the scars on his back, seonghwa slowly slides inside, letting out a low groan at the warm welcome.

he misses the way her eyes widen and her nails dig into his back. he is halfway in, struggling to go further. when her pretty face makes a painful grimace and a cry leaves her lips, seonghwa stops. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," she blinks her tears away.

"tell me." the witcher cups her face, thumbs caressing her cheeks and wiping the tears away.

"you're big."

his brows furrow. at first he isn't sure what she means, but when he feels her walls clench around him, he realizes. "oh."

"it's alright. keep going." her hands cup his face now, mimicking him. "just go slow."

but the witcher finds himself getting impatient once again. the way her warmth squeezes around him makes him see stars. and just like that, seonghwa finds himself snapping his hips into hers. a painful moan escapes her pretty lips once again, and seonghwa is quick to press his lips into hers to conceal it. she is mess, shamelessly moaning into his mouth whenever his hips collide with hers. tears roll down her cheeks once again, and this time, seonghwa doesn't stop. instead, he slows his pace, opting for sensual moves rather than rough ones.

"you're so big..." she sighs against his lips. "you're going to split me open."

if he could get any rock harder, he would. hell, he might even cum right there and then if it wasn't for the slow moves he was forced to do. "are you complaining?"

"not a bit."

tears of pain soon seem to transform into tears of pleasure, because when seonghwa starts snapping his hips against hers again, she only moans and groans. her walls tighten around him, announcing that she is close again. the witcher holds her waist in place, and his eyes can't get enough of her expressions, or the way her body responds to him and looks so fragile in his arms.

"cum in me, witcher." she begs. "fill me to the brim."

and seonghwa does just that. his moves become sloppy, and his concealed groans are now loud and clear as he pumps his seed into the beauty below him. he sees a slight bulge on her lower stomach when he goes to look where they are connected. fuck, he wants her again. and again and again. until the sun rises, just to watch the pure bliss on her face again.

"are you close?" he asks breathless. he is not yet overstimulated, he is just getting started.

"shut up." she chokes out, clearly focusing on reaching her peak and not wanting to be disturbed.

this time, instead of a moan of ecstasy, her mouth opens without any noise coming out. her eyes roll back, almost all the way, before her body starts twitching as waves of pleasure wash it over. her nails dig into his back, so deep that they pierce his skin and have him wincing in pain. then, her eyes roll back. and seonghwa stiffens.

dangerous red irises stare back at his yellow alert ones. the witcher instinctively reaches for the sword on his back, only to be met with emptiness. the figure below him gives him a wicked smile, with fangs on full display before latching herself onto his neck and piercing his skin once again.

fuck.

seonghwa didn't expect to be awoken in the bed he was in last night. truth be told, seonghwa didn't expect to be awake at all. however, when he tries to move and reach for his weapons that lay on the dresser next to the bed, strains prevent him. strains on both his wrists and ankles. the blinds are blocking the morning sun, keeping the woman who sat in front of the mirror safe. for now.

"why am i alive?"

she looks at him through the mirror, smile dancing on her lips. she runs a comb through her hair and removes the golden pins in the process. "good morning, little witcher."

"let me go."

"well, since you asked so nicely." she rolls her eyes, standing up from the chair and approaching the bed. the green dress is replaced by rags seonghwa usually saw in the war destroyed villages of velen. all of her jewelry sits on the dresser in front of the mirror, including the headpiece that drove seonghwa crazy last night. "come to think of it, i never got to return the favor. you were so eager to fuck me."

he doesn't have to question, because she gives him the answer by running her nails up his thigh and to his crotch. "stop that."

"your cock says otherwise, slayer." when seonghwa doesn't respond to her touch, she huffs. "boring. well, off i go. you better not go anywhere while i'm gone."

seonghwa had many questions on his mind. he didn't know which one to ask first. and he didn't know whether or not he will get a truthful answer. or an answer at all. after all, this was the higher vampire he had a contract on. how foolish of him to leave that medallion in his pocket instead of around his neck. it would've vibrated the moment she laid her hand on his armored chest, and she would've been dead by now.

"isn't mathilda going to question this... situation?" he looks at the ropes holding him to the bed.

"mathilda doesn't care what happens during the day. she only needs the rooms free at night. this room is mine, and i can use it however i please."

"why are you dressed like that?"

"as if you haven't stumbled upon false beggars by now. please, seonghwa." she straightens her rags, and glances at herself in the mirror once again. "you think of us monsters so lowly. like we are stupid. thing is, you're not that different. you're not a human. you're just a mutant."

seonghwa hums, unamused. "it's daylight. how will you go out?"

"there's shades in this city. plenty of them. now, be a good little witcher and stay here." she plants a kiss on his forehead, then turns to leave.

but the witcher is quicker, and grabs her by the rags and tosses on the bed. while he was questioning her, he managed to free one hand from the ropes with his teeth. her eyes turn red again, anger evident on her face.

"silly witcher." her teeth are quick to sink into his flesh again, causing seonghwa to growl with pain. she slurps on his hot blood, moaning in the process, the scent and taste of iron giving her bigger pleasure than anything else. when she pulls away, she has a look of victory and proud on her face. right until seonghwa smirks.

"true. i do think you are stupid." she steps away from him, suddenly feeling dizzy. while stepping back, her shoe kicks something on the floor, causing it to shatter. an empty potion bottle.

"what- what have you done?"

the witcher then frees his other hand, and reaches for his silver sword while the vampire tries to decipher just what he did to her. she gets her answer when she looks at herself in the mirror, veins prominent and pitch black. shaky hands hurriedly get rid of the rags and expose her body. he drank a potion to poison his blood because he knew she'd drink again. her eyes catch a glimpse of the shiny silver through the mirror, and she is quick to dodge it and jump on the bed.

the cut off and untied ropes hang uselessly from the bed frame. or maybe not completely useless. "how should i kill you?"

"no, please." the young woman sits against the bed frame, knees pulled to her chest and hands hugging them in defense. "please."

"i am doing you a favor by asking. silver..." he holds the shiny sword up, runestones making the marks green and match the dress on the floor. "or gold." he points to the balcony door with blinds. a ray of sun has managed to break through, lighting up the medallion that now rests on his chest, vibrating and alerting to danger.

"please." she begs. "i just want to live. we just want to live."

"so does the folk. and you don't let them."

her teary eyes don't work on seonghwa this time. they only make him angrier. she used him. and he fell for it. he was angrier with himself for allowing a woman's seducing to work on him like that. if she were a sorceress, he'd understand. he cannot escape the strong grip of magic. but a vampire? all these years of work and training seemed for nothing. he only hopes geralt doesn't find out about this.

"i don't kill. i just feed!"

"you feed on women and children."

"children are just weak. and those women weren't worth anything! their husbands would come and fuck me, and then offer their wives to me!" she then gets on her knees, hands in a pleading motion. "please, witcher. you kill to survive. so do i."

"no."

in a few seconds, the young woman is bound to the bed, hissing and growling at the witcher as he approaches the balcony door.

"i kill to save people. you kill to save yourself."

with that, he pulls the blinds, allowing the sun to enlighten the room and the nude figure on the bed.

"your kind will no longer torment people. i won't stop until i've killed the last one of you vampires, hags, wraiths and ghouls. i exist for the sole purpose of exterminating you. and that is what i'll do. even if it takes all my life."

the vampire is in no position to form any sentences, body seething and glowing under the morning yellow sun. the witcher is unfazed, already used to it. he calmly puts his armor back on, puts the weapons on his back, and gives the vampire a final glance before going downstairs to sign the contract and collect his reward.

[theshiniestgemstone]

gideon with baby fever omg he sees a cute baby in public and is like… babe… ;)

Gideon stands behind the cart in the checkout line, hands loosely on the handle, body leaning just enough to let you hover over the groceries with your usual muttered intensity.

You’re reading through your crumpled list for the third time, whisper-counting off ingredients like the fate of the world depends on whether or not you grabbed thyme. Your eyebrows furrow. Gideon doesn’t interrupt.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing around the store absently. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. A toddler shrieks somewhere in produce. He scratches at the back of his neck.

Then he notices movement. He turns slightly, gaze catching on a baby in the cart ahead of you, sitting propped in that little padded seat with a pacifier half-falling out of its mouth. Big, round eyes blink up at him. A soft, mashed face lights up with slow, dawning recognition, like Gideon just walked onstage at a show he didn’t know he was performing in.

Gideon blinks. Then he smiles. Tentative, small. A little curve of his lips and the barest lift of his hand in a wave.

The baby gasps. Actually gasps. Then squeals in delight, high-pitched and crackling, like his whole being short-circuited from joy. His chubby fist rises and flails. The wave is chaotic, all wrist and fat fingers, the kind of uncoordinated motion that says I have no idea how my arms work but I must communicate with you.

Gideon grins, a little caught off guard, and waves again, slightly more exaggerated this time. The baby kicks both feet in response, like he’s trying to blast off from the cart. His parent smiles at Gideon, placing more things on the conveyor belt.

You glance up, wondering what the commotion is about, just in time to see Gideon and the baby locked in a silent, joyful loop of mutual admiration.

You elbow him lightly, whispering, “You making friends again?”

He shrugs, still smiling, eyes twinkling. “He started it.”

And the baby shrieks with glee like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

Gideon’s quiet on the ride home. Not more than usual, but you know that look. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, eyes straight ahead but distant, like he’s staring through the windshield and into some private film reel only he can see.

You don’t say anything. You let the music play low, one of those soft, lo-fi playlists he likes when you’re both tired and the sun’s starting to set golden over the parking lot lines and strip mall signs. Your hand brushes his knee when you shift the bag between your feet.

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t speak either.

Because he’s still thinking about the baby.

Not the exact baby. Though that gummy, chubby-cheeked face is still printed somewhere in the soft part of his memory, but about the way that baby looked so undeniably like his parents. The shape of his mother’s chin, the exact curl of his dad’s dark eyelashes, all bundled into one tiny person still trying to figure out how fingers work.

He thinks about that and what you could both have.

About the thought, or more a vision, of a baby with your sparkling eyes, your smile that turns him to jelly every single time you aim it at him without warning. A baby who kicks their feet and squeals like that just because he looked their way. A baby with your gentle heart, your laugh when you're trying not to, your fierce little loyalty that’s held his hand even when he didn’t know he needed it.

It unlocks something. Like a door inside his chest swinging wide, creaking open after years of staying shut.

He sees it so clearly now. Little ones crawling over your shared bed, dragging blankets and stuffed animals in their wake. The pitter-patter of feet across hardwood, echoing in the morning as they tumble into the kitchen, demanding pancakes. The soft hush of you singing to someone smaller than both of you, cradled against your chest. You, holding their tiny hand as they waddle across the backyard. Him reading from a picture book and doing the voices because it makes them laugh so hard they fall over. He sees Christmas mornings, your eyes glowing even brighter than the lights on the tree. He sees himself sitting crisscross on the floor, a toddler in his lap, another leaning into your side, wrapping paper everywhere, and the smell of cinnamon in the air.

And you. Always you.

He pulls into the driveway a few minutes later than usual, like he meant to slow down. Like he didn’t want the thought to end.

You shift beside him, unclicking your seatbelt, and glance over. “You good?”

Gideon nods. Slow. Thoughtful. “Yeah,” he says softly.

You give him a look. "Okay."

The engine ticks as it cools, and the two of you start unloading the groceries. The sun’s lower now, brushing everything in warm amber, and you’re muttering about how the bagger crushed the bread again. Gideon takes two full paper bags without complaint, holding them with practiced ease.

He closes the trunk with a gentle thunk, and you walk ahead, keys jingling in your hand. He watches you for half a second. He sighs internally at your hair lit gold by the fading light, shoulders swaying as you shift the lighter bag from one arm to the other, and he thinks, not for the first time, God, I love her.

But now that door’s open.

Now he’s thinking, someday we won’t be carrying these in alone. Someday there’ll be little sneakers on this driveway, chasing after us to help. Clumsy hands grabbing a cereal box and dropping it, tiny voices insisting I got it, I got it! even when they don’t. You, laughing on the porch, holding the door open while someone proudly carts in exactly one bag of goldfish crackers they cried over in the aisle and nothing else.

He adjusts his grip on the paper bags and smiles to himself. A quiet, private smile no one would notice unless they were looking for it. And then he walks inside, right behind you, right into a future he never thought he could want so badly.

It comes later. After dinner, after the dishes, after the soft lull of the evening settles over the house like a blanket. You're curled on the couch with your legs draped over his lap, still barefoot from kicking off your shoes the moment you got inside. He’s absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along your ankle, eyes on the TV that neither of you are really watching.

You’re half-asleep, fingers tangled in the hem of your hoodie, when he shifts just enough to glance at you. "Can I ask you something?"

Your eyes open slowly, sleep still clinging to your lashes. You hum, letting him know you're listening.

He looks down at where his hand rests on your leg, fingers flexing once like he’s working up to something. Then he looks at you again, steady this time. "What do you think about having kids?"

The question lands softly. Not dropped like a bomb. Not a test or a trap. Just something he’s been holding gently all day, waiting for the right moment to give it shape. You sit up a little, just enough to see him clearly. His expression is unreadable but not cold. He looks thoughtful. Vulnerable in the way he only gets when something really matters.

You blink at him, lips parting. "Where's that coming from?"

He shrugs, eyes flicking away, like he wasn’t sure he’d get this far. "That baby at the store. Got me thinking. About us. About... all of it." He pauses.

You’re quiet. Not because you don’t have anything to say, but because you want to say it right. “I’ve thought about it,” you admit. “Not all the time, but... sometimes.”

He nods, encouraging you to go on.

“I think I’d want that life. Eventually. When it feels right. With the right person.” You give him a meaningful look, soft and sure. “And I think I already found that part.”

His hand tightens around your leg, just slightly. Like your words anchored him.

You lean your head against the back of the couch, watching him. “What about you? You never really talked about it before.”

He hesitates. His jaw works like he’s chewing over the words.

“I didn’t think it was for me,” he says. “Not because I didn’t want it. More like... I didn’t think I could do it. Be a dad. I used to think I’d mess it up, or disappear, or pass on all the worst parts of me without meaning to.”

You reach for his hand. He lets you take it, lets you run your fingers over the calluses on his knuckles.

"But today, when I saw that kid," he says, voice lower now, almost hesitant, "and then looked at you... I don’t know. Something shifted. I thought about little feet in the house. Messy cereal bowls. Someone who looks like you laughing in the hallway. And it didn’t scare me.”

You squeeze his hand, grounding him.

“It felt good,” he adds. “Like maybe I could do it, if it was with you.”

The room is silent except for the buzz of the TV and the rhythm of your breathing. You shift so you’re closer, knees tucked beside him now, your hand still in his.

“I think you’d be a good dad,” you say. “Kind of annoying sometimes, definitely dramatic, but good. And patient. And loving.”

He huffs a laugh, looking down. There’s something glossy in his eyes, but he doesn’t try to hide it.

“We don’t have to rush,” you add. “There’s time. But if you’re asking if I see that with you... I do. I really do.”

He leans forward, forehead resting against yours, the kind of closeness that doesn’t need anything else.

Your words settle between you like a spark landing on dry kindling, soft at first—but then his fingers tighten on your leg, not enough to hurt, just enough that your breath catches a little. His thumb strokes slow and deliberate now, the kind of touch that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

He leans in and kisses you. Deeper than usual. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that speaks in heat and quiet promises. His hand trails higher, palm warm against your thigh as he pulls you closer, until you’re practically in his lap.

You break the kiss just barely, breath hitching against his mouth. “What’s gotten into you?”

He doesn’t smile, not in the usual way. It’s something darker, smoldering in his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours.

“We can talk about timing later,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “But for now…”

His hands slide to your hips, dragging you more firmly against him. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your neck, trailing heat in every breath. “For now we can practice.”

You let out a soft laugh that turns into a sigh as he kisses just below your ear. “Practice, huh?”

“Mmhmm.” He kisses lower, his hands slipping under the hem of your shirt like he’s already mapped this territory but wants to relearn every inch. “Gotta make sure we’re good at it.”

You tilt your head back, giving him more space, and he takes it gladly, teeth brushing your collarbone before soothing the spot with his tongue. His hands are firmer now, greedy, like the thought of you carrying a piece of him awakened something deeper. Some instinct to claim, to worship, to make you his in every way.

“Seems important,” you tease, breathless now.

He hums, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, his lips pink from kissing. “It is.”

And then he kisses you again, deep and slow and endless, like he has all the time in the world to prove it.

[httpsdana]

Hellooo, it's so nice seeing the requests open tysm, can I request something for balde? Maybe like a fun but romantic date?

Cocina con Amor~Alejandro Balde

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

・❥・a/n: idk why but every time i write for balde i enjoy it so much. so i hope you enjoy it too <3

It started like any normal evening. She wasn’t even sure why he told her to dress “cute but comfortable”, his words exactly, but she trusted him. And it was Alejandro, after all. He always had some sweet surprise up his sleeve.

They walked with her fingers linked in his, her other hand tucking her jacket closer to her body as the sun started to disappear from the Barcelona sky. He hadn’t told her much, just smiled when she tried to guess, and kissed her knuckles when she pouted.

But then he stopped in front of a small building with small windows and a little wooden sign that read Cocina con Amor. (cook with love)

She raised an eyebrow. “We’re... cooking?”

Alejandro nodded with a soft grin. “Together.”

The moment they stepped into the studio kitchen, the smell of garlic and herbs wrapped around them. The place was glowing with golden lights, aprons hanging by the doorway, music playing low in the background. Something acoustic, just loud enough to hum along to.

There were three other couples scattered around the space, already tying aprons and laughing as the chef introduced himself with a warm smile and a thick Catalan accent.

“You’re nervous,” Alejandro whispered as he helped slip the apron over her head.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not nervous.”

“Your fingers are cold,” he teased, catching her hand to bring it to his lips. “Want me to warm them up, princesa?”

She tried to hide her smile as he kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one.

“Behave,” she muttered, glancing at the others.

“I’m behaving. I haven’t even kissed you properly yet,” he murmured with that quiet confidence of his, already leaning in.

She turned her head just in time, his lips ending up on her cheek. “We’re in public.”

He grinned. “So that’s a yes for later?”

Before she could answer, the chef clapped his hands.

“Alright, lovebirds! Tonight, we’re making homemade mushroom ravioli. Dough and filling from scratch. Teams of two. Listen to me, and don’t let your partners distract you.”

She gave Alejandro a pointed look. “That was for you.”

He smirked, shrugging. “No promises.”

Alejandro was surprisingly focused as the chef gave instructions. She watched him crack the eggs into the well of flour, his brows drawn together like he was taking a penalty or something. His tongue peeked out just slightly in concentration.

She leaned over, whispering in his ear. “Is that your game face?”

He looked up with a grin. “Yes, and you’re distracting,”

She bumped his hip with hers, laughing softly as he flicked a bit of flour toward her.

“Rude.”

“Flour looks good on you.”

“Don’t even start.”

His smile widened, then he dropped a kiss to her temple. “You’re doing amazing, chef.”

While the mushrooms sizzled in the pan with garlic and butter, they both worked side by side, shoulders brushing. The other couples were laughing, comparing who had the best filling till now. But she and Alejandro were in their own little world.

“Pass me the thyme,” she said.

“Only if I get a kiss.”

She glanced at him, eyebrows raising. “That’s not a fair trade.”

“Depends how much you want the thyme.”

She reached over, grabbed it herself, but before she could turn back, he slid his hand along her lower back and kissed the edge of her jaw.

“I win,” he whispered.

Her stomach fluttered, and she smiled without meaning to. “Shut up and stir the mushrooms.”

Eventually, everyone started shaping their ravioli. Hers were neat, sealed with a fork. Alejandro’s… were “special.”

“Are these all supposed to be triangles?” he asked, looking at the oddly shaped one he held.

She giggled. “Ale, bebé, that one looks like a broken heart.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That’s symbolic. I made it for you.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You made me like this.”

She rolled her eyes playfully and kissed the tip of his nose. “Unfortunately.”

The pasta boiled. Plates were served. Candles were lit on the big table set up in the back of the kitchen. Everyone took their seats, whispering and tasting and sipping wine.

Alejandro pulled her chair closer to his, tucking her leg between his under the table.

“You’re glowing,” he said quietly, watching her take a bite. “This was a good idea, wasn’t it?”

She leaned her head on his shoulder for a second. “The best. I needed this.”

His hand found hers again, fingers lacing together naturally. “You always work so hard. You never just… stop.”

She looked at him, eyes soft with a small smile. “You notice everything about me. I love you for that”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Te amo”

Eventually, couples began to leave, waving goodbye and thanking the chef. The music never stopped, just played on softly in the background, Spanish guitar and a hushed voice. She hadn’t paid much attention to it until the room got quiet.

Only the two of them remained, standing by the counter, hands brushing flour off each other’s clothes.

Alejandro glanced around and smiled. “They’re all gone.”

“Yeah?”

He stepped a little closer. “We’re alone.”

The chef gave them both a knowing look, then turned back to clean the last few dishes at the sink, humming along with the music.

Alejandro held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

She laughed under her breath. “Here?”

“Why not?” he asked, that little spark in his eyes. “We just made pasta together. This is the next logical step.”

She took his hand and he pulled her close, one hand around her waist, the other holding hers gently as they began to sway in the quiet kitchen, surrounded by the scent of butter and thyme.

Neither of them said anything for a while. It was just soft music, her cheek pressed against his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing steady and safe.

His lips brushed her hairline. “I’m gonna remember this forever.”

She looked up at him. “The dancing?”

He shook his head, whispering, “You. Right now.”

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him like they had all the time in the world. He kissed her back with that same gentleness, his hand moving to cradle the back of her head.

And in that moment, it felt like they were all alone in this world.

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty @n0vazsq @joaosnovia @ilovebarcaaaa @f1lover55 @jajajhaahaha @universefcb @mariejuli (lmk if you want to be added!!)

[witchboxco]

Imbolc Altar Ideas & Correspondences

Imbolc, also known as Candlemas or Brigid's Day, marks the halfway point between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It's a time to celebrate the returning light and the awakening of the Earth.

Altar Decorations:

Candles: Imbolc is strongly associated with the element of fire. Decorate your altar with candles in shades of white, yellow, and light blue to represent the increasing daylight.

Brigid's Cross: Craft or purchase a Brigid's Cross, a traditional symbol associated with the Celtic goddess Brigid. Hang it on your altar as a protective charm.

Seasonal Flowers: Place early spring flowers like snowdrops, crocuses, and daffodils on your altar. These symbolize the first signs of life returning to the land.

Herbs: Incorporate herbs such as rosemary, thyme, and cinnamon for their purifying and invigorating properties. Bundle them together with a red or white ribbon.

Seeds: Represent the potential for growth by adding a dish of seeds to your altar. Consider seeds associated with early spring crops like wheat or herbs.

Imbolc Symbols: Include symbols like lambs, ewes, and the sun to capture the essence of this seasonal transition.

Candle Holders: Choose unique candle holders or lanterns to enhance the ambiance. Consider using candle holders in the shape of suns, stars, or nature-inspired designs.

Divination Tools: Add divination tools like tarot cards or runes to your altar for seeking guidance during this transitional period.

Symbolic Stones: Integrate crystals such as citrine for abundance, aquamarine for clarity, and moonstone for intuition. Arrange them aesthetically around your altar.

Feathers: Symbolizing air and spirituality, feathers can be incorporated to invoke the energy of the season. Choose feathers from birds associated with the goddess Brigid, like swans or owls.

Artwork: Display artwork or illustrations that resonate with the themes of Imbolc. This could include depictions of Brigid, snow-covered landscapes, or symbols of growth and renewal.

Imbolc Incense: Craft or purchase incense blends with scents like frankincense, myrrh, and chamomile to fill your sacred space with a soothing and purifying aroma.

Correspondences

Goddess Brigid: Imbolc is sacred to Brigid, the Celtic goddess of hearth, home, and inspiration. Invoke her energy for healing, creativity, and protection.

Colors: White, yellow, light green, and light blue are associated with Imbolc. Use these colors in candles, altar cloths, and decorations to align with the festival's energy.

Stones: Crystals such as amethyst, garnet, and clear quartz resonate with Imbolc's energies.

Foods: Dairy products, especially cheese, and foods made with seeds like bread or muffins are fitting for Imbolc. Set offerings on your altar or incorporate them into your celebration feast.

Water: Imbolc is also associated with the element of water. Include a small bowl of water on your altar to symbolize purification.

Creativity Symbols: Imbolc is a time for inspiration and creative endeavors. Include symbols of your creative pursuits, such as a paintbrush, musical instrument, or writing quill.

Anointing Oils: Create or purchase anointing oils infused with herbs like lavender, rosemary, and frankincense. Use them to anoint candles, tools, or yourself during Imbolc rituals.

Animal Representations: Incorporate figurines or images of animals associated with Brigid, such as lambs, cows, or swans, to honor her connection to the animal kingdom.

Wheat or Corn Dolls: Craft small dolls from wheat or corn husks, symbolizing the harvest to come. Place them on your altar as a representation of the Earth's fertility.

Bell or Chimes: Hang a bell or wind chimes near your altar to symbolize the awakening of nature and the stirring of life. Ring it during your Imbolc rituals to mark significant moments.

Decorative Cloth: Choose an altar cloth with intricate patterns or symbols related to Imbolc, such as suns, wheels, or Brigid's crosses, to add a touch of magic to your sacred space.

May you find warmth in the returning light. <3

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

lilac

a/n: ...yes i did spend about an hour in procreate trying to change the sign on the right photo to say lilac and not the name it originally said... welp. I wouldn't be me if I wasn't an overachiever.

summary: moving back home to the family-run inn isn't exactly what you had expected, especially not with the mysterious lumberjack that now calls the quaint little town of Dunbrook his home as well...

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, running an inn in a tiny rural town, explicit sexual content, violence, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, slow burn, pete castiglione era, total word count is 51k

masterlist | join my taglist | series playlist

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

A SUMMER IN DUNBROOK

PART ONE

PART TWO

PART THREE

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: STUCK BETWEEN PRAYERS DIVINE WHISPERS: Stuck Between Prayers | divine whispers: stuck between prayers ⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽 ❘ 🇩‌🇮‌🇻‌🇮‌🇳‌🇪‌ 🇼‌🇭‌🇮‌🇸‌🇵‌🇪‌🇷‌🇸‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

In the mortal world, the sun sat high over Ithaca's courtyard, casting long shadows that didn't quite match the time in Telemachus' chest.

It was too bright for how he felt.

Too warm. Too loud—with birds chattering in the olive trees and the dull clatter of dishes from the kitchens nearby. Somewhere, a servant laughed as a jug tipped and caught itself on the edge of a fountain. A broom scraped across the stone in slow, lazy arcs, like the courtyard didn't know anything was wrong. Like the world hadn't stopped spinning the second Athena disappeared from their study without taking him too.

But he walked anyway.

His jaw was tight. Shoulders stiff. His feet dragged across stones that had somehow grown unfamiliar in just a matter of hours—days? Gods, he didn't even know anymore.

He'd stopped counting time when Athena left. Now it was all just sunrises and prayers.

Since then, he hadn't really slept. Not in the way that felt real. He closed his eyes, but nothing rested. He ate only what his mother forced onto a plate. He bathed because the guards were starting to glance at him sideways. But everything else? A blur. All of it. Just noise and ritual, passing under his feet while he waited.

Waited for a sign. A scroll. A whisper from a nymph or an omen in the coals.

Waited for you.

Because you weren't dead. He clung to that. Athena said so. You were alive. She'd looked him in the eye and told him that. Over and over, like she thought he needed the repetition.

But gods—that only made it worse.

Because if you were alive... then where were you?

Why hadn't you sent word?

Why hadn't you come back?

Why couldn't he feel you?

He paused at the edge of the courtyard, staring out toward the empty path that led to the docks. His hand curled against the column beside him, fingers tight. The stone felt too smooth under his skin. Too cold.

The wind moved gently through the trees, brushing against his hair. It smelled like thyme and old sea salt. Familiar. Wrong.

He should've felt something.

He'd always known when you were near. It was like a string tugged somewhere under his ribs. A quiet shift in the air, even if you never said a word. You just were. Present. Real.

Now?

He felt nothing.

No footsteps approaching the gate. No whisper from the wind. No sign in the sky.

Just warmth. Just birds. Just the slow, unbearable press of a world that didn't know you were missing.

He hated it.

Hated how normal everything looked while his insides were unraveling thread by thread.

His mother said to be patient.

His father had warned him that interference only invited more gods.

Callias had even joked that you were probably on some cliff somewhere, yelling at a cloud for looking too much like a prophecy.

And maybe that was true. Maybe you were just—somewhere. Untouchable for now. Maybe there was a reason for the silence.

But none of that made the waiting easier.

He shoved his hands into the folds of his tunic, pacing now. Barefoot. He'd forgotten his sandals. Or maybe he never put them on this morning. He didnt care. The stone was warm under his feet. Sun-heated. It reminded him that time was still moving—even if he didn't want it to.

He glanced up at the sun. Still too high. Still too bright.

It made him angry.

Because how dare it stay there—suspended, unmoving, shining like the world was whole—when you weren't home yet?

He turned suddenly, walking toward the garden shed where you used to keep your instruments.

Something yanked in his chest.

He wasn't even thinking. Just moving. Just needing.

The door creaked as he pushed it open. Dust danced in the beam of light that slanted through the window. The scent hit him all at once—old wood, lavender oil, the faintest trace of lemon wax and sea air.

He stood there for a second, breathing it in.

The shelves were cluttered. Bowed under scrolls and cracked strings. Paint pots tipped sideways. Someone had placed a rosebud on the bench—withered now. Forgotten.

But what broke him was the lyre.

Yours.

Or what was left of it.

It sat on the top shelf—tucked higher, like someone had tried to hide it from view. The wood was split along the side. Strings slack. The curve of its frame fractured down the center like something divine had held it too tight.

He didn't move.

Just stared.

His throat burned because it was the last thing tied to you.

Telemachus stepped forward slowly. His breath was thin, quiet, as he reached for it—his hand shaking just enough for him to notice. His fingers barely grazed the warped edge of the frame. He didn't lift it—didn't dare—just touched it. Light. Careful. Like if he moved wrong, it might vanish completely. Like maybe—if he was gentle enough—it would hum. It would breathe. It would call you back.

But it didn't.

Nothing moved.

Nothing hummed.

It was silent.

His breath caught in his throat like it didn't know how to keep going. He closed his eyes—just for a second. Just long enough to remember the sound of your laugh. Just long enough to remember the way your hands used to move when you tuned it. The way you used to sit in this very room and pretend the whole world wasn't sitting on your back.

And in the quiet—small, raw, like something cracked beneath the ribs—his voice slipped out.

"...Where are you?"

No answer.

Just birds outside. Just wind.

He pressed his forehead against the edge of the shelf, exhaling through clenched teeth. Tight. Sharp. His knuckles scraped faintly against the wood, his jaw ticking as he breathed through it, forcing the storm to stay quiet.

Still nothing.

No hum. No sound. Not even a whisper from the broken lyre that once pulsed with your song.

And then—his chest squeezed tighter, because he couldn't stop thinking about the beast.

Lady.

The moment she'd returned had been strange from the start. Not loud or chaotic like the rest of the palace—but quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that meant something had been torn.

She'd appeared at the edge of the cliffs like she'd been spat from the sea. Soaked. Shaking. Your satchel clutched around her thick neck like it had been tied there in a rush. Or... in fear.

Telemachus had run to her.

He remembered that clearly now. The way her great body collapsed into him. The way she shoved her snout into his chest like she couldn't breathe right without your scent.

He hadn't thought much of it then—just grief. Just confusion. But now, standing here, staring at one of the last things you've ever owned, it churned louder in his stomach. Ugly. Loud.

You hadn't arrived with her. She'd just... shown up. Alone.

And your bag—gods, your bag—he remembered what was inside. Your spare cloak, still damp with saltwater. Your sandals. Some half-eaten rations. A polished stone you'd picked out for Kieran. A jingly bracelet for Lysandra. Scarf for Asta. Dagger for his father. Seashell necklace for his mother.

Gifts for all of them. All, each with tiny, scrawled notes in your handwriting. A name for each one.

Except his.

There was nothing for him.

Or—No. Not nothing. Just a note.

He remembered holding it in his hand. How the parchment had been slightly smudged from seawater. How your handwriting had tilted more than usual. Like you were rushing. Like your hand had been shaking.

"Yours is too important to keep in a bag."

Telemachus shut his eyes now, pressing his head harder against the shelf, the words burning behind his eyelids.

Too important.

What did that even mean? What had you meant to give him that couldn't be wrapped up like the rest?

His breath caught.

Lady would never have left you.

Not like that.

Not willingly.

And suddenly the hot knot behind his eyes burned worse.

"She never leaves your side," he muttered, voice rough in his throat. "Not unless..." He trailed off.

Not unless what?

Not unless she was forced to. Or ordered to. Or told to run.

His heart thudded.

He straightened slowly, hand still braced on the shelf, his breath coming shallower now. His eyes darted to the lyre again—cracked, useless. A relic that had once sung and sparked beneath your hands. But the most damning thing—the thing that made his stomach drop all over again—was what wasn't in your bag.

The divine lyre.

The one Apollo had given you. The one that shimmered faintly even when tucked out of sight. The one you never let out of your reach.

It was missing.

Gone.

Mother said you'd taken it with you on the trip. Everything in him knew you wouldn't have left it behind. Not unless—

Not unless you'd never meant to leave at all.

Telemachus' throat closed, his whole chest pulling tight like a rope had cinched around his ribs and yanked hard. "Gods," he breathed—then let out a sharp, frustrated groan and yanking both hands through his hair. His fingers twisted into the strands and tugged, too hard, until his scalp stung.

"Idiot," he muttered, half to himself, half to the room. "Stupid, stupid—"

He backed away from the shelf like it had burned him, stumbling a step before catching himself. His feet dragged heavy over the stone, pacing once, twice—then stopping.

Athena had said you were safe.

She looked him in the eye and said it.

And he'd believed her.

He'd held onto that one thread since it was casted, like it meant something. Like her word—her calm, clean certainty—could fill the hole you left behind. But the longer he sat with it, the longer he breathed in this too-silent room—

The less he believed it.

Because safe didn't look like this. Safe didn't feel like grief woven into the curtains and silence so loud it made his ears ring. Safe didn't come without letters. Without whispers. Without even a trace of your voice left behind.

He exhaled, jaw clenched tight, then forced his legs to move. Just enough.

He dragged himself toward the workbench—your bench—the one you'd always used when you wanted quiet. When you needed space. He could still remember watching you sit there once, hunched over some tangled knot of string or paper or ink-stained map, your brows furrowed and one foot twitching as you focused too hard to notice him standing in the doorway.

He sat down on the edge now, slouched forward like the weight in his chest had finally forced him to bend. His elbows braced against his knees. His gaze dropped to the floor—fixed somewhere near his sandals, but not really seeing them.

Before he could stop it, a memory came.

No—rushed him. Overtook him like a tide he'd forgotten how to swim against.

It was the last time he saw you before he left for the smaller villages along the coast. He had duties to fulfill. Trade routes to assess. Small border disputes to mediate. His father had insisted it would be good for him—"to gain experience, to learn the pulse of the people." But all Telemachus remembered was the guilt of walking away. The weight of your eyes on his back. The question he hadn't answered.

The memory bloomed: soft and golden.

You were in your room. Late afternoon. The sun was sinking behind Ithaca's hills, casting amber light through the windows. The curtains glowed, sheer and golden, filtering the world in shades of honey and fire. The shadows were long, but warm. Safe.

You were sitting upright on your bed, legs curled to the side, a wall of pillows stuffed behind your back like a little fortress. Your divine lyre was in your lap, fingers plucking it in thought—not quite playing, not quite composing. Just drifting. Searching for something in the strings that hadn't taken shape yet.

He'd laid on his side beside you, one arm tucked under his head, watching.

That was all he did—just watched.

Your hair had caught the light like thread spun from flame. Your face, backlit in gold, looked like a painting—one of those sacred ones that hung in the halls of temples. Timeless. Distant. Something to be admired, not touched.

And yet you sat there, humming under your breath, not aware of the way you stole his breath every time you shifted in the light. Not aware of how long he'd been looking.

You'd smiled at him once—barely—and that had been enough to undo him.

He remembered thinking, I could stay like this forever.

But he hadn't said it.

Not then. Not when it would've mattered.

And now—gods, now the memory was louder than the silence he'd left you with.

A few more minutes passed.

Then, before he could stop it, the words spilled out like breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"Are you happy here? In Ithaca, I mean."

Your fingers paused on the lyre. A soft, slow blink. You tilted your head, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

His eyes widened a fraction, and he sat up too fast, throat already closing around an excuse he hadn't built yet. "I—I didn't mean—" he began, but then stopped.

Before he could backtrack—before the lie could take shape—a pillow hit him square in the face. Soft. Playful.

You snorted, that breathy kind of laugh that curled his spine. "Why would you even ask that?"

Telemachus let the pillow drop slowly into his lap, eyes still a bit wide.

At the tip of his tongue was, "I don't know, just... wondering." Easy enough to say. Easy enough to let slide off into nothing.

But something inside him pushed. A flicker of honesty that didn't let go. And before he could smother it, he was rambling—words spilling out faster than his pride could stop them.

"It's just—so much's happened. Since Father came back. Since you found out you were blessed by Apollo..." He swallowed. "Since Lady showed up. Since Andreia, and you—"

He faltered. Looked down.

"You died."

The words left his mouth like a dropped stone. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He rubbed the back of his neck, face pinkening with quiet shame. "It's like—every time I think I've found steady ground, it cracks under me. Like the gods are playing a game I was never invited to, and I'm just... supposed to keep walking like nothing's shifting beneath my feet." His voice dropped, thickening. "And you..."

He looked at you then, really looked—like the words might break him.

"You keep getting dragged into it. Hurt by it. And I—I can't stop it. I want to. I swear I want to. But nothing I do feels like enough. I'm always a step behind. A moment too late. I just..." He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes flicking away. "I guess I needed to know if you're happy. Or if you're just surviving. Or that I need to—"

You let out a soft laugh—gentler than before, but real. You reached out, hand sliding into his. Warm. Steady. Your fingers squeezed, grounding.

"Telemachus," you said, smiling, "breathe."

He did.

Slowly. Deeply.

Once. Twice.

Then again, a little shakier this time, like he could force the nerves out of his chest if he just breathed hard enough. And then he looked away. Face red. Ears pink. "...Sorry," he mumbled. He sounded like he wanted to disappear into the sheets.

But you didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just scooted a little closer, the movement slow and easy like the sun shifting across the floor. Your lyre was set aside, its strings still humming faintly from your earlier touch.

"You worry too much," you said, nudging your knee against his. Then—without warning—you reached up and gave his head a light, playful shove. "One of these days you're gonna hurt that pretty head of yours, thinking so hard."

Telemachus scoffed under his breath, the sound half a laugh. "You think I'm pretty?" he quipped, turning toward you. His smile twitched wider when you rolled your eyes—but before you could shove him again, he caught your hand in his.

Warm. Easy.

He laced your fingers together, slow and sure, like he'd done it in a hundred dreams but never dared in daylight. Your hands fit. Stupidly well. Like they'd grown up waiting for each other.

He stared down at them for a moment—your thumb resting gently over his. His calluses brushing the back of your knuckles. And then...

"____."

He said your name.

Soft.

Like it was something fragile. Something he didn't want to break by accident.

Your eyes met his.

And gods, he forgot how to breathe again.

Because the light from the window was falling across your face just right—gold along your cheekbones, softening at your lashes—and for a second, you didn't look real.

His throat tightened.

"I just..." he started, the words catching before they landed. He looked down again, thumb brushing yours. "I don't know how to explain it. It's not just about safety. Or duty. Or the palace."

He looked up, met your gaze again, steadier now.

"I just want you to be happy."

Your expression softened.

"I want to be the reason you smile without thinking," he added, voice lower. "Even if it's just for a second. Even if I never say it right."

He swallowed, thumb still tracing that same little circle over your skin.

"I know I can't stop the storms. Or the gods. Or whatever it is that keeps pulling you out of reach...  but if there's even one part of this world I get to protect—if there's anything I'm allowed to hold onto—it's this."

A beat passed.

His voice fell quieter.

"You."

And he said it like a promise.

Like he meant to spend the rest of his life trying to keep it.

Your breath hitched. Barely—but he felt it. Heard it. And when you said his name, soft and uncertain, it landed somewhere beneath his ribs. "Telemachus..."

Then came the smile.

Gods, that smile.

It bloomed slow, like sunlight warming over frost. But it grew. Glowed. Broke open across your face like a secret only he'd been trusted to witness. Your eyes shimmered—not with tears, not really, just... something misty. Something full.

And in that moment, Telemachus swore—swore by every god above and every stone beneath his feet—that he would make it true. That he'd keep you smiling like that, even if it meant burning his knees on every temple floor in Greece. Even if it meant clawing against fate itself.

But now?

Now he sat alone.

Back in that same room—your room—the light all wrong and the air too still. And gods, it clung. You clung. To the edges of the bench, to the shelf where your old lyre currently sit. To the pillow that still had a tiny indent where your elbow used to rest while you played.

And all he could think was—

You looked like a vision that day.

Like something he should've reached for. Should've held tighter. Should've said more to. Something he'd already begun losing, even as you smiled.

Everyone kept saying you'd be back. That you just needed time. That he was making something out of nothing.

But they don't feel the space you left behind. The ache of something missing that didn't have a name.

His throat tightened as his foot tapped once and then stilled. His hands sat heavy in his lap, fingers twitching like they were used to holding something—your hand, maybe. The frayed edge of your sleeve.

"I..." he tried to say—but the word caught in his throat, dying in the space between his teeth. Groaning softly, he dragged a hand down his face. "Gods..."

He missed it.

Gods, he missed you.

But missing wasn't a big enough word anymore. This—this was something else entirely. Not longing, not heartbreak. Something slower. Meaner.

Like a pressure behind his ribs that wouldn't ease. Like sitting in a room someone had just left, still warm with their breath.

And for the first time, he wondered—

Is this what she felt?

His mother. All those years spent waiting, weaving, pretending the ache was survivable. Was this what kept her up at night, this phantom-limb feeling of a person who should be there and wasn't?

He'd never understood it. Not really.

But now?

Now he did. Gods, he did.

The quiet. The wondering. The whiplash of carrying love when there's no one left to give it to.

Maybe this was what love became when you hoarded it too long—quiet, unused, and too late.

He had chances, and yet, he continued to spend them like they were infinite.

Time to tell you. Time to hold you. Time to press his forehead to yours and whisper something stupid, something small, like: "Stay."

But now? Now all he could do was wonder.

Were you happy, wherever you were?

Were you afraid?

Did you miss him the way he missed you, or had the gods already swallowed that part of you whole?

He closed his eyes, his hands curled into fists. He imagined you out there—walking along some path, under a sun that shone just for you, among gods who saw you as prophecy, as prize, as poetry.

But not as you.

Not the you who scrunched your nose at his old boots. Not the you who laughed so hard at his training stories that you nearly fell off the bench. Not the you who once fell asleep mid-conversation, your head tipping onto his shoulder like it belonged there.

He would give anything—anything—just to hold you again. Just to feel your hand slip into his and know you'd done it because you wanted to. Because you were still his. Not in title, not in fate. Just...

His.

And gods.

He hoped you still felt that too.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: here's a bit of extra scenes/plot to ch.60 ┃ 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐧; lolol so happy you all enjoyed the last chappie, especially zeus, cuz he will be popping up in the isekai---as well as other works i have planned!! also, decided that i'll continue leaving notes under the fanart i recieve---they're just too amazing to not at least say something; someone helped/suggsted that i post them with the credits and whenever i get the chance to come back and edit the little notes when i have time, so i'll do that!! i already made a few comments on a few pics and will be sure to do the rest before re-uploading them onto the other platforms i post on ❤️❤️ also! i see you guys have lots of questions, so if you want, i can host a mini-q&a, but the twist it'll be interactive!! so that means i'll reply to whatever questions in character under the comments, which means more info/clarification for anything you'd wanted to know (i saw this done a few years ago from an book i read and had hella fun doing it/asking questions!) lemme know if you guys wanna try it!

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive idkanyonealrr

[moonyfest]

🌙 A sneak preview for prompt A136! 🌙 Title: Where the Wild Thyme Blows Browse all the prompts || Sign up to the fest

He steels himself and turns to meet kryptonite head-on. “Hello, again.”

The stranger’s smile blooms, uneven and unerringly charming, until his cheek dimples thoroughly. “Hi,” he replies around his grin. The grey of his eyes spark with the flickering candlelight and the same mischief from the museum shop, dark and syrupy; a flytrap. 

Remus picks up his drink, takes a lingering sip in an effort to save himself. The stranger watches his throat work as he swallows, and Remus feels himself willingly sinking into honey.

“Sirius,” he says before Remus has the chance to form a coherent thought.

Remus takes Sirius’ extended hand. It’s warm and pale and still distractingly sexy, much like the rest of the man it’s attached to. “Remus,” he returns, voice slightly hoarse from the sight of the tattooed fingers he’s spent the better part of forty-eight hours thinking about currently wrapped around his own.

“Remus,” Sirius repeats, rolling the vowels and consonants on his tongue, lip bitten on his growing smile. He’s still holding onto Remus’ hand. “Suits you.”

[akhret]

Anubis

Offerings

Water, wine, whiskey, rum, scotch, beer, black coffee, milk, juice, teas, energy drinks.

Meat, fish, fruits and vegetables, bread, grains, nuts, honey, cakes and other sweets, too (like dark chocolate or cinnamon flavored candies). Spices (like turmeric, cinnamon, pepper, paprika, saffron, etc.) and spicy food.

Plants or scents (perfumes, incense, candles, essential oils) like like lavender, frankincense, myrrh, cedar wood, sandalwood, cassia, eucalyptus, camphor oil, cedar oil, peppermint, rose, thyme, and almond oil. (Please make sure these are okay to burn before doing so).

Knives, bow and arrows, or other weapons can be dedicated to Inpw.

Precious metals and stones like gold, silver, lapis lazuli, obsidian, onyx, black tourmaline, smokey quartz.

Funerary objects and materials like natron, linen bandages, imagery/figurines of the canopic jars, heart scarabs, coffin imagery/figurines, acacia gum or gum arabic.

Items like the feather of maat, scales of justice, the ankh, the sekhem scepter, the was scepter, the double crown, the crook and flail, You may also offer him imagery of him, a seated/laying down dog, or any of the previous objects listed (drawings, printed pictures, figurines).

Devotional Acts

Visit a cemetery and help clean up graves. Pay respects to the dead and help make their graves look nice, decorate it with flowers, or ask to pour out a libation to the deceased when you go and visit. Clean up any debris or trash you found around the site. Along these lines, getting in the habit of saying a prayer for the deceased to have an easy transition is also a great devotional act. You don’t have to address anybody in particular, just the act is enough.

If you have any desire to go into death work that can be a great devotional act- this can be done by being a death doula, mortuary science, death investigation, autopsy technician, forensic science technician, funeral assistant, etc. Helping the dead and treating them with respect is always appreciated.

Fostering dogs or helping out at dog shelters is a great devotional act for Anpu!

Volunteer at an orphanage. Anubis is associated with orphans, so helping those who have lost their parents can be incredibly beneficial to the child and something you can do in honor of him.

Doing things that will help make your heart lighter at the end of your life. This is going to look different person to person but it can include coming out if you’re closeted, being true to yourself, setting boundaries, dealing with your trauma and going to therapy to unpack whatever it is that you’ve been through, getting on medication for any mental illness you have, going down a career path you’re passionate about, picking up new hobbies, making new friends that will help you, finding a community that will accept you, etc. Again, this will look different for everybody. Ask yourself what will make your heart feel lighter at the end of your life?

Signs

Anubis is well known for sending dogs along people’s paths. I’ve seen that he’s most likely to send black dogs to a person- they may appear randomly along your path or they could appear as a stray dog looking for a home. He may also send you jackals, wolves, coyotes, foxes, or leopards- depending on what’s native to your area but they may also appear randomly through images. Along these lines, you could also come across scared signs and symbols of him, or you may see him.

You may get feelings of easiness, calmness, as well.

Signs from him could be your own life transforming around you. You could see yourself transforming much faster, where you’re learning lessons that you need to or you’re getting on a career path that will help you. Transformation can also take the form of being better at setting boundaries or becoming a better communicator.

As the god who renews the life of the dead, you could find yourself with renewed hope, feeling refreshed, or just an overall better outlook of life.