#and made of plants and other earthy things

[butterflyangel2002]

I love African black soap. It’s great for your skin and everything 🖤

[lovebugism]

Shy!reader who has never had a valentine and Steve who pulls out alllll the stops to make up for this—flowers, chocolate, jewelry, candles, a nice dinner, even stuff like a teddy bear and those cheesy kid valentines

happy love day <3 — steve helps his shy gf celebrate her very first valentine's day (shy!reader, established relationship, cw for brief mentions of anxiety, 1k)

Valentine’s Day afternoon is grey and gloomy, but your beaming makes up for it. You’re smiling wide and sparkling with it the second you see Steve waiting for you in the parking lot outside your work. He’d promised to pick you up, yes, but you’re always giddy at the sight of him.

“Hey, babe,” the boy greets with his own grin, crooked and perfectly pink. 

He looks all cool, leaning against the driver’s side of his car. Pristine sneakers crossed over one another, sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, strands of cinnamon hair draping his forehead — how are you supposed to do anything but melt for him?

“Hi,” you respond in a tinier voice, walking closer to him now. You duck your chin to your chest and peer at him through your lashes, always so painfully shy.

“Did you have a good day?”

“It was alright,” you shrug and plant yourself in front of him. The deep scent of cologne staining his shirt combines with the earthy scent of impending rain. The concoction makes you dizzy. “Kept thinking about seeing you the whole time, though.”

Your confession makes the bridge of his chiseled nose scrunch. 

“Well, that makes two of us,” he quips before revealing the bouquet of flowers hidden behind his back. A small thing wrapped in pale pink tissue paper — pastel lavenders and pale baby’s breath — as pretty and delicate as you are.

You light up instantly, eyes glittering as they flit from the bushel of flowers to Steve’s proud grin. “You got me flowers?” you wonder, quiet with disbelief. You take them with a soft, trembling hand.

Steve shrugs. “‘Course I did.”

You bury your nose in the perfumed florals and flash a sheepish look over them. “No boy’s ever gotten me flowers before…”

Steve knows this. He knows you’ve never had a valentine before him — that you’ve never been with anyone the way you’ve been with him. It’s why he’s always so soft and perfectly patient with you.

“‘Cause other boys are stupid,” he says, grinning when it makes you giggle. He takes another step closer to you and smooths his warm palms over your arms. His thumbs rub gently along the outsides of your elbow. “Do you like them?”

“I love them,” you insist, smiling so wide it hurts. “They’re gonna look so pretty in my room.”

“Want me to take you home then? So you can get ready for tonight?”

Your brows pinch at his mischievous tone. “What’s tonight?”

“Dinner. I wanna take you to that fancy, new Italian place in the city.”

“Oh.” Your panic is subtle but still written all over your face. You’re not good at going out — you’re worse at trying new things. Steve’s certainly made you braver, but you’re always a little timid at heart. 

Steve knows this and assures with a soft smile, “But we don’t have to if you don’t want. It was just a suggestion.”

“I want to,” you hear yourself say.

His brows raise, visibly shocked. “You do?”

There’s something about the way he looks at you, with a glimmer in his deep brown eyes, that makes you bold. You nod once, firm and foreignly confident. “Yeah.”

Steve tries not to be too obvious about his smiling, but he wears his love for you all over his face without trying. “Then let’s go.”

—————

Rain beats heavy against the window of the candle-lit restaurant, a wild and delicate cadence. The flickering flame paints Steve’s smile golden while his eyes glow a shining amber. He tries to woo you like you’re not wearing the pretty dress he bought you — like you’re not wearing his initial in a pendant dangling between your breasts.

“You’re the Obi-Wan for me,” he jokes before taking a hearty bite of his steak. He chews through the mouthful and gestures with his fork. “You know. Like only one—”

“I get it,” you assure with a sickly sweet smile.

He’s been doing this for a better part of an hour. The Valentine’s Day crowd rushed in, and your waiter got your order wrong, and the whole thing spun you into a tizzy. Steve’s been trying to distract you from your nerves ever since. And it’s worked. Mostly.

“Well, you’re not laughing!” he retorts, playful in his solemnity. “That one was good— you gotta give me some credit.”

“It was,” you assure with a quiet nod. You don’t say it like you mean it, but more like you’re trying to appease him.

“Are you saying you can come up with a better one?” he teases.

You think for a moment, doe eyes flitting across the droplets sliding down the window beside you. Your glossed lips purse all pretty to the side with the weight of your pondering. A smile tugs slow at your lips when you turn back to him. “Obi-Wan Ke-bone-me.”

A laugh sputters from Steve’s mouth. As pure and innocent as sunshine. He nods with a proud, lopsided smile. “You’re right. That was way better.”

“I Obi-Want you tonight,” you follow, giggling still.

“You are on fire tonight, you know that?”

You laugh again, louder this time. Steve beams at the pretty sound and waits until you’ve scooped a too-big bite of pasta in your mouth to compliment you. “You’re so pretty…” he murmurs in a low, honeyed tone. His eyes sparkle with amber, warm and visibly fond.

You stop mid-chew to scowl. You’re too cute to look threatening — especially when you’ve got spare sauce dotted on the corner of your mouth. “Stop…” you scold after you’ve swallowed down the mouthful.

Steve laughs, loud and boyish. “You are!”

“You’re being too nice…” you grouse with your nose scrunched.

“I’m your boyfriend. I’m supposed to be nice.”

“But not this nice,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. You twirl noodles around your fork to busy your fidgeting hand. Your sheepish gaze flits from the half-empty plate to the beautiful boy in front of you. “I think you’re starting to ruin everyone else for me, Stevie…”

His chest sparkles with a warmer feeling. “Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That was kinda the plan here, babe.”

“Was it?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods and folds his arms over the white-clothed table. He grins wide and leans in close.  His cinnamon eyes sparkle with a mixture of adoration and mischief. “You fell right into my trap.”

You smile back at him, so happy that you did.

[604to647]

What Was I Made For?

3.1K / Frankenstein AU Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Left on his own, Tim learns a new way to live.

Warnings: None! Age gap cause Tim’s like hundreds of years old 🤷🏻‍♀️😂 Semi-sentient woodland creatures that meddle, I guess 🤭

A/N: Inspired by @almostfoxglove’s beautiful AU moodboard below - if you haven't already, check out that post and the tags, along with all her other AU moodboards! Thank you so much for sharing them with us 🥹🥰

Title by Billie Eilish / Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always 🥰

For a very long time, Tim did not go outside during the daytime.

Father said not to.

And even though Father has been gone for many years, Tim still heeded his words.  His being the only voice Tim had ever heard.

He still doesn’t know why Father left.  He’s even less sure of why he never returned.

Merge Mansion remains dark, even during the day.  Its halls empty, its candelabras unlit.  If anyone was to pass through the ivy choked iron gates and listen at its door, and no one ever did, they would hear only the skittering of mice and the occasional heavy footstep, so slow and deliberate it could be mistaken for the heartbeat of a slowly dying house.

Only ever at night, Tim goes out to the woods behind the now dusty and crumbling mansion.  Those same woods where Father would have him lift, throw, break - repeatedly.  And Father would write furiously in his notebooks.  Tim thinks maybe that’s what he was made for.

For more years than can be counted, enough so that he passes into legend, Tim continues to do what he knows.  He uproots trees and plants and heaves them over knolls and into streams.  He rolls boulders and smashes rocks.  He haunts the forest alone until the dawn threatens to pierce through the thick overhang of the old growth trees; hiding within the moss-covered stone walls of the only home he’s ever known until night brings cover once again.

Until one night after so many nights, he just… doesn’t.  Instead of his nightly exertion to prove something to the darkness, Tim just sits and bathes in the pureness of the moonlight.  He breathes in the earthy musk of the forest’s damp soil and the sweet scent of pine mixed with bark sap.  Instead of his own laboured breathing, Tim finally hears the babbling of the brooks, the hooting of the owls, and soft breeze whistling between the low berry bushes and the high tree tops.  Tim doesn’t know if he was made to be at peace, but he finds that he can do it all the same.

He teaches himself to read.  At first using words Father would say and the signs he would point to in the room Tim lived in: Lock.  Unlock.  Hot.  Cold.  On.  Off.  Danger.  Stop.

Then from books about nature that he finds in the library, remembering words that Father would use to describe their surroundings when in the woods that Tim now knows so well.

Tree.  Rock.  Hill.  Hole.

It takes a very, very long time.  But Tim has nothing but time.

He’s not even sure if he’s doing it right - he has no one to ask.  Not that he could even if there was.  He says the words in his head the way he thinks they sound, but with no voice, never out loud.  He wasn’t made for that.

It’s no matter.  Even if he isn’t sure he’s sounding them out properly, Tim thinks he’s assigned the words to the pictures in the books of animals and landscapes correctly.  There are other books, as well.  Ones with illustrations that are foreign to him and where the words denote meaning that he doesn’t think he will ever understand, but he learns them anyways:  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  Love.

In his woods, Tim no longer destroys: he clears, builds, tends.  Tim carves out paths that feel softer on the bottoms of his lumbering feet.  He removes dead branches from healthy trunks and uses them to sweep the forest floor.  He rolls away dead trees, some fell by age or disease, others by his own hand in the olden days when he thought that was what he was made for.

He still only does these things under the cover of night.  Father had said to be afraid of the village at the bottom of the looming hill upon which Merge Mansion perched.  He warned Tim that if he was discovered, the villagers would come and hurt them both.  Tim wishes that he had known the words or had the voice to tell Father that he would have protected him.  That perhaps it was the villagers who should have been afraid of him. Father’s notebooks say that he was built to be fierce. 

The bunnies in the woods do not seem to think so.  Nor the foxes, or the badgers, or the mice.  The deer do not find Tim to be fearsome, and the birds readily to flock to him.

He supposes it’s because he starts to help them build their nests; his long legs easily carry him to the farthest corners of the woods where the best nesting materials can be gathered.  He volunteers his big, pawlike hands to dig their burrows and holes.  His strength he uses to drag logs and branches to where whole furry families reside, breaking the thick wood into smaller pieces to help them expand and fortify their homes for their growing broods and the incoming weather.  He’s tall enough to lift baby birds back into their nests when they fall out before they’re ready to fly.  He forages and shares all his bounty, himself having no need for sustenance. 

Tim would not mind if this is what he was made for.

The years continue to pass.  The village at the bottom of the hill gets less busy, smaller, and is eventually gone.  Tim only knows because he witnesses the number of tiny square windows illuminated by bright candles during the night, dwindle until there is only darkness.

From the now dilapidated walls of Merge Mansion, Tim watches as what remains of the village rots and is reclaimed by the Earth.  It looks less frightening to him the way it stands now, wild and lush - much more like his beloved forest where he’s only ever known friendly creatures.

It’s the bunnies who convince him to come out in the daytime. 

It had been an especially abundant year for the rabbits, with baby bunnies almost overrunning the forest floor.  The mamas plead with Tim using their big brown eyes to help round up their little ones and keep them safe, making sure none of them strayed too far from the safety of the woods.

Little bunnies are hard to see in the dark.

The first time Tim steps outside during the day, he’s so blinded by the sky’s brightness that he thinks perhaps his eyes were not made for sunlight.  His forest is so green in the daytime.  A richness of browns with the occasional pop of red, blue, even lavender.  In the winters, the snow is so white during the day it appears almost clear.  Once the snow has melted, the streams splash with fish that jump during the day – something that never happens at night.  The sun’s beams warm Tim’s rough skin in a way the moon’s cold, comfortable ambiance never has.  The sounds of the forest are so much louder, cheerier in the day than they are at night – it strikes Tim as odd given it’s the same forest but he supposes he feels more alive during the day as well.

The deer are the ones that lead him out of the forest and to the front of the house.  The overgrown grass on the Merge Mansion hill begs to be grazed on, and with the village gone, Tim and the deer while away many days unseen and unbothered amongst the soft green blades – looking out to a splendid view of rolling plains and sprawling forests stretching all the way to the horizon.  He never strays far from the house - still heeding Father’s words of caution even though the dangers he warned against look to be long gone.

Tim doesn’t even know that another village has sprung up somewhere on the other side of a low mountain that he considers to be more than a fair distance away until you.  The first time he sees you, you’re but a little girl and you come with your own father to the cemetery that rests at the bottom of his hill, where it once bordered the old village.  The same cemetery from which Father gathered the parts that make up Tim as he is, if Father’s notebooks are to be believed.  The deer scamper away before you or your father see them, but Tim stays and hides, watches.

He hears your father tell you that these graves belong to your ancestors who once lived in the old village that’s now gone and that even though you live on the other side of the mountain, you should still pay your respects.  Tim listens to your cheery chatter and the hum of your father’s merry tunes as the two of you clean the gravestones, pull the weeds, plant fresh gardens.

You and your father come every week and Tim begins to look forward to it.  He watches you grow into a beautiful woman and your father into an old man.  He listens to the musical lilt of your voice and the gentle teasing of your father as the two of you care for and nurture the plot of land at the base of the Merge Mansion Hill so that it grows vibrant and fragrant with flowers that he’s only ever seen in Father’s books.  He hears your father tell you stories he heard as a child about the house that Tim lives in – the legend of a mad scientist and a terrible monster.  Tim doesn’t know why, but he feels relief when you laugh at these stories and call them ridiculous.

When your father stops coming with you, Tim watches over you in his stead.  You continue to do your duty in the cemetery joyfully and your sweetness is like an invitation.  The bunnies and the foxes and the mice and the deer all come down to join you.  You laugh and share your food with them and they enjoy your company as much as you do theirs.  Music.  Dance.  Laugh.  Feast.  He thinks he finally understands.  When his furry friends turn their soulful eyes up to the house, Tim knows they’re looking to him to come down but he shakes his head no.  He’s not made for this.

He doesn’t know that you see him anyways.

You’ve known he was there since the days you would come to this cemetery with your father as a little girl.  Most times as just a shadow on the Merge Mansion grounds, but once or twice you had seen Tim’s handsome, haunted face in one of the cracked windows.

You don’t know who he is or what he is, but some how you know that you have to pretend that you’re unaware of his presence.  As if for some laughable reason, he finds you to be frightening.

So, you try to make yourself to be as nonintimidating as possible.  You wear soft flowing fabrics that lie prettily over your equally soft skin in pleasing colours that compliment the hue of your hair and the brightness of your eyes.  You keep your voice gentle and the sound of your notes harmonious when you sing or hum your favourite songs of love and fantasy.  When your father tells you the old stories of the Merge Mansion Monster, you make sure to loudly decry this characterization.  Your unseen friend is not a monster, and you want to make sure that he knows you know that.

Your woodland friends who proclaim to know him best seem to say, give him time.  So you do, waiting patiently for a sign.  For what?  You don’t know.  Just a sign for more.

It comes one summer day, many, many years after your weekly trips to the cemetery became solo trips.  For two weeks, you’ve been in a state of mild panic, unable to find the delicate gold chain necklace that your father gave you - his last gift to you before he passed.  A part of you fears that it may have come unclasped and dropped onto the path some time during your weekly trip to the Merge Mansion cemetery; your heart clenches – if that was the case, your treasured necklace is surely lost.

Your surprise when you find your necklace waiting for you on top of a gravestone next to a small tied bundle of lavender is palpable.  Your eyes threaten to overflow with tears as you look up the hill to the house and mouth, thank you.

You don’t know that you had actually lost your necklace next to this very gravestone and that one of your bluebird friends had carried it up to Tim in its beak.  Tim spends two weeks practicing making the small bouquet of lavender – his large and clumsy hands unused to the precise and delicate movements required.  He refers to the instructions in the book he found so many times he can see the diagrams in his sleep.  But he keeps trying until he gets it right – wanting to offer you something more than just your returned necklace as a token of his appreciation for all the work you do.  Holding the delicate chain in his oversized hand, he can’t stop looking at it glittering in the moonlight and admiring its intricate craftsmanship.  It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  Well, second.

The next week, Tim discovers a large and fragrant bouquet of the cemetery’s best and biggest blooms laid outside of his iron gates.

Three weeks later, on the same gravestone, you find those flowers dried and pressed, then laced together in a pretty flower crown.

You weave your own from new fresh flowers and leave it in place of the dried one you take home.  The following week, the crown you made is gone, and in its place, a large pile of fresh wild berries that must come from the forest behind the mansion.

The squirrels had objected, but Tim promised that the reduction of berries from their weekly hoard would be for a good cause.  You helped prove him right the following week when he returned from the hill with a jar of wild berry jam which he happily shared.

This continues for months.  Each week a small, thoughtful trinket exchanged - neither you or Tim having much to offer except your consideration and time.  The giddy anticipation and resulting awe a gift in itself.

The day you bring a blanket that took you six weeks to knit, you’re imbued with a bravery (the source of which is unknown even to you) that brings you all the way to Tim’s doorstep.  The heavy door opens when you push against it, but no one answers when you call out.

While Tim is in the woods assisting with the birth of a newborn deer, you’re wandering the dark, musty halls of Merge Mansion.  You find where you think Tim must sleep: in a room that looks like a lab - electrical wire equipment, gurneys, restraints and medical utensils long since pushed against the walls of the room and abandoned.

You read the notebooks left behind by the scientist and seethe on Tim’s behalf.  To call him a Creature!  To experiment on him and put him through trials of endurance and strength as if he was merely an instrument for violence!  You’re grateful that Tim’s creator must be long dead by now, else he might not be able to escape the vitriol you feel rising in your chest at the mistreatment Tim endured at his hand.

You leave the blanket and the mansion in a hurry.

When Tim comes back into the house, he knows immediately that you were there.  He smells you.  The sweet floral perfume from your garden and the sticky scent of fruit from your jams hangs in the air.  Nothing in this house or the forest smells quite so lovely.  You were here. 

With growing distress, he finds your thoughtful gift in the room where he sleeps and knows that you’ve read Father’s notebooks.  You know the truth of what he is now.  He’ll never see you again.

But you come back.

You leave him a letter and for three weeks, he reads it every day. 

It’s a letter that tells him about yourself and your family, and how you came to be his weekly visitor.  You tell him how you’ve always known he’s been there but you were afraid to scare him away so you never let on that you saw him.  You tell him that now that you’ve calmed down a bit, you’re not quite so angry at Father but you do think that he didn’t understand Tim’s true nature, or perhaps, you concede, he simply wasn’t gifted enough time to understand. 

You tell him what you think of his nature.  In your experience, men who are strong are rarely gentle and those who harness power are hardly ever giving.  But Tim is.  His hands, arms and muscles may be sewn together from much lesser men, but he, Tim, wields his strength to protect and look after others.  His heart may not be able to pull down trees or break rock, but it’s tender and pure – and where his true power lies.

You write that even though you’ve never met him face to face, you only ever feel safe and cared for knowing he’s around.  And you hope that even if he never forgives you for trespassing in his home and going through his personal belongings without his permission, he will take your words to heart.

Every week you come back to the doors of Merge Mansion bearing a small gift and a big apology, but Tim is nowhere to be found.  You’re starting to fear that you’ve crossed an unforgiveable boundary and ruined your indescribable but cherished connection, when the most wonderous sight awaits you as you near the top of the hill nearly a month after you left your letter.

Tim. 

Impossibly large and broad, a hulk of a man is sitting on the front steps waiting for you.  His face is hard, lined from time and worry, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable.  You see some trace of old scars along his forehead and neck, and down the worn skin that stretches over the corded muscles of his forearms.  His clothes are outdated and entirely the wrong size, but somehow it works on him.  He looks formidable.  Wild, yet tame.  Handsome.

You run to him, beaming.  Tim stands when you come to a stop in front of him, towering over you as he holds out a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the forest lands behind his home that he tends to so carefully.

When you reach out to accept, your small fingers brush his larger calloused ones, and the jolt of electricity that passes between the two of you feels like pure joy.  And although Tim can only offer a quiet grunt, unable to say the words that he wishes he could sing with his whole chest, you understand him perfectly.  Your incandescent smile and hopeful expression reassure him that you too, recognize the simple, unspoken truth: Tim was made for you.

🎶Obligatory Billie Eilish, What Was I Made For lyrics����:

'Cause I, 'cause I I don't know how to feel But I wanna try I don't know how to feel But someday I might Someday I might

Think I forgot how to be happy Something I'm not, but something I can be Something I wait for Something I'm made for Something I'm made for

[basset-babe]

five times: the second.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: unsolicited sexual advances

word count: 3.7k+

a/n: apologies for the late update! i've been sleeping in so bad lately lmao also, please do know that my writing isn't abided by the series' consecutive timeline bcs i just tend take away scenes and themes through s1 to s3 where it would make sense with the fic idea in my head, but all still well within the bridgerton series (S3 SPOILER! also i do not hold any grudge towards lady tilley arnold tho she is the rendezvous love interest of ben in s3, just made sense for me to add her here in this context) but nonetheless, please enjoy the 2nd! ciao belle!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

spring divider from @thyming and, again, pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

second time.

As the noon sun cast a bright glow over the sprawling estate gardens, Miss Y/N and Benedict strolled along the cobblestone path lined with vibrant blossoms and verdant foliage. The sweet fragrance of blooming flowers mingled with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil, creating an intoxicating bouquet that filled the air. Birds chirped melodiously from their perches in the ancient oaks, their songs adding a gentle soundtrack to the tranquil scene.

Miss Y/N paused by a bed of delicate gardenias, her fingers brushing lightly over the soft petals as she turned to Benedict with a teasing smile. "Have you no other plans than to spend your time watching me procure my plants, Benedict?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Benedict, standing a few paces away with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, returned her smile with a warm, earnest expression. "Actually, I find great pleasure in keeping you company and wandering through your beautiful gardens," he replied, his gaze taking in the lush greenery and the kaleidoscope of flowers surrounding them. In truth, his heart swelled with affection for her, every moment spent in her presence a cherished gift.

A few steps behind, the chaperone lingered near a stone bench, her attention seemingly focused on the distant horizon. Although out of earshot, her presence was a reminder of propriety and decorum.

Miss Y/N sighed softly, her playful demeanor tinged with a hint of exasperation. "We are chaperoned! I mean, probably out of earshot but still," she said, shaking her head slightly as a wry smile curved her lips. "You and your subtle art of flirting."

Benedict chuckled, the sound low and pleasant. "Ah, but where's the harm in a little harmless flirtation amidst such beauty?" he replied, gesturing to the surrounding garden. "Besides, your company is far more captivating than anything." His words carried the weight of his burgeoning love, though he struggled to fully express the depth of his feelings.

As they continued their leisurely walk, the leaves rustled softly in the gentle breeze, and the world seemed to slow, allowing them a few precious moments of stolen intimacy amidst the natural splendor.

"My subtle art of flirting," he murmured, stepping closer and carefully looming over a bed of blooming roses. "Or perhaps it’s not so subtle after all."

She glanced up at him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I would say it’s as subtle as a peacock in a library."

"Ah, so it’s quite effective, then," he said, leaning in just enough to catch the gardenia’s sweet scent.

"You are impossible," she said, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile. "Even when you called on me, you've brought a grafted rose to plant, of all things!" She laughed fondly.

"Well, I thought it suited you," he said as his voice softened, casting her a glance full of admiration. "A growing thing of beauty, requiring patience, care, and attention." His heart pounded in his chest, the metaphor echoing his own feelings for her.

The sun glowed warm through the greenhouse window pane. Peering from the vines, the sunlight dawned and cascaded over Y/N, rendering her breathtaking in Benedict's eyes. The golden light danced on her hair, casting a halo-like aura that made her appear almost ethereal.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink at his words. "For an artist, you do have a way with words, Benedict," she murmured, a soft smile playing at her lips as she averted her gaze.

Benedict, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the moment, reached out and gently touched a gardenia bloom, his fingers brushing against hers. The brief contact sent a subtle thrill through him, a spark of connection that felt both profound and delicate. "And I mean every one of them, you know," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity and unspoken affection as their eyes met.

Y/N's breath caught slightly, her heart quickening in response. Her gloved hand now in his as he gently held it. The intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. Her lady's maid, the estate, the very garden itself—all blurred into a distant background against the magnetic pull between them.

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying the intoxicating scent of gardenias and roses. Y/N's eyes widened slightly at the depth of emotion she saw in Benedict's eyes, a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something she dared not name yet. Her fingers, still intertwined with his, felt warm and comforting, a silent promise held in the delicate touch.

Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "Benedict, do you ever, um, find yourself feeling, well, the same way I do in moments like these, when we're together?" Her eyes, tinged with vulnerability, flicked up to meet his, silently seeking a connection that transcended mere words.

Benedict's smile softened, his thumb lightly caressing the back of her hand as he leaned nearer to whisper, "Every moment with you, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with a gentle ardor. "Your presence, Y/N, for if I revere you a dream, then I no longer wish to wake from my slumber."

Y/N's heart raced at his words, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink. She felt a rush of emotions, a blend of excitement and a tender vulnerability she had never experienced before. Her eyes widening in awe, "You speak as if I am something unattainable, a fragment of your mind," she said, a touch of playful skepticism in her tone.

Benedict's expression softened, nearing her as his gaze full of adoration. "Y/N," he murmured, his voice tender yet earnest, "you are not a fragment of my mind, nor are you unattainable. You are the very essence of my heart's desires, a beacon of light in a world of darkness." He reached out to gently cup her cheek, his touch conveying a depth of emotion beyond words. "To me, you are not just a dream, but the reality I never dared hope for. And I will spend every moment proving that to you, if you'll let me."

Meanwhile, the subtle clearing of her lady's maid's throat, positioned at a respectable distance, acted as a genteel nudge to observe the proprieties of their setting.

"Um, I, uh, apologize, Your Grace," Benedict murmured, his cheeks tinted with a shy flush as he took a small, hesitant step back, seemingly unsure of where to place his hands. "I… erm, it seems I, uh, forgot to, um, maintain my distance. Please forgive me," he added softly, his voice trailing off with a hint of uncertainty. "I, um, really didn't mean to, uh, make you uncomfortable." His eyes, a mix of nervousness and sincerity, briefly met hers before darting away, as if seeking refuge in the nearby foliage. "I'm, um, deeply sorry if I, you know, overstepped," he continued, his tone laced with a sheepish awkwardness as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to find a comfortable stance. "I… I suppose I just, er, got a bit carried away in the moment."

Y/N's cheeks flushed deeper as she felt a rush of embarrassment mingled with amusement at Benedict's sheepish apology. She averted her gaze momentarily, suppressing a nervous giggle before meeting his eyes, she reached out to gently place a hand on his arm. "Oh, Benedict," she began, her voice soft with a hint of laughter, "there's no need to apologize. I… I must admit, I too got carried away in the moment." She glanced around, half-panicked that someone might have witnessed their closeness, but finding the situation more humorous than anything. "It seems we both found ourselves swept up in the enchantment of the garden," she added with a playful wink, her laughter bubbling forth despite her attempts to compose herself.

Benedict let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he returned to a more respectable distance from Y/N. He couldn't help but smile at her laughter, finding solace in her lighthearted response. "Indeed, it appears the garden has a way of enchanting us both," he agreed with a soft chuckle, his gaze lingering on her with fondness. "I guess we ought to keep a closer eye on decorum," he mused with a rueful grin, a playful glint dancing in his eyes.

Benedict entered his studio at the esteemed art academy with a purposeful stride, the faint aroma of charcoal and linseed oil pervading his senses as he stepped within. The grand wooden door emitted a gentle creak as he pushed it open, revealing a space that, while seemingly cluttered, held a unique order characteristic of an artist's domain. It's been days since Mr. Bridgerton had paid visit to Miss Y/N; days since his apparent confession unreturned with an answer, hoping of the most favored "yes".

The studio was suffused with the soft, diffused light of late afternoon, filtering through tall, dust-laden windows. Easels stood in solemn ranks, each bearing sketches and paintings in various stages of completion. The floor was a canvas in itself, adorned with a mosaic of paint splatters and crumpled sheets of paper, silent testament to his countless hours of diligent work.

His gaze was inexorably drawn to the central easel, where his latest sketches of Miss Y/N awaited his discerning eye. Countless hours had been devoted to capturing her likeness, her features indelibly etched into his memory and transposed onto the canvas from myriad angles. The delicate curve of her jawline, the subtle arch of her brows, the enigmatic depths of her eyes—each sketch narrated a different story, a moment either observed or conjured from his imagination.

Benedict set down his leather satchel upon a nearby stool, extracting a well-worn sketchbook and a selection of fine graphite pencils. He approached the easel with a sense of reverence, as one might approach a sanctified space. The quietude of the studio enveloped him, disrupted only by the distant murmur of the academy's other activities.

As he perched upon the high stool before the easel, he paused momentarily, allowing his thoughts to drift back to his latest sitting with Miss Y/N. He recalled the play of light upon her hair, the subtle shifts in her expression as her thoughts wandered. With a deep, steadying breath, he took up a pencil, its familiar weight a comfort in his hand, and resumed his sketching. He became immersed once more in the intricate dance of lines and shadows, bringing her presence to vivid life upon the paper.

As he worked, Benedict would lose himself in the intricacies of her likeness, his mind consumed by the challenge of translating her beauty onto paper. Every stroke of his pencil would be deliberate, every line a reflection of his perception of her essence.

In this intimate space, surrounded by the tangible evidence of his devotion, Benedict would pour his heart and soul into each etch, striving to capture the true spirit of Miss Y/N with every stroke of his pencil.

"Someone seems smitten, don't you think, brother?" Anthony's teasing voice broke through Benedict's intent stare as he drew, jolting him out of his reverie. A faint blush tinged Benedict's cheeks as he glanced up, his hand pausing mid-stroke.

Benedict's older brother stood in the doorway, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he observed the tableau before him. Benedict chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of embarrassment. "I'm merely capturing her likeness as an artist," he protested, though the affection in his gaze betrayed his true feelings.

Anthony's grin widened, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Of course, dear brother," he replied, his tone dripping with amusement. "But one might argue that your portraits of Miss Y/N are a tad... shall we say, inspired?"

Benedict rolled his eyes good-naturedly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps," he conceded, returning his attention to the paper before him. "But can you blame me? She's quite the muse."

With a knowing laugh, Anthony stepped further into the studio, his presence injecting a sense of levity into the room. "Indeed she is," he agreed, his gaze drifting to the scattered sketches of Miss Y/N that adorned the walls. "But do try not to get too lost in your musings, brother. The real Miss Y/N might start to wonder what's keeping you so occupied."

Benedict nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Point taken," he said, his focus returning to his work. But as he etched his pencil into the paper once more, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the enigmatic woman who had captured his imagination—and his heart.

"Oh, and a letter arrived. It's for you," Anthony handed as sealed letter, "from a Lady Tilley Arnold. Seems urgent." Benedict stopped as he looked at his older brother whose held a knowing look. "I am not one to pry for I am one with your contentment, brother, but it seems you have unfinished business?"

"It is not what you are implying, brother. We are done. Lady Arnold had bid me done then. It is probably purely audience." Benedict replied focusing back to his work.

"Then I shall leave you to it, brother." Anthony left the letter on the stool and stepped out the studio closing the door, leaving his brother with his thoughts.

After his brother's departure, Benedict found himself unable to shake the lingering thoughts about why Lady Arnold had sought his audience. Their relationship had long evolved beyond the realms of a passionate love affair, and any such intimacies had faded into the past. Instead, he now saw himself as a respectable bachelor, poised to fulfill his societal obligations and perhaps find a suitable wife.

Despite this unexpected shift in their dynamics, the unexpected summons from Lady Arnold had stirred a curious blend of nostalgia and apprehension within him, prompting him to ponder the nature of their current connection.

As Benedict retired to his townhouse for the evening, his mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts about the impending meeting with Lady Arnold. While he harbored no romantic, nor amorous, feelings for her, the prospect of their encounter tomorrow left him feeling decidedly uneasy. After all, he had been actively courting Miss Y/N, and the mere notion of being seen with Lady Arnold had the potential to ignite scandalous gossip.

But then a knock sounded. In the dimly lit parlor of Benedict's townhouse, a cloaked woman stood before him, an air of melancholy clinging to the elegant form. "Lady Arnold, good evening! Do come in." He moved aside as the women entered. "To what do I owe--" He was cut off as Lady Tilley spoke, her expression tinged with a mix of determination and vulnerability. "Benedict, I sought you out because I'm leaving London soon. I wanted to bid you farewell before I go."

Benedict nodded politely, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his eyes. "Of course, Lady Arnold. It's kind of you to say goodbye."

But as their conversation unfolded, Benedict couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Lady Arnold's visit than a simple farewell. Her demeanor seemed to betray an underlying tension, a sense of urgency that belied the pleasantries of their exchange.

"Lady Arnold," Benedict began, his voice laced with a hint of concern, "is everything alright? You seem... troubled."

Lady Arnold hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering uncertainly before she squared her shoulders, as if steeling herself for what was to come. "Benedict, there's something I need to tell you," she confessed, her tone serious. "Something I've been meaning to say for quite some time." Taking a deep breath, she forged ahead, her words measured yet tinged with emotion. "I... I've realized that I can't bear the thought of leaving without expressing how I truly feel."

Benedict's eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of her confession. "How you feel?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lady Arnold nodded, her gaze unwavering as she held his gaze. "Yes, Benedict. I know the risks of me being seen here in your residence but it seems that you have not responded to my correspondence... I have come here to say that I've been thinking about us, about our past, and... I can't deny that I still feel something between us."

Benedict's mind flew to the letter he placed on his desk earlier the night he reached his townhouse. He didn't even want to open it knowing what it could contain. A rakish past he, quite possibly, no longer wants to open. Benedict, then, felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him, memories of their shared history flooding back with startling clarity. Yet, beneath the surface, a sense of unease gnawed at him, a silent reminder of the boundaries he had vowed to uphold.

"Tilley," he began tentatively, his words hesitant as he struggled to find the right response. "I… I'm not sure what you mean. Our past is just that, the past."

But Lady Arnold was undeterred, her resolve unwavering as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But what if it doesn't have to be? What if we could recapture the passion we once shared?"

Benedict's heart quickened at her words, torn between the allure of nostalgia and the reality of his present circumstances. "I... I don't know, Tilley," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Things have changed. I've changed."

Undeterred, Lady Arnold reached out to touch his hand, her touch soft and pleading. "Benedict, please. Don't you remember how good it used to be? Just one last time, before I leave."

Benedict felt a surge of conflicting emotions welling up inside him, his mind spinning with indecision. "I… I can't," he finally answered removing his hand from hers, his voice heavy with his conscience. "It wouldn't be right, just like you decided."

Lady Arnold's eyes gleamed with a mixture of longing and sorrow as she looked at Benedict. "Do you remember, Benedict," she began, her voice soft yet laden with emotion, "those nights we shared? How the world seemed to disappear when we were together? Every stolen moment, every secret touch… it was as if time stood still just for us." She took a step closer, her gaze never wavering. "The way we used to laugh, our whispers filling the darkness with promises only we understood. We explored each other's souls and bodies with such intensity, such reckless abandon. Every touch was a symphony, every kiss a sonnet. Our passion burned so bright, like a flame that could never be extinguished."

Her voice faltered slightly, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "We were invincible then, weren’t we? Bound by nothing but our own desires. It was a love that consumed us, left us breathless and wanting more. Even now, I can feel the echoes of those nights, the way your touch could ignite something deep within me, a fire that no one else could ever hope to spark."

She spoke of memories shared, of passion ignited long ago, and hinted at desires yet unfulfilled. Despite his best efforts to maintain composure, Benedict found himself ensnared by her magnetic presence, a faint echo of their past intimacy stirring within him as she caressed his jaw.

As the tension between them reached its zenith, Lady Arnold's advances became bolder, her fingers trailing lightly along the curve of Benedict's jawline as she leaned in for a kiss. For a fleeting moment, their lips met in a passionate embrace, igniting a spark of longing that threatened to engulf them both.

But as quickly as it began, Benedict pulled away, a confused expression clouding his features. "I am afraid it has ended," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "This... it no longer feels right." His words hung heavy in the air.

Lady Arnold's expression softened, a hint of sadness clouding her eyes. "I know things have changed, Benedict. We have changed. But those memories... they still linger. A testament to what we once shared, a rendezvous that defied everything and everyone."

She reached out, her fingers grazing his hand. "Tell me you remember, Benedict. Tell me that those moments meant as much to you as they did to me."

Benedict felt a lump form in his throat as Lady Arnold's words washed over him. Her memories mirrored his own, a testament to the bond they had once shared. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to respond.

"Of course I remember," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "Those moments were among the most exhilarating experiences of my life. We had an affair, some rendezvous that was."

Lady Arnold's eyes softened at his confession, a flicker of hope igniting within them. "Then why can't we have it again, Benedict? Just one last time, before I leave. Let me carry that memory with me."

Benedict sighed, "Because things are different now," he said gently. "Our lives have moved on. What we had was rousing, but it's part of a past that no longer exists."

Lady Arnold's expression crumpled slightly, her hope waning. "But why?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why can't we hold onto it, just for a little while longer?"

Benedict took her hand in his, his touch both firm and tender. "Because it wouldn't be fair to either of us," he replied softly. "I can't give you whatever temporary high you want, not when my heart belongs to someone else now. It would be a lie, a betrayal of what we both deserve."

Tears shimmered in Lady Arnold's eyes as she listened to his words. "I understand," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "I just... I had to try."

Benedict squeezed her hand gently before letting go. "I know," he said. "And I'm grateful for what we shared, Tilley, truly. But we both need to move forward, to find happiness in the lives we've chosen. You know it, this cannot be."

Lady Arnold nodded, her shoulders sagging with resignation. "I suppose this is goodbye then," she murmured, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes," Benedict agreed, his voice tender. "Goodbye, Lady Arnold. I wish you all the best."

With a final, lingering glance, Lady Arnold turned and walked away, leaving Benedict standing alone in the dimly lit parlor. As the door closed behind her, he felt a profound sense of closure, mingled with the bittersweet pang of lost love. He knew he had made the right decision, but the echoes of their past would remain with him, a poignant reminder of a passion that had once burned so brightly.

taglist: @novausstuff // @pussyslayerhd // @amoosarte // @jupitervenusearthmars

again, please do send me a message or comment down if you would like to be added on the succeeding taglists for the five times series!

[brattyfics]

Summary: Set against the eerie backdrop of the Florida swamps in the 1980s, this supernatural tale follows Adla Bennett, a woman navigating life after the loss of her father. When she discovers a wounded creature resembling a wolf on her porch, she takes it in for the night, only to find out the creature is a shapeshifter named Terry Richmond. He asks Adla for her help in locating his missing cousin, Mike, intertwining their fates in a way she never expected.

A/N: Divider by firefly-graphics. This is the beginning of my Swampbound story for Scary Terry Night (October 30) featuring Werewolf!Terry Richmond with my fave @uzumaki-rebellion! If you haven’t already, check out her Tattoos and Bloodsucker Blues preview. I struggled to choose an excerpt, so I’m sharing the entire first part. This story features supernatural elements and some mild gore, so please keep that in mind. Happy Reading!

Adla had spent all of her life in Florida, yet the strange things that washed ashore after storms still startled her. Destruction was to be expected—broken tree limbs, uprooted plants, even splintered pieces of homes carried away by the wind.

Tangled in seaweed, turtle hatchlings, along with frogs and crabs scurried frantically, struggling to reclaim their place in the chaos. Sometimes she'd find the occasional oddity: a tattered shirt, a weathered cloth bag, knotted fishing line.

But she'd never come across anything like this—a mangled, bloody deer carcass strewn across the tall grass, torn flesh and fur mingling with pieces of shredded cloth. 

Her instincts screamed at her to back, but curiosity got the better of her.

She knelt down, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. Something violent had happened here. She scanned the scene, trying to make sense of it. 

A gator? No, they usually dragged their prey back into the water. 

Maybe a hawk? But even with its sharp talons, a bird of prey wouldn’t make this kind of mess. 

Possibly a bobcat? They prowled the swamps, their hunting disturbed by storms, always opportunistic. 

But no, the tracks didn’t match.

These footprints were too big—far too big. The prints were wolf-like but larger, deeper, as though the creature was far heavier than any wolf she'd ever heard of. 

Four prints ran parallel, perfectly spaced in the mud, until they faded into something stranger—two flatter, elongated impressions. 

Like feet. 

Human feet.

The footprints appeared far too big to be her own, and there shouldn’t have been anyone else wandering around the property.

A chill ran down her back even though the sun was shining. The mangrove seemed way too quiet, like the world was holding its breath. The usual racket of gulls and cicadas had vanished—like even they knew the storm had left more than just broken branches behind. One of the first lessons her father had drilled into her as a girl was to never run; not from a person nor an animal. 

Running makes you prey.

Adla pulled her hunting knife from her waistband, steadying her wrist as her eyes swept over the wide, open space around her. She was ready to defend herself if it came down to it, but there was nothing– no one hiding in the brush, no animal stalking her. Just thick humidity, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil and decaying leaves. 

She figured it was time to head back. 

With caution, she began her trek home, her footsteps muffled by the spongy ground, all while keeping a watchful eye on her surroundings. This land held secrets—some of which she had come to accept, and others she feared. 

The old myths— of beastly protectors with vengeful spirits, born of the swamp’s dark magic during the era of slavery— often lingered like shadows in the back of her mind, but today, the possibility felt much closer. The swamp was alive; gnarled roots of mangroves twisted out of the water like skeletal fingers and casted dark shadows on the surface of the water. 

Adla focused on the worn path ahead, until the low rumble of an engine made her pause.

She wasn’t expecting anybody—she never did. As a child, she had hated the isolation of living out here, but now? It kept the outside world at arm’s length, just as she wanted.

She hurried up the muddy incline, her boots kicking loose clumps of wet earth. At the porch of the old Cracker house, she leaned against the weathered wood, squinting down the overgrown path. A boxy, faded green Jeep Cherokee from the late '70s bounced along the uneven track, its tires struggling for traction in the soft ground. With an exasperated breath, she lowered the knife to her side.

It was none other than Jesse Hampton. She should’ve known.

The vehicle pulled to a stop, and Jesse stepped out, scanning the trees before his eyes settled on her. His mahogany skin glistened under the humid late-afternoon sun, and his damp t-shirt clung to his chest. His cap sat low, shadowing his normally neat hair, now curling wildly in the moisture. A few days' stubble covered his jaw—unusual for him but understandable after the chaos of the storm.

Even so, he was as handsome as ever.

"Adla," he called, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "You shouldn't be out here alone." His gaze darted behind her, as if sensing unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. "I get that it feels peaceful, but it's still dangerous."

The last thing she wanted was to give him more reason to worry or lecture her, so she swallowed the uneasiness she’d just felt moments before.

"You sound like my father, Jesse." She rolled her eyes, dismissing his caution. But Jesse's expression tightened, a hint of something unspoken hovering between them. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Adla, just... promise me you'll watch yourself. You've got a light in you that attracts attention, and sometimes that attention ain't the kind you want."

The weight of his words hung in the space between them. She could feel the worry lacing his words and caught an uncharacteristic flicker of fear in his eyes that was hard to overlook. “Quit that. I’m fine,” she shot back, the nagging feeling returning to her chest. She hated when he used that tone– like he knew something she didn't. 

She couldn’t understand the source of Jesse's recent worries. They had grown up playing in the wild jungle that was her backyard, always safe. The worst they ever faced was a snake that sent them running to her father for protection. Wild boars and gators lurked about, but they didn't bother anyone who didn’t bother them. 

“Live and let live” had always served her well.

“What you doing out here?” she asked, crossing her arms tightly.

“Do I gotta have a reason now?” Jesse countered, flashing a charming smile. She wrinkled her nose, picking up on the mischief in his tone. “You always have a reason when you show up at my place unannounced. So, what’s the story this time?”

Jesse owned a bustling convenience store in town, but most of his income came from various side hustles. He was the go-to guy for anything anyone needed, always finding a way to get things done, no matter the cost. 

“Just checking in on you, that’s all. Wanted to see how you were holding up after the storm. But if I’m not welcome…” He paused, a mock-serious expression crossing his face. “I can turn right back around.”

Adla scoffed, turning her back on him as she ascended the steps of the screened-in porch. “You say that every time, but you always end up following me inside.” He fell into step behind her, his boots thudding against the weathered floorboards. “You don’t even bother asking if you can come in anymore,” she teased, shooting him a sidelong glance.

“After all the times I’ve been here, why would I bother? Especially when you’ve welcomed me in plenty of times.” He leaned against the doorframe with an easy grace, arms crossed and a playful glint in his eye. “Sometimes at night, if I’m not mistaken.”

Adla shook her head as she headed to the kitchen. “Come on, Jess, that ain’t the same, and you know it.” 

She opened the fridge and retrieved a pitcher of cold water, then grabbed one of the glass cups from the cupboard. After she poured, she handed it over to him, her hands wrinkled from long hours spent clearing debris in the yard. When he took the cup, their fingers brushed against each other, stirring the subtle tension that always rested just below the surface between them.

“Now, why you gotta put it like that?” Jesse asked, a pouty frown appearing on his face as he took a sip.

“'Cause I need you to get this,” Adla paused, choosing her words carefully. “I don’t like folks showing up here without a heads-up, and that goes for you too.” She hoped her sweet smile softened the message. Before anything, he was her closest friend, and she never wanted to hurt him. 

He grinned, leaning casually against the counter beside her. She considered asking if he’d been snooping around her property without her knowing— Jesse was sneaky like that— but figured it’d raise too many questions if he said no.

He set his glass down, inching closer with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I thought I was special, though.” 

She arched an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Now, where’d you get an idea like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tugged a curl loose from her messy ponytail, the spiral bouncing back like a rubber band. “I figured if I did that thing you like enough times, it might earn me a few privileges around here.”

She fought a smile. “What kind of privileges are we talking about?” 

“The kind that lets me show up whenever I feel like it.” He leaned in, his intentions clear as he tried to kiss her, wanting more than just a friendly chat. Adla pressed her palm against his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

Jesse was undeniably handsome, and she enjoyed having him around, but she wasn’t about to let anyone—no matter how charming—think they had a claim on her. She was in charge of her life, and she liked it that way. Getting serious with Jesse, no matter how often he hinted at it, simply wasn’t part of her plans. Especially knowing other women were enjoying that thing she liked too.

“No, sir,” she replied, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she shook her head, trying to lighten the mood. “You thought wrong. But since you’re already here, you might as well lend me a hand with something.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in, steadily pressing closer, an eyebrow raised as his interest deepened. “And what would that be?”

“You can come help me set these traps and see what else washed up after the storm,” she said, avoiding his lips to steal a drink from his cup. She hoped to score some fat crabs and a few fish to stock the freezer for the next few days. Her generator had held up well during the storm, keeping the food fresh, but it was always smart to restock. Hurricane season wasn’t over yet and she felt a bit uneasy about heading back into the woods by herself. 

“Aww, man,” Jesse groaned dramatically. “I should’ve known that coming over here meant I was gonna have to work. You’re a real slave driver, girl, you know that?”

They spent the next couple of hours working side by side, enjoying a comfortable rhythm of silence mixed with casual conversation.

First, they checked her garden for storm damage while Jesse caught her up on the latest town gossip—apparently, Mrs. Flowers had been caught with Mr. Jenkins in Mr. Flowers' house. The mustard greens were ruined, uprooted and twisted by the wind, so she pulled them up. Thankfully, the okra and sweet potatoes had weathered the storm just fine; she just hoped the excess moisture wouldn’t lead to any rot.

Next, they moved on to setting her fishing nets and traps, but instead stumbled upon another surprise.

Like the mangled bird she'd spotted earlier, several fish heads littered the bank where she usually set her traps, alongside crab skeletons missing their claws and backs, stripped bare. This wasn’t the typical gator damage—no, this was something far worse, disturbingly messy and strange for the area’s usual predators.

She scanned the ground for any more footprints but saw nothing. No paw prints or torn cloth either.

“What in the world?” Adla muttered, staring at the destruction. “What you think did this? A gator?”

Jesse leaned down, his brow furrowed. “A gator wouldn’t leave pieces like this.”

“Something else did this,” She finished his sentence. Adla’s skin prickled and suddenly, hiding her unsettling feelings from earlier felt foolish. She described the strange prints and the shredded bird she’d found to Jesse as he listened intently. He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to soothe her.

“You shouldn’t stay out here alone tonight, Addy. Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”

Adla couldn’t shake the feeling of unease about what the darkness might bring, but she couldn’t take Jesse up on his offer, even if his grandmother’s old house was just a few miles up the road.

The old woman had adored her, having been the one to deliver her. Still, it just didn’t feel right to spend the night in another woman’s house, even if that woman was no longer alive.

Plus, sneaking around with Jesse where others could see was out of the question. 

She wasn’t about to give anyone a reason to stir up drama or question her independence. Lord knows she couldn’t bear the thought of becoming the next Mrs. Flowers, her good name dragged through the mud to anyone willing to listen.

“No one—and nothing—is gonna run me out of my house,” she replied, her stubbornness rising to the surface. This place was her sanctuary, the fruit of her labor and her ancestors' struggles. They’d fought hard for what they had, and she felt a fierce pride in maintaining the one thing that truly belonged to her. 

Out here in the swamps, peace was something you earned, not given. She would defend her home if it came to that.

“You don’t even know who or what it is, and you want to stay out here alone? That doesn’t make a lick of sense, baby doll,” Jesse insisted, his persistence typical but unusually intense.

“I’m not your ‘baby doll,’” she shot back, irritation rising. He seemed to be making a habit of testing her clearly established boundaries more recently. 

“I already told you—I’m staying here. You should head out before it gets dark.”

“Come on, don’t be like that—” Jesse began, his voice smooth like molasses. He might’ve been charming, but today, she wasn’t about to let those sweet words sway her.

“Go,” she pressed, stepping forward to cut him off. “I’ll handle the cleanup and make sure everything’s locked up tight, but I want you to leave—now, please.” 

Jesse held her gaze for a long moment, recognizing that determined look in her eye. He knew better than to push too far when she was set on something. “Alright, I’ll go,” he finally relented. “But I need you to promise me you won’t leave the house tonight. Whatever you do, don’t cross that threshold, okay?”

Her face contorted at his strange choice of words.

“Why would I be outside? I’m not foolish enough to wander around out here at night. What’s got you so riled up today, anyway?” She reached out and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

“Just trust me on this,” he urged, his tone serious as he finally locked eyes with her. She’d never seen him look so grim before—what was he hiding? 

“You’ll be safe if you stay inside tonight.” He repeated carefully. 

Last she checked, danger didn’t give a damn about doors, but it was clear he wasn’t leaving until he knew she’d listen to his advice. 

“Alright,” she said, dragging the word out as her confusion showed. “I’ll stay inside tonight. Not like I was planning on wandering around anyway.”

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead and lingering there as she wrapped her arms tightly around him. “I’ll call you tonight, and you better answer. If you don’t, I’ll be back out here, with or without your blessing.”

As he turned to leave, Adla couldn’t help but smile after him. Jesse could be a handful, but beneath that cool exterior, she knew he cared for her as fiercely as she did for him. 

In the wilderness of the swamps, that bond meant everything.

He lingered in her driveway while she hurried to gather the crab shells, tossing them into her compost bin—no sense letting them go to waste. He didn’t start his engine and pull away until she was safely inside with the door closed, waving his goodbye from the street as she watched him from the window.

After locking up, she sank into a well-deserved bubble bath, a simple yet sweet reward for a day’s hard work. The clawfoot tub, older than she was but still in impeccable shape, had become a beloved fixture in her home. 

The bathroom, filled with the soothing scents of incense and candles, wrapped around her like a comforting hug. After her father’s passing, her top priority had been to breathe life back into the old house and make it feel like home again.

Every now and then, she spotted reminders of her past, like the doorframe where her father had marked her height on the first day of school every year or the cast-iron pans he used to whip up their dinners each night. But mostly, she had truly claimed the space as her own—weathered yet undeniably new in some ways– hers. 

Her short time in the city had been a far cry from the peace she now enjoyed in the country. Balancing multiple jobs just to get by, she constantly dealt with nosy neighbors prying into her life, questioning why a young woman like her was living on her own. The men she met often couldn’t take “no” for an answer, turning her daily life into a constant struggle against unwanted advances.

Worse yet, she had attracted the attention of a stalker—someone she’d never even seen who kept slipping threatening handwritten notes under her apartment door, claiming they knew who she was and had been watching her. It was both terrifying and emotionally draining, but she hadn’t tucked her tail and run home until her father died. 

Whenever thoughts of him lingered too long, the guilt of not being there when it mattered most consumed her, so she kept herself busy. 

Her part-time job at the new bed-and-breakfast in town helped her pay the bills and left her enough time to create. On weekends, she sold her art—pieces made from found objects collected in the woods—at the flea market a couple of towns over. Any spare moment was spent bringing something to life, whether sculpting or tending to her flowers. She loved working on the coastal hibiscus that grew in her yard, their bright blooms a small splash of beauty against the swampy backdrop. Her life wasn’t glamorous, but the peace she found in it was worth far more than anything else.

“When You're Young and in Love” by The Marvelettes played softly on the record player. It had been one of her mother’s cherished favorites, or so her father often reminisced. To Adla, the song captured the slow, simple peace she felt only at home. While she couldn’t completely understand the carefree idea of being swept away by a fleeting romance, it still forged a bond with the mother she never got the chance to know.

Her father had only a handful of pictures, but from those, she could see the resemblance. She had inherited her father’s height and perhaps his temperament, but everything else came from her mother—her rich skin tone, flat nose, and wide, expressive eyes. Those features made her feel close to a woman whose memory was etched in her heart but absent from her life.

With a soft sigh, Adla rose from the now-cool bathwater, wrapping a towel snugly around her waist. Taking a moment for herself, she slathered on a generous layer of cocoa butter lotion, the rich, nutty scent enveloping her like a comforting embrace from home. Her earlier worries faded into the background. Satisfied, she slipped into an oversized cotton nightgown, covered in bright floral patterns that mirrored the blooms in her garden. 

She went through her nighttime routine, carefully checking that everything was turned off and every door was locked tight. As she switched off the last light in her cozy home, the old wooden floors creaked softly beneath her feet—a comforting sound that added to the charm of the place.

Just as she was about to settle into bed, faint sounds echoed from outside—rhythmic, insistent scraping and thumping carried to her ears by the wind. Strange noises weren’t uncommon out in the boonies, but something about this one sent a shiver down her spine, drawing her into the hallway.

Adla glanced toward the door, a strange compulsion tugging at her, urging her to step outside despite Jesse's warnings. It felt as if something—or someone—was calling her, and the pull was too strong to ignore. She hesitated, biting her lip, fighting the overwhelming temptation.

Something clattered loose as she unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. Through the screen, a flicker of movement caught her eye. Adla squinted, trying to make sense of the dimness outside. There, bathed in the cold glow of the moonlight, lay a massive creature. Its shadow loomed so large that it seemed to stretch across the entire porch.

A knot twisted in her stomach. What in the world? This wasn’t no bobcat. This creature was more like a coyote, but much larger. It resembled a wolf, though she knew they didn’t roam these parts of Florida. Its amber eyes glowed like lanterns in the dark of the night, locking onto her with an intensity that sent chills racing down her spine. Jesse’s warnings echoed in the back of her mind. What if this creature was more than it seemed? 

I know this fool ain’t lookin’ at me like I’m dinner. 

Adla squared her shoulders, drawing on every ounce of strength she had. “You don’t belong here,” she called out, her voice steady and commanding. “Now, git!”

The wolf let out a low growl, a deep rumble that reverberated through the still night air, commanding her silence. It took a slow step forward, large paws thudding against the wooden floor, and she noticed it was limping. 

A deep gash ran from its back down to one of its hind legs, blood dripping from the wound and staining the old wood beneath it. The sight of its injury stirred something deep within her—a mix of concern and fascination that left her momentarily spellbound. It was odd but something kept her feet rooted in place, drawn to the creature and its imposing presence for reasons she couldn’t quite understand.

“Don’t you come any closer,” she warned, her heart racing as she reached for the shotgun she kept above the door, her gaze fixed on the beast. Adla tightened her grip on the cold metal, the weight of the gun both comforting and alarming as she aimed it at the creature through the screen.

The wolf paused right in front of her, as if held back by something she couldn’t see or understand. She glanced down at the door’s threshold, recalling Jesse’s cryptic words.

This was her moment—a choice between life or death. But Adla found herself frozen, her finger hovering over the trigger, unable to pull it. 

The large, beautiful creature let out a mournful whine before collapsing in a heap on her porch, nearly at her feet, its strength finally giving out as if it had resigned itself to whatever fate awaited it.

Despite its pain, something flickered in its amber gaze—a silent plea, asking not to be seen as a threat. The creature’s body shook, not with aggression, but with a desperate need to protect itself rather than harm her. The sight of that defeated animal struck a chord deep within her, stirring up memories of her own struggles not so long ago—exhausted by the burdens of life, yet somehow still pushing forward. 

A lesson her father had once shared echoed in her mind: “Listen, baby girl, we only take what we need from this world, and we don’t kick folks when they’re already down. Respect the creatures out here, just like you respect yourself. Life's tough enough without us makin’ it harder on each other.” She could almost hear his voice, the warmth of his wisdom wrapping around her like a protective blanket. 

Adla let out a deep sigh, lowering the shotgun. She hoped the wolf had enough sense to slip off her porch and find its way back through that little doggy door, the one that had been shredded and left with a gaping hole. Sure, it was already intruding on her space, but it showed no signs of being able to bust down her doors with its weakened strength.

The blood staining the porch was already beginning to dry, and she knew she’d have to scrub it down in the morning. If the wolf didn’t make it through the night and died on her porch, she could always call Animal Control to handle it— it wouldn’t cost her a dime to let the creature have one more night of life. 

That thought offered a flicker of comfort as she triple-checked that both the screen door and the sturdy wooden door were locked tight for the night.

Adla placed the shotgun within arm’s reach and settled into bed, her mind lingering on the wolf outside. She couldn’t shake the strange pull she felt. Yet, there was a quiet resolve in her heart—she would let the creature be. 

Maybe it wasn’t just a wolf. Maybe it was something more—a mirror reflecting her own struggles and wounds, a sign sent from her father to teach her something. The night was thick with uncertainty, but she felt no fear, only calm curiosity. She’d done all she could for now. 

As sleep tugged at her, she hoped that the wolf, with its heavy wounds and haunted eyes, would make it through the night. Tomorrow, she’d face whatever came next, but for now, she surrendered to the stillness, trusting that both she and the wolf would both survive until morning.

I’m open to any feedback, especially since this is my first time finishing and publishing something of this length. Does this preview raise engaging questions that make you want to know more, or is something unclear or missing? Did it draw you in or did it drag on? Please let me know your thoughts. Any insight would be invaluable to me as I continue to develop the story. (Send an anonymous ask if necessary).

[cindol]

if ur requests are open can I request earthy black girl! reader x jjk men i love ur writing lots

jjk men and their earthy black gf !

jujutsu kaisen x black fem reader

incl — nanami kento , sukuna ryomen, gojo satoru, geto suguru and shiu kong .

cw + — established relationships, slightly suggestive with gojo, reader has locs, cult leader geto,

| NANAMI KENTO

he originally met you when saving you from a curse on your shoulder before it could develop and kill you in his usual bakery. It confused you when he tapped your shoulder and got you turning to him but he made up the excuse of swatting a fly away and ever since you developed a relationship with you.

Nanami’s favorite thing about you was how in touch you were with your roots and how you weren’t someone very big on technology, a simple tv and android does good for you and that’s just how he liked it with you.

Nanami's usual activity with you was to stroll through your garden with you just picking any fruit or veggie and in season flowers.

You always refuse to let him go without a meal after work. You always saw how drained he looked after work and tutted at that while prepping to cook.

“aye, just stay there baby. You’re crazy if you think I’ll let my boyfriend just go to bed without a meal.” saying it while getting ready to chop up some veggies and greens for a soup.

Your relationship with plants is what impressed, hearing you coo and sing at your venus flytrap while plopping a bug into it’s trapping mouth made him curious and intrigued.

“if you don’t mind me asking dear, what makes you sing to it?”

you were still humming while feeding the plant their bug of the day then stopped to answer.“a venus plant is a living thing, kento and living beings need some love and words of encouragement to grow, don't cha’ think?”

| SUKUNA RYOMEN

sukuna’s old school, always has been and always will be so your earthy nature wasn’t something he was bothered by. How natural you were with everything you did reminded him of his childhood in a way, always seeing his mother in their garden.

As earthy as you are he refused to let you garden in dirty gloves, he actually scoffed in disbelief seeing you in the gloves.” you needed a new pair of gloves you could’ve really told me woman.’’

You abruptly stopped to chuckle at your boyfriend.’’i’m not a materialistic person ‘kuna, these gloves of mine have done just their job for years.’’

Anything you say goes out one ear and the other for him.”nonsense, i refuse to have you garden in those unruly gloves, i’ll call uraume to pick up a pair of gardening gloves the nearest store i’m sure they won’t mind.’’

sukuna likes to see you in your most natural state. You liked to do some little glam, a little eyelashes and lip gloss but he liked when you were all natural. To him, seeing your brunette colored locs in a ponytail and you in your dark green robe showing some cleavage was his favorite sight of you when you entered the kitchen.

sukuna not being careful of his own health doesn’t slide around him. a simple cough or wound makes you immediately take any herbs and first aid kit out.

“uraume won’t be here always to take care of you ‘kuna, you gotta let me take care of you.”

when you try to put an evil eye necklace around his necklace a loud roar of laughter comes from his mouth.“No damn necklace will protect me of all people from any bad spirit.”

| SATORU GOJO

After a long day with his students he enjoyed being with you. When he enters your house you shush up whatever ranting he’s gonna ramble about the elders.

“Let's just forget all of that, yeah? I think a nice fresh water bath would do you some good today.” whilst shutting him up and taking off his black blindfold.

gojo enjoyed bathing with you just to have a front row to see how you untie your locs and see them drop down to your back along with your towel to show your….assets.

gojo liked how natural you were down to your hair. When he asked for you to dye your hair the same color as his he was excited to see your once brown locs now a snow white color in your black headwrap.

“thought hair dye went against like, the earthy thing?”

a small tittering sound came from your mouth at that.“Henna hair dye. The earth has many resources satoru.”

| SUGURU GETO

suguru appreciates how down to earth you are, he sees it as a good influence on his girls. Being a cult leader can be taxing and takes up much of his time so when you’re around to remind them they’re not so alone when geto’s on cult leader duties it makes him happy.

when you both are alone in his master bedroom hearing how you spent the day with the girls picking tender plump fruits from the family garden and putting them into your hand made wooden baskets to bring home.

geto isn't one to restrict how you choose to dress. He’ll gladly wear his yukata with a gold kasaya garment while you walk around the place in a strapless knitted olive green dress and knitted white long sweater, and whoever has an issue with it can take it up with him

[fadingdaggerr]

effuso sanguine

pairing: agatha harkness x gn!reader

summary: secret love hidden in forests is a reprieve that time and hate can steal, a love that defies order and law | 2.7k

includes: secret relationship, r is unaware that agatha is a witch, nb death because i said so

warnings: targeted homophobia, blood, description of injury, murder/death

note: i’ve never written for agatha/marvel in general so yippee! trying new things! this was originally the plot of an oc story, but i decided against it so i made this an x reader instead. i may carry on with the second part if you guys enjoy this <3

Salem, Massachusetts, 1693

Sweet and earthy, the autumn air was still chilled, ground wet with dew. The sun had yet to rise, but soon enough the sun would cut through thick pines and orange-leafed maples. Wading through tall grass, the path to the clearing is well known by now. Sprinkled patches of aster, white, pink, purple, and blue, all appear in the grass, becoming more common than grass as you duck under a fallen tree. As you straighten, you can almost sense her.

Thickets of the purple variety encircle the edge, a wall of safety to your hidden spot. Crossing the barrier on the other end of the clearing, a figure stands with a dark hood covering her features. Lowering your own, you step closer, the joy in your chest bubbling. Her hood falls and blue eyes crease around the corners as she smiles.

The moment your eyes connect, you both break into light jogs until you fall into one another. Your arms wind around her neck, burying your face into her hair. Her hands grip at your back, feeling her clutching through the layers of your clothing. Everything fades around you, just you, her, and the sound of her breathing, her heart beating.

“My love,” Agatha mumbles, almost to herself, “oh, my love.”

“My heart,” you sigh back as you relax into her.

Hands drift up your back to pull you in again, cupping your face with a barely-there touch. Wordlessly, her forehead drops to yours with a tiny smile gracing her lips. Your eyes shut at the proximity, stuck breath releasing from your lungs as you take her in. Tilting towards her, your lips brush over her own, pulling away as she tries to meet your touch. Huffing through her nose, she tugs you closer and plants her lips against yours.

Typically, her kiss is hurried, almost desperate to get as much of you as she can. Today, however, she’s slow and lingering and all-consuming. Nails dig into the nape of your neck, trying to pull you impossibly closer. Agatha’s tongue traces your own, feeling as if she’s trying to memorize every inch of you. Your hands go to hold her wrists, feeling her erratic heartbeat under your fingers.

Worry fills you, her heart, your heart, something feels wrong. Trying to pull away, she only follows, keeping you pressed into her. Every pass of her lips steals air from your lungs, each stroke of her tongue taking breath. Teeth sink into your lip as she pulls slightly, and you take the minute space to detach. Pushing back in, Agatha whines when your hand stops her from getting her way once more.

“Agatha…” you pant, air flooding back in. “Dearest, what is wrong?”

Her forehead drops to your shoulder, arms shifting to wrap around your waist, “I’ve missed you, my love. The days are so terribly long whilst we’re apart.”

“Perhaps if you slept instead of study, the days would feel regular once again,” you jest, your own arms going around her shoulders, “I find myself in bed earlier every night for the chance of waking up sooner to see you.”

She sighs into your neck, “to sleep without you is pain.”

“To never sleep is torturous on yourself. You cannot charm me into believing that is wise,” you answer in equal quiet, twirling her curls around your fingers.

The dark wood is cut by orange light, the sun beginning to rise over the hills. Every ray of light is a moment less you have with each other, a mutual enemy. Morning, the thief of these few peaceful moments you allow yourselves each day.

“Come to the cabin after nightfall,” you offer. Agatha’s head rises from its hiding spot, a quizzical expression crossing her face. “Father is leaving for a livestock auction after sunrise. I’ll be alone for three days,” the coyness of your features was unmistakable.

Her eyes widened, but she gave away little emotion. Your hand stills in her hair, moving to the back of her neck. The shaky beat of her pulse feels as if it reaches your ears, her nerves somehow crawling into your own chest. Agatha’s eyes try to stay on yours, but falter, “I don’t know how possible that is. These days, my mother demands me within sight after dark.”

“Just consider it. Come to the window facing the fields,” you press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “For now, I must be going if he is to leave at all.”

“Siren,” she mutters, leaning into your space to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. Chuckling against soft lips, you force yourself to part from her.

—⛤—

The heavy oak bar in front of the door took nearly all the strength in your body to put there, but as Father told you to do, you did. No one can get in. It is not the time to tempt fate, he’d said, I best not find you on a stake when I’ve returned. For a three day journey, he’d chopped enough wood to keep the fire going for a week. Nearly overflowing buckets of water cluttered the kitchen floor. No need to get out.

Peering to the east facing window, you focus on the latch. Once the sun sets, and only then. With little to do, and little sleep from sheer excitement, you force yourself to bed. The ax hidden in the space between the wall and bed makes you smile, but it falls quickly. It hadn’t been there last night. He’d placed it this morning before you’d slipped back in through the window. The bar was clearly just as much to keep you in as it was to keep the fanatics out.

The late afternoon sun stirs you from sleep, glaring through the window, practically begging you to get out of bed. Your wish to ignore it goes unanswered as your stomach clenches in hunger. Sighing, you peel yourself from the warmth of your bed.

Wildflower tea warms your stomach as you crush blackberries against a thick slice of bread. Sweet clover coats your tongue as you consider what you can do to fill these lingering hours. It would be simpler to flee, go back to the clearing and hope Agatha passes through on her way to the cabin. You could leave from there, without a trace, together. You could be free.

Pushing the thoughts from your mind, you busy yourself with gathering vegetables to chop for soup. Peel, chop, peel, chop. The repetition keeps you occupied, slowing your motions as you feel time dissipate. By the time you drop carrots into the pot, the sun’s light was falling behind the trees.

Giddiness grows in your chest, time closing in on when you’d finally see her. If you asked her to leave with you, you’re sure she’d say no. Always her mother, her responsibilities, your father, your life. She spoke of your life as separate from hers, as if a path with her couldn’t happen. But you would, you will, follow her anywhere.

Letting soup simmer, you lean against the counter. Staring out the window, darkness coats the sky in a blanket. The crescent moon in the sky feels like a mocking smile. Every star that appears before Agatha is another taunt.

Air in the room shifts suddenly. Once warm from the two fires going, now felt chilled and barren. Lifting your head, you feel a rot festering in your stomach, dark, hateful almost. Fear creeps up your spine, placing the ladle on the counter. Turning slowly, you prepare for what you may see.

White, hot pain rips through your side, all the warmth leaving your body. Dragging your eyes from the blankness they’d settled on in your shocked state, you face a woman in front of you. Grey hair and dark eyes, loathing and anger deeply set within. How she got in was lost on you, no thoughts forming as you feel pain replacing the life inside you. All you can do is stare, mouth gaping as the knife twists in between your ribs. There’s something deeply familiar in the way her eyes squint at you.

“Vile creature,” she hisses, “the spread of your disease, this corruption, ends by my hand.” The blade twists more, surely piercing entirely through. Leaning into your space, she makes sure you hear her final words, “your turned soul burns in wait for you.”

The knife rips from your side with a final turn, and with it, the woman disappears. Without the weight of her holding you up, you drop to floor. A shaky hands goes to your ribs, coming away soaked in warm, red blood. Seeping through your clothing, it slowly stains the floor. All energy in your body soaked into pine floors as black spots fill your vision. Trying to focus on the flowers on the counter, consciousness barely stays as you attempt to stay alert.

Someone else, gone because of you. A soul you somehow corrupted, now burning. Tears well in your eyes, falling heavy on your cheeks. Guilt and shame and terror all roll together, hitched breaths rattling with your sobs. The image of dark eyes cross your mind, made blue by your passing thoughts. Blue. Angelite blue. Familiar, lovely blue. Agatha.

You’d killed her. Loving her had killed her, and now, it was killing you. Following her is all that’s left. Praying she’ll have you, you let the cabin fade away.

—⛤—

Cold. Everything is cold. You’d been convinced there would be fire, fields of it even, burning every inch of the surface. But it’s cold. Looking around, the chairs, the counter, the windows, they’re all yours. You’re home. The light from the fire is replaced by a perpetual mist in the room, tones of green eminating around you.

An echoing voice behind you speaks, making you jump away, “are you ready?”

With clenched fists, you look towards the voice. Tall and regal, a being stands before you. Brown eyes bore into you, and a flicker changes the face from skeletal to flesh, beautiful and stern. You turn back to the kitchen, your body lying there in a pool of slowly drying blood.

“I don’t understand,” you mutter.

You feel the presence closer behind you, “you understand better than you allow.”

“I don’t,” you say shortly. A lie, to yourself, to the being behind you. The rumors, however exaggerated, were never false. Turning to face Death once again, “did you take her too?”

“Take whom?” An air of amusement swirls around them.

You take a deep breath, feeling free in their presence to speak your beloved’s name, “Agatha Harkness. Did you take her?”

Death’s lips turn up, “she was not taken, she gave.”

“She gave?” Your brows scrunch, eyes flittering around the room as you chase the thoughts in your mind, “Agatha is alive.” Staring back at your body, you curse yourself for letting go, letting your life be stolen. Believing murder over Death, you should have known.

A faint, almost numb thrum sits in your chest. Death’s head tilts, staring you down. Doors open behind them, motioning for you to follow. You can’t pry your attention away from your body, your mind away from the feeling that grows more persistent around your heart.

In this plane, you shouldn’t feel this. No pain, no push, no pull, no pulse. Yet, it wasn’t the door to eternity or the outstretched hand offered to you that are drawing you in. The limp hand reaching towards the window and the knowledge that Agatha was out there are far more convincing.

You face Death once more, “I cannot follow you.”

“You will,” the offered hand drops to the knife on their hip, “it is the only way.”

“I will, but not tonight. This was not my time, I cannot allow it to be,” you step back, closer to yourself, “please.”

The hand falls from the hilt, stepping closer to you, “you have this one life. No other will be tolerated. When this one ends, you will follow me.”

“I swear to you,” you rush with earnest, “I will give no fight, no contest. I will follow. May I go?”

Death smiles, alluring and menacing, “I’m not the one who chooses.”

—⛤—

Stale air burns your lungs as you crash back into your mind. Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re underwater, everything both dull and overwhleming. Piercing pain ricochets around your ribcage, radiating from your right side. Tugging up your top, you prepare yourself to see a gaping wound, clotted and swollen.

Instead, a jagged, raised scar sits between your fifth and sixth ribs. Running your fingers across it, you feel the smoothness of a fresh scar, healed but tender. Eyes flying down, you see that the blood that was painting the floor is gone. All remenants of events from the night, gone, just as quickly as the woman who stabbed you. Who killed you.

Agatha.

The morning sun filters into the room as you struggle to stand, bracing yourself against the cupboards, body stiff with lingering loss. Hobbling to your satchel, you throw it over your body, desperate to get out of the cabin. With your weak state, moving the oak bar will only take time and energy you cannot afford. Loosing the latch on the east window, you practically throw yourself over the ledge.

Your cloak does little to keep to cool air off your slowly warming skin. The longer you stay moving, the more you can feel soreness and fragility leaving your muscles. Your bare feet carry you through the fields, to the edge of the woods. Agatha’s small village was on the other end, a collection of eight cottages that your own neighbors warned against nearing. Dark-minded spinsters and their young, coniving daughters, they’d told the town. Their warning had always intrigued you, but now you can’t help but feel they had been right all along.

Thorns stratch your legs and feet as you run, but you find yourself caring less and less as the thick pines thin out. Faster and faster you go, tripping over roots, but not allowing them to slow your progress. No attention is spared to the fresh scrapes littering your body, red tears spilling. Your mind stays on one mission: Find Agatha.

Breaking the tree line, you find yourself behind a small cottage. Rounding it, you see the rest. Seven in a circle, the eighth, the largest, in the middle. The candles in every window are burned to the base, white wax pouring over metal plates and adhering to the windowsills. Empty, no one. Your heart clammers in your chest, desperate to find any answer.

Flowers. Blue devils. Little patches sprouting towards the beginning of a path behind the southern-most home. Familiarity rises, but panic grows more than comfort.

Following the path, you can feel dread closely behind you. This place, while beautiful, is empty. Devoid of life. No singing birds, no squirrels in the trees, it’s entirely unlike the fields at home. Barely two miles away and you’re in an entirely new world.

A clearing ahead makes its presence known. Most prominently, a post in the ground. Tilting your head up, you gape at the stake in front of you. Dark wood, rope on the flooring. Your blood runs cold, your turned soul burns in wait for you.

Eyes unmoving, you step closer. Before you can get much further, you crash to the ground with a groan. Lifting your face from the dirt, you look to the side to see what has caused your fall. A shriek passes your lips, head darting around to see more around you.

Shriveled and grey, eight bodies around you lay in equal states of deep decay. You can’t stop staring, tears blurring your vision. All of them wear dark cloaks, looking identical. Crawling away from the woman in front of you, you bring yourself to the body closest to the stake. Decrepit and lifeless.

You gently push the hair from her face, falling back instantly. Even sunken and gone, you recognized her face. You’d only seen it the once, but you would never forget her as long as you live. The woman who had killed you, who had told you she killed the one you loved. Once terrifying and full of vengence, now a corpse on her own land. The loop on her hip held a knife, still painted in traces of your blood.

Pushing yourself away, you bring yourself to your feet. Climbing to the stake’s platform to examine the wood. No scorch marks, no ashes, just unbinded rope. She didn’t burn. She didn’t hang. Death was right.

She was not taken, she gave. 

“Agatha!” Your voices fades into the trees. You can’t sense her here. Another scream rips through your throat, “Agatha!”

Silence is the only companion left.

flower language: aster flowers, in general, are known to represents love, dignity, and intuition. blue devils (also known as blue thistles) are known to represent protection and resilience, as well as having magical properties.

title translation: effuso sanguine, latin - the blood spilt

feedback appreciated as always. PLEASE let me know your thoughts and if you’re interested in furthering this series <3

[shitouttabuck]

"picking a leaf/flower petal out of their hair, or brushing dirt off of their face" for bucktommy or buddie? 👀

everything’s growing in our garden

buck/eddie | 2k | read on ao3

It’s a Saturday afternoon and Eddie is muddy-kneed and sweaty in his backyard, grass stains all down his jeans and freshly-dug dirt clinging to multiple senses—gritty between his fingers, scent mellow and earthy, in through his nose and settling soft on the back of his tongue.

The fact that it’s a Saturday afternoon on his day off is only relevant when presented with the combination of factors that find him alone in his garden today. First, he’s a dad to a teenager who has much less embarrassing things to do than hang out with his father on a weekend. Second, his two closest friends are dating each other. Third, Eddie’s not dating anybody.

So here he is, carefully planting winter squashes in the stretch of soil he’s just worked, because this is a new phase of life for him and things are changing for the different. They’ll be okay, he’ll be okay, he just doesn’t want to—get left behind. Stagnate. Hence, gardening. Maybe a little on the nose in terms of growth metaphors, but hey, he’s doing it, and that’s what counts. He thinks.

He spent a few weeks struggling to put a name to the new anxiety, or anxiety-adjacent twist in his stomach that made itself known after Buck came out to him. Not that night—that night was surprise and joy and this almost debilitating tidal wave of love he tried to wrap Buck up in when he strode across the loft into that hug.

But the next day, when Buck texted him that Tommy agreed to meet for coffee and talk? Something uncomfortable wrapped itself around Eddie’s insides, a python-grip of pressure, and it’s only gotten tighter since.

He entertained the idea that this time around maybe it was him who was jealous, his friend and his best friend dating each other and having less time for him. Except that’s not anywhere close to true—sure, his Saturday afternoons are a little emptier, but neither Buck nor Tommy have lessened the time they spend with Eddie on the whole. There’s still Muay Thai and basketball, there’s still homemade dinners and beers and movies on the couch. There’s nothing to be jealous of—he still has them both in the same capacity he always has.

Which is when he plucked at whatever tendril of envy had him in knots, following it back to the root. Watching Buck blush like a teenager in the face of Tommy’s earnest smooth-talking. Tommy absently reaching for Buck’s hand and intertwining their fingers when he drops by the station while they’re on shift. The way Buck seems to unconsciously sway into Tommy’s orbit, like a Great Dane who’s forgotten they’re too big for lap-sitting.

Maybe the thing Eddie was envious of, then, is less the replacement of a friend and more the lack of any of this, any of the easy affection, in his own relationship. Marisol was nice, kind, fine, but Eddie—he doesn’t regret ending things because he so badly wants to believe in more than fine for himself.

Marisol had looked almost relieved that she didn’t have to pull the ripcord on their relationship herself, confirming Eddie’s inkling that there was pretty much no coming back after he asked her to move out not one day post-moving-in. It’s a memory that’s going to make him wince for several years at least.

He ended up naming the ache, yanking off the mask like a Scooby-Doo villain reveal to look it in the eye. Oh, he’d thought, smoothing away a smear of soot on Buck’s nose, realisation just late enough that his hands remained steady in their obliviousness. This is the easy affection, isn’t it.

Buck’s nose crinkled with amusement and the knot in Eddie’s stomach loosened for half a second before coiling tight again, uncaring of his revelation. And, he supposes, that’s fair, because it’s not like this knowledge changes anything. Eddie can’t believe in the Universe because that’s a quick jaunt to feeling personally victimised by all of it, this singularly unbearable tragedy of timing in particular.

He's not surprised it took Buck to make him realise he’s—not straight. He hasn’t even let himself think about it, not really. The fact that it’s Buck is enough to anchor him from the alarm of a sexuality crisis. Nothing about loving Buck could ever be that scary. Still, the rest of it remains only in the recesses of his mind. He’s—on his way. He just doesn’t think he can struggle through a—a complete identity overhaul at the same time he’s struggling to make his peace with the fact that Tommy makes Buck really happy, and Eddie can’t ever be someone who puts that at risk. That Eddie’s lost Buck before he even realised he wanted him this much at all.

So. Things are changing, things are different, and Eddie has to keep moving. He still has Buck and Tommy in the same capacity he always has. He just has to come to terms with wanting more and not being able to ask for it. Letting yourself want is a slippery slope, because believing you can want and believing you can have are two different things. He’s allowed to want, but he’s not allowed to have. For now, he digs his hands into the soil, deliberate and reaching. In four months, he’ll have winter squashes. Buck will teach him that delicious soup recipe they tried last year. Eddie won’t be stuck in this moment forever.

The backdoor squeaks something awful when Buck slides it open jerkily. Eddie looks up, surprised.

“Hey,” he says, scratching at his nose. “What’re you doing here? Thought you had a lunch date.”

“I did,” Buck nods, flopping himself down on the lawn beside Eddie. “Finished early. I texted you, but I guess your phone’s inside.” He eyes Eddie’s dirt-streaked hands. “Thought I’d come see what you’re up to anyway.”

“Gardening,” Eddie tells him helpfully, and he grins.

“And here I thought you were just playing in the mud.”

Eddie flicks the dirt on his hands at Buck. He just beams up at Eddie, afternoon sun washing him the kind of golden that makes Eddie’s breath catch a little.

“What’re you planting?”

“Squash,” Eddie says, shaking the brightly coloured packet of seeds at him. “How’s Tommy?”

Buck blinks at him. “You saw him, like, two days ago.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eddie says, sinking his hands into the raked soil for something to do. “Like—how’s dating him going?”

“Oh,” Buck says, brow scrunching for the barest second before he nods. “Good. It’s—I really like him.”

“Good,” Eddie breathes, gut-snake squeezing and squeezing inside him.

They’re quiet for a minute, bird song and breeze winding around them, and then Buck asks, “Do you, uh. Do you talk to Tommy about me, too?”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks, studying the dirt before him.

“Like. Do you ask Tommy how things are going with dating me?”

Eddie huffs a laugh. “No. No, I don’t. Why?”

Buck shrugs, picking at stalks of grass. “Why not? We’re both your friends.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Isn’t it?” Buck sits up.

Eddie tips some more seeds into his palm before depositing them into the next hole. “No, it’s not. Buck, you—obviously it’s different.”

“But why?” Buck presses. “I know your friendship is, like, foundationed on macho men stereotypes, but c’mon. Neither of you are capable of not, I don’t know, talking about more sensitive stuff, I guess.”

Eddie sighs at the dirt.

“Why is it different?”

“It’s different ’cause it’s you,” Eddie says. He doesn’t need to look at Buck to know he’s slow-blinking in confusion.

“W-why? You don’t think you have to put up some kind of front—with Tommy?”

“Why is this bothering you so much? Do you want me to be talking to Tommy about you?”

He finally looks at Buck, his life-ruiningly pink mouth ajar in surprise.

“N-no. Just—I don’t know.”

He’s wearing the same hang-dog expression he had been when he’d bodied Eddie at the pick-up game, half-surprise, half-misery. Eddie sighs again.

“Are you—are you worrying about something between the two of you? Because I don’t have to be in the middle of it, but that doesn’t mean you can’t tell me. That doesn’t mean I’m not on your side.”

“There’s no sides,” Buck shakes his head. “I wouldn’t make you pick anyway.”

Eddie groans and shoves Buck back down, flat on his back with big muddy handprints on his crisp blue shirt. “I’m always on your side, you idiot. Tommy’s great, but I’ve known the guy… what, two months? You’ve been my—for six years. You’ve been—it’s different.”

“Oh,” Buck grins, bright and broad, “is that why it’s different?”

Eddie ignores him. “Is there something going on, though? Did something happen?”

“No,” Buck shakes his head, sobering a little. “Not really. I really like him, I just—I don’t know if there’s… a future, you know? We’re both having fun, but I-I just don’t know how to have that conversation with him yet. Or… if he’s on the same page and it’s all okay.”

“Oh,” Eddie says. He turns the trowel over in his hands. “How come—what makes you think there’s no future with him?”

“There could be,” Buck amends. “I just—there could be something else.” He glances at Eddie and hurriedly adds, “I think there’s already… I think… you know?”

“No,” Eddie says truthfully. “But you know, which is all that matters.”

Buck exhales softly. “Right. I’m just—I think I know what it’s supposed to look like. And Tommy is fucking—wonderful. I just—he’s not what my ending looks like.”

He looks up, meeting Eddie’s eyes, and there’s something in there just as vulnerable as the night he quietly told Eddie it was a date. Eddie doesn’t know how to translate it, bowled over by the wave of frustration at not being fluent in every one of Buck’s languages.

Except—he might still be, because all that’s there is this—expectation, a weighty, desperate hope for understanding. Like Buck’s waiting. And behind that, the steadiness of the safest place Eddie’s ever known.

“It’s different for me, with you and Tommy,” Eddie begins, “because it’s you. I can—I can listen to you talk about dating other people because—I know that, I’m used to that. But—listening to Tommy talk about what it’s like dating you? When I’m just—too late—”

He doesn’t know if he cuts himself off or if he’s interrupted by Buck’s ragged inhale. Either way, he’s silent, filling up the next little hole with soil.

“Eddie—”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have—” Eddie mumbles. “I can’t—Buck—”

Buck sits back up and grabs him by his shoulders, turning him so they’re face-to-face. “Eddie.”

“I can’t,” Eddie says again, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m—I haven’t even begun unpacking it, Buck.”

“Okay,” Buck nods. “Okay. I’m not asking for anything. Just—do you mean it? That’s all I need from you. Tell me if you mean it, Eddie, please—” His chest is heaving like he’s run ten blocks and not just been sprawled on Eddie’s lawn in the afternoon sun.

And the thing is, Buck asks for so little. He thinks he does the opposite, but everyone who’s ever loved Buck knows: Buck asks for so little. And he deserves the entire fucking world. So Eddie can spare one terrifying truth.

“There could be something else,” he echoes Buck’s earlier words. “And it’s—it’s already… it could be a really good fucking ending. I’m… I need some time to… but I think it could the right ending. For us.”

Buck swallows audibly, eyes bright when he ducks his head and nods. “S’much time as you need.”

Something in Eddie relaxes, stops constricting, takes a deep, gulping breath. He blinks quickly to stave off whatever emotion this is, sinking his hands into the last mound of dirt.

“They’ll be ready by September,” he tells Buck, a little thickly.

“September,” Buck nods. “Good month. Summer end. We can make soup.”

Eddie turns to him. “Not too long away?”

“Nah,” Buck says, hand coming up to cup Eddie’s face. Eddie freezes, but Buck’s just using the pad of his thumb to oh-so-gently brush away a smudge of dirt on Eddie’s cheek. He keeps holding Eddie’s face for a moment more before dropping his hand, shifting to examine Eddie’s neatly planted rows of squash seeds. “Besides. They’re, uh. Worth waiting for.”

“I hope so,” Eddie says softly.

Buck nudges his shoulder against Eddie’s, companionable and cross-legged beside each other in the grass. “I know so.”

[oh-no-its-dragons]

Nothing's Perfect

Xaden wakes up slowly for the first time in years. At first he thinks the smaller body in his arms is Liam, when they were first placed in their foster home, or Bodhi before that, when they were younger and Bodhi would sometimes climb into his bed at night. It doesn't take long to wake up the rest of the way and realize just how wrong he is, though.

Those hips, for one thing, and that hair for another, and then the night before comes back with the force of a lightning strike. He smiles, but doesn't move. The light in the window is pale; it wouldn't have been enough to get in if the curtains hadn't burned. He throws a shadow up over the window to make sure she can sleep a little longer.

If he was more selfish, he'd wake her up. He doesn't think she'd complain, given how enthusiastic she was the night before, but it doesn't feel right, especially when he has to be up for one of Nyra's stupidly early leadership meetings but she can sleep longer.

He hates to leave her to wake up alone either, though. He should do… something. Something that feels personal. He thinks about writing her a note, but there's nothing he can bring himself to put to paper that feels real enough. Something else then.

The idea comes as he dozes contentedly, listening to her breath, smelling the floral scent of her hair and the almost-sweet earthy one that must be arnica salve. She does like her plants and flowers, doesn't she?

He could get up and look, but that would require leaving her before the last possible moment, so he closes his eyes and concentrates, grabbing the dawn shadows on the west side of the Rider's Quadrant and sending them out into the tall grass and wildflowers along the river. He can't see them but with nothing else to distract him, his control is good enough to feel the shape of every leaf and petal the shadows wash over.

Xaden's lost track of the minutes by the time he's gathered up a dozen or so flowers, carefully plucking them at the stems and carrying them all the way back inside cocooned in shadow. He can feel people in the walkways as the shadows jog past now, and smiles a little at the confusion he imagines on their faces.

Only once the darkness has succeeded in sliding the plants under her door does he resign himself to getting up. A quick crack of the shadow over the window says that yes, it's nearly time for him to be at that meeting. He lets the shadows under her body push her up ever so slightly so he can slide his arm out from under her without disturbing her sleep, and he dresses as quietly as he can.

The flowers are not quite perfect. He tucks a small white flower in his jacket pocket and sets the rest in a jar on her desk. Nothing's ever completely perfect, but she's starting to make him wonder if that's not untrue after all. Laying in a sliver of dawnlight that gives her curves to his shadows in ways that make him want to go right back to her, she certainly looks perfect. He takes another minute to watch her, feeling the way her chest rises and falls in the dark of the room.

When he turns to go, he lets the dawn back in and realizes again just how much of a mess they made. Smiling to himself, he lets the shadows of the mess clean themselves up, quickly sweeping all the shattered wood and charred fabric into the corner. She was going to need new furniture. He made a note to have Garrick take care of it later. All of his attempts to maintain distance from her- physical distance, emotional distance, anything- had failed. He might as well go the other direction and let his full claim on her be known.

Xaden slips out the door and checks the wards behind him, but his thoughts remain with her. Nobody else is allowed to destroy her. He'd given up hope that he could stay away from her, which means that the only option he has left is to try not to destroy her himself. She is certainly turning out to be worth the effort.

[swifty-fox]

scrunch and/or adore for the ways to kiss prompts? 👀

let's go with Scrunch! Have the Buckies seeing the ocean for the first time while stationed in Florida for training

A breeze ruffles Gale's hair, smelling of fish and salt. There's a tightness to his shoulders that says he's going to color beautifully and there's a pleasant sort of stinging headache flirting around his eyes from hot sun and not enough hydration.

It is his first time seeing the ocean, Bucky's too, sheltered midwestern boys that they were. He picks up a handful of pale sand, the granules more pale than any he'd seen at quarries or creekbeds. It trickles through his hand in a slow kinetic flood until there's nothing left but clinging scraps and a few bits of shell and plant matter sticking to his sweaty skin.

They'd arrived in Florida less than six hours ago, rumpled from the train and tired from the journey. They'd reported their arrival, dropped their scant few things in their bunks and, having nowhere to be until classes next day, Bucky had whined and wheeled and begged off a well-needed nap for them both.

Come on Buck, it's the ocean. You know, like a pond but a bit bigger?

I know what the ocean is, Bucky.

It had been hours now and while they'd made a good show of being official and composed on the walk down, the first glimmer of turquoise water had them shoving each other like boys and racing to be the first to dive into the spray. The bitterness shocked Gale, and the way it tasted just like the salt from the dinner table only richer and more earthy. Here and there brightly colored fish and irate crabs had darted about their feet and Gale and spent a good long while simply kneeling in the shallow water watching all the living things. John had swum out as far as he dared. Until he was little more than a speck in the waves and Gale's heart had pounded with sudden anxiety.

"Don't go out that far again." He'd told John like a scolding wife and the man had just grinned, curls plastered sodden to his head and dripping beautifully in the bright sunshine.

When they'd tired of splashing in the waves Gale had gone to stretch out in the sand and John had set about digging a hole to nowhere with single-minded determination. His broad shoulders were a brilliant shade of pink, flexing smoothly as he leaned down into his pit to scoop out another handful of rough sand, careful not to splatter Gale's dozing form.

"You know," John says, "the other oceans ain't gonna look like this one. All blue and warm and pretty white sand."

Gale cracks open an eye, "other ones?"

John gestures out to the expansive horizon line, blue on blue, "Europe. They got different oceans there."

"It's the same ocean. It's the Atlantic."

"Yeah but this is a tropical paradise, Buck. It's gonna be all cold and gloomy in England, not like this."

"Maybe you should have become a marine if you wanted to splash around in a tropical paradise, Miss Jones."

John pokes his tongue in his cheek at him, glancing around the empty beach before leaning over Gale with an arm on either side of his shoulders. "maybe I should have, could send you a pretty pin-up postcard of me for you to pin to your dash."

Gale gives him a long-suffering smile before tilting his head to look back out over the ocean horizon again. There was a whole world stretching on endlessly out there, and for a brief moment Gale feels very small and far less worldly than he'd like. A world and a war and more beaches than he could ever count.

"Do you think there's some German soldier out there now lying on a beach and seeing the ocean for the first time?" He instantly feels childish for the question but John doesn't laugh at him.

"Mmm, maybe." he leans down, nose bumping along Gale's cheekbone and then nuzzling against his, "Think there's no way he's as pretty as you, though."

Cheeks coloring, Gale shoves him away. John drags him with him and the two men wrestle in the sand, shoulders stinging and laughter turning breathless until Gale ends up perched on John's chest with a triumphant grin.

"You need to focus on your physically training more Soldier, you got twenty pounds on me."

John grins up at him, heartbreakingly young and Gale's stomach lurches as he realizes one day soon this man beneath him might die, "Maybe I just like having you on top."

[alpaca-clouds]

Try to learn about the old foods

I have most recently started to meal prep, with making a lot of foods and putting them in the freezer. This ended up allowing me to buy the foods in bulk from the local market. And, well... This allowed me to eat some of the foods that the supermarket does not have.

We do have a bit of a problem. And that problem mostly is that we got our food kinda messed up. Because people have lost the connection to the food they eat. But also because of colonialism.

The big thing that happened is, that we lost contact with most local foods. No matter where I go in the "first world nations"... The foods offered to me in the supermarkets are the same - and they also look the same.

This means that a lot of people have no real idea, what foods came from where in the world - but also do not know half of the foods that originated with where they are from, because they are not easily available.

Tomatoes are an example. Not only did historical tomatoes look and taste very differently from the tomatoes we eat today, but obviously... they came from the Americas. So they are not a food that originated with Europe and was not widely available in Europe until the 1600s. While, yes, the first tomates came here more than a hundred years earlier... it took a while for them to catch on.

This is parsnip. Another root vegetable that was commonly eaten in Europe for most of history. It has a more intensive taste than the usual carrot - but is also not that different from it, when it comes to consistency and how it is going to cook.

This is fennel. You might know fennel seeds as a spice or something you might drink as a tea. But the rest of the plant is edible, too, and a surprisingly strong flavored vegetable. It also is very crunchy and makes a really great addition to salads. But it is often not really sold in many places.

This is the Jerusalem Artichoke, another vegetable that originates within the Americas. To be exact, this is the root of a kind of sunflower. It got its name for being very similar in taste and tecture to the Artichoke. I honestly do not know, though, why it is called "Jerusalem Artichoke", because it does not have anything to do with Jerusalem.

The Potimarron is a kind of squash that - like basically all other forms of squash - originates in the Americas as well. It has a very nutty flavor. In Europe it was very popular in France for a long while, hence the french name. It has tons of meat and really makes for great stews!

This is a rutabaga, which originates from somewhere in northern Europe. We do not really know from where. All we know is, that it was a Swedish botanist who cultivates the form we still eat to this day in the 1620s. Which is why it is also called the "Swedish turnip". It does taste like a more bitter carrot, but makes really good addition to stews or can be served stamped.

This is the Chinese Artichoke and another root vegetable, that as the name suggest originates from China. It was cultivates in China in the late medieval period and has later made its way to Europe, especially France. It has a really sweet and nutty taste and can be eaten raw or in salads. Though there are dishes mashing the vegetable, too.

These are tigernuts, a vegetable that has been around forever. It originates in southern Europe, southern Asia and northern Africa. It is a dried fruit, with a sweet and earthy taste and it is known a lot in Spanish cuisine, but also in the cuisine of southern Asia.

Yacon is a root vegetable that originates with Peru, where it is still eaten, while the rest of the world mostly forgot about it. Well, except Japan, where it is currently getting more and more popular. It is a vegetable, but it has a very fruity taste.

I could now go on and name more vegetables from all around the world that were once grown and fed people, but got forgotten more and more in favor of the very limited diet made up of potatoes, corn, potatoes, peppers, cucumber, onion and tomatoes, that is basically what you will get to eat in most places.

And... Well, the thing about it is that... It is not really a good thing that we grow the same stuff everywhere. It is not good for us and it is not good for the environment. It is not good for those foods, either.

I really wish people would try and eat more of the stuff that originates with their region. And that they would eat the not-so-perfect looking foods as well. Because it is gonna be more sustainable in the end.

[multi-fandom-of-madness]

Essential Oil

Pairings: Mountain X GN!Reader

Type: Fluff

Summary: It’s literally just napping with Mountain

Warnings: None

Word Count: 524

Notes: Read here on ao3.

~

After a long day of chores, you were looking forward to relaxing, preferably in your own room. It wasn’t like the chores were awful or that there were too many. Sometimes it’s just too draining to do work in that regard, especially when you’d much rather stay in bed or go out and have fun.

Yeah, you had a few days to yourself, but chores can suck, and they’re chores for a reason. They could be fun, but they weren’t.

It also doesn’t help that it stormed last night, keeping you up and only allowing you to get a whopping two hours of sleep. All you knew was that it was time for a nap.

It felt like such a long walk to your room to the point that even making it that far was draining your energy. The droll, stone halls of the Abbey made sure to keep the walk boring, other than the few interesting tapestries or paintings that occasionally lined the wall.

You tried to keep yourself entertained, thinking of what you could do for dinner, what suggestions you could give for the garden, and even just thinking about potential weekend plans. Yet nothing kept away the droop in your eyes or the way your feet dragged.

You eventually considered just laying down in the middle of the hallway for someone to find you, but luckily, there was a certain ghoul that you just loved to curl up with right around the corner.

You pushed the doors open to the ghoul’s den, ignoring those who were in the lounge, and making your way to Mountain’s room. The door creaked as you opened it and you noticed the lights off. He was facing the windows, but turned his head when he heard you come in.

His room was warm and comforting. There were plenty of plants lining shelves and window sills, which provided the room with a rich, earthy scent.

“Did I wake you?” You asked, crawling on to the ginormous bed that was filled with pillows, furs, blankets, and whatever else made its way in.

He hummed and shook his head. “No,” he yawned. “I was getting ready to nap, but hadn’t gotten there yet.”

Once you made it under the covers, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, burying his nose in your hair, smelling your shampoo, but also letting your natural scent soothe him.

“You smell good,” he muttered, eyes closed, holding you as close as he could.

You smiled, taking in his own earthy scent that also mingled with the honeysuckle body wash he uses. “You do too.”

“Yeah, but your scent is so…calming. Like my own personal lavender…thing.”

“Thing?”

“I could call you an essential oil, but you are much better than that,” he chuckled.

“Well, I’m glad I’m your personal essential oil,” you smiled, pressing a kiss to his lips. He smiled back and hummed, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I’m gonna nap now,” he mumbled, pressing his face back into your hair.

There was no response from you, but he didn’t need it. He liked the quiet. It was comfortable. It was perfect.

[rosenfey]

"how you see yourself" meme

⊱ tagged by the dear @dekarios, thank you so much fray!

character: it's faerene, my oc, made in here. she's a self-insert, she looks like me. i gave her all the things i disliked about myself and now i love myself the way i am thanks to her.

style: a mix of cottagecore / dark academia / vintage / victorian fashion. we need to bring this shit back asap (though that won't stop me dressing like that either)

object: mushrooms but its more complex than that. i love the duality of life and death they represent!! springing up from something dead, death being a gate to something new!!! much like how we preserve the memories of our loved ones and people who lived in the past!!! we are never truly dead!!!! you cant kill a memory in a way that matters!!! just like fungus!!!

place: i was torn between a forest and a graveyard so this is an abandoned forest graveyard in my country!! forests / graveyards are truly the only two places other than inside where i truly feel sane. because they are quiet, there are no (alive) people around, and if they are, they don't tend to perceive me as much!!! and i love nature and how calm it is and graveyards often are surrounded by greenery and trees and its just!!! its a thing ive been doing ever since i was a child. i live both next to a forest AND a cemetery so thats where i always ran to when everything felt like too much.

animal: i was torn between this bunny and another bunny holding a scythe because lbr i am both a dainty pink lady AND can have a sharp weapon to walk around to assert dominance. :3c

song: eughhhh im a florence + the machine girl because her entire vibes and songs are just. running in my veins ever since i was 15. anyway. if i had to name specific songs it would be mainly from this album and it would be these: blinding, i'm not calling you a liar, my boy builds coffins, drumming song, rabbit heart (raise it up). i cant choose from those they are all equally me thats the end of the sentence.

job: i want to be a weird (very important) and off-putting (equally important) but also cute (super important) fey of the woods that can talk to the dead and plants and grows mushrooms in her weird af little garden. so i hope i am at least projecting some of those vibes irl.

food: baked potatoes. im a slav and you can pry those from my cold dead hands

colour: very specific shade of pink. like dusty pink. old pink. mushroom pink. pink you can see in the nature. earthy pink. but i also love love love autumn colours like toned down red, brown, and white.

⊱ tagging: [un]like this post to be added / removed.

@thanekrios﹒@lavampira﹒@euryalex﹒@starforger﹒@thefrostyshepard

@florbelles﹒@aldwirs﹒@pawnguild﹒@archonfurina﹒@ladyinthebluebox

@inafieldofdaisies﹒@feykiller﹒@zahra-hydris﹒@noughtomaton﹒@corvus-rose

@ferwynter﹒@melancholicrainstorm﹒@sylvthara﹒@katsigian﹒@rindemption

@vilnan﹒@eldensrings﹒@claudiawolf﹒@therapyvibes﹒@sibeal

@epheyang﹒@lotusfaebell﹒@anoramactir﹒@gallusneve﹒@lutebard

@brightaxe﹒@spectordameron﹒@merdruid﹒@lurakha﹒@lord-woolsley

@shaweetiehs﹒@corffiser﹒@thedeadthree﹒@quendiviner﹒@pinkfey

@azatas﹒@theviridianbunny﹒@heartfluttered

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

[beatinginavoid]

The Mountain

Part 3 of 6. Part 1, Part 2

— — —

Don’t climb the mountain.

The townsfolk that lived at the foot of the mountain often made new signs and repainted old ones. All of the signs warned about the mountain, told people to beware, or blatantly said to turn around and go back.

There were rumours that the townsfolk were trying to protect Bigfoot or some other sasquatch-like being that lived up there somewhere.

This made the town an odd little hotspot for certain types of tourists, and even some film crews.

The latest traveller to the town, dressed in earthy tones, had also been drawn there to try and catch a glimpse of something legendary. The verbal warnings were brushed off. The signs were seen but ignored. Equipment was packed and ready.

“Nothing will stop me from taking this chance!” they resolutely declared.

So what happened when they climbed the mountain?

— — —

The trail up the mountain was very faint but still visible. It was obvious that at some point in the past it had been a well travelled track, worn into the mountain by innumerable feet. Then the mountain had been declared off limits, for safety reasons you had been told.

Safety reasons. Pfft. You don’t believe it, no matter how many times it was parroted to you.

It was just some local thing. It wasn’t actually illegal or anything, so here you were, trudging your way up on the track that nature had been doing its best to reclaim. Good thing your pants were sturdy, some of these plants had an attitude. You pick off a bit that got overly attached and flick it away.

There was something about hiking along a tough path or up a mountain that gave you this great sense of freedom and accomplishment. The air also seems sweeter in these places. It’s a freedom and sense of life that the big cities could never convey to you.

Leg muscles begin to burn at the steeper ascents, but you keep on. Your breathing is faster, heavier, and your heart picks up its pace, slowly getting more aggressive at banging on its cage bars. You push forward – there’s plenty of mountain left to climb and you haven’t even broken out any equipment yet.

About two-thirds of the way up was a cave. The entrance was something of an arch and didn’t face the sun whatsoever, so the whole thing was dark and covered in shadows. It offers a cool place to rest and you decide to take advantage, sitting down and breaking out a drink and snack.

Once you finish, you carefully wrap up and pack away the rubbish. No sense in spoiling the scenery, even if no one would trek up here and see it. Something echoes from deeper in the cave. Tiny little clicks and clacks of stone and the odd skittering noise of critters.

There are probably bats roosting in this cave that might have been disturbed by your pit stop. Once you leave they will settle back down. You stand up and dust off your clothes.

A low rumble echoes down from the dark depths. A cave-in? More clicks and clacks could be heard in slow intervals. They were getting progressively louder. Did you stumble onto the den of a bear?

You take a step back carefully, not wanting to trigger whatever animal is slowly stalking toward you. The darkness hiding the unknown creeps you out, and the scare factor activates your adrenal glands. The adrenaline floods your system. Your breathing gets faster and more shallow as your heart begins to race. Another careful step.

A loud growl reverberates off the cave walls. One more step back. Two brightly glowing yellow spots appear for a second before they rush at you. Something grasps your ankle and pulls hard, sending you crashing on your back to the ground. Your shirt rides up to your armpits and your back is scraped up as you’re dragged further into the cave.

Gurgles and growls echoed all around, and there is nothing you can do but go along, captive of this unknown beast. You close your eyes, not that it makes a lick of difference, and open them only when you come to a stop.

A faint light shines through your closed eyelids. All you can hear is your shaky breathing, the odd drip of water, your pounding heart thumping in your chest and head. Foetid air washes over your face and you open your eyes to see a creature you’ve only seen as stone statues perched atop churches and other grand buildings.

A gargoyle. A gargoyle?!

You can’t decide if this is better or worse than a sasquatch. You wonder if trying to reach for your camera is even remotely worth it. The grip disappears from your ankle and you instinctively scramble backwards, eager to put space between you and a creature that shouldn’t exist.

A stalagmite halts your escape. The gargoyle creeps forward slowly, and this time you can see it in all of its creepy glory. Two large fangs jutting skyward from its lower lip reach to slanted, predatory eyes. Small, ineffective wings twitch and flutter as a short tail with a whipcord tip lashes behind it.

A clawed hand reaches out, one sharp tip touching the sole of your shoe. Your foot starts to feel stiff and heavy and, to your horror, your whole foot and ankle appears to be stone. It scrapes across the cave floor horribly.

It pokes your other foot and it becomes dead weight as well, slowing you down as you try to get around the stalagmite. The gargoyle grins wickedly and easily catches up to you. It pounces and you flinch violently, throwing your arms up to cover your face. You feel a poke on a finger of each hand. You watch as your hands slowly petrify from your fingernails to your wrists.

Your hands and feet are now worse than shackles, the weight almost pinning you in place. The gargoyle appears in front of you again and slashes at your chest, rending your clothes into shreds and exposing the whole front of your torso. You gasp harshly.

The gargoyle pushes you flat on your back and your breath hitches. You look down, but you still see unmarked flesh, not a fleck of stone emanating from the clawed hand holding you down. The beast grins and gives a disturbing growly laugh.

Its hand moves up and down as your heart beats powerfully in fear. It moves the hand, tracing around the pumping muscle keeping you alive. The skin within the traced area turns hard and grey. You take in a sharp breath and there’s an odd feeling as that part of your chest doesn’t move with the rest.

Another tap of a claw and the stone portion of skin disintegrates, exposing muscles and bones. Your brain is screaming at you to move away however you can, but your body isn’t obeying, frozen in place. The claw traces the edges of the missing skin and the newly exposed part petrifies. Another poke and a good chunk of your sternum, part of your left ribs, and all of the muscles in between are suddenly gone. None of it hurt.

There, in plain view, is the sac that protects your heart, along with the edge of your left lung. Your heart is quickly pulsing and you can’t help but stare in fear and wonder. The tip of a claw pokes through the top of the sac and glides down. Both of its hands then ever so delicately peel away the sac, leaving your racing pump fully visible.

Each beat looks, and feels, very forceful. It squeezes, expands, and contracts as if it is trying to punch out an opponent, swiftly and aggressively dancing within your chest cavity. It’s amazing to think this one muscle is so vital to your life, and now you can see it working hard, completely vulnerable and at the mercy of your captor.

A slate grey hand reaches out, clawed digits delicately curling around your heart. The organ is lifted up, the apex now pointing to the ceiling. Your breathing is fast, shallow, and still shaky, your life literally in the monster’s hands.

Your heart pounds harder, faster, doing its best to work around the grip impairing it. It feels unlike any sensation you’ve ever felt before. You start feeling lightheaded as your pump fights against gravity and the blood wanting to follow it, the ventricles unable to fully fill.

A claw tip gives the apex the lightest touch. The pulsing tip of your heart takes on the now familiar grey and heaviness that means petrification. The apex is as still as stone while the rest of the muscle continues to move rhythmically.

The gargoyle gently places your heart back where it belongs and pokes the stony apex. The petrification spreads. So far it doesn’t seem to be impeding any function, but you know that won’t last. A forked tongue slithers from its maw and licks over the ventricles, atrium, and aorta.

It’s one of the strangest ticklish sensations you’ve ever felt.

The tongue wraps around your aorta and gently squeezes, just enough for you to feel it as the blood rushes by. Another tap, more growing stone, and this time you can feel the result. Your stone hands try and fail to reach up to your chest as it suddenly feels tight, a sharp ache zinging from the pump.

Another tap, more stone. Your ventricles bulge with every cardiac cycle as part of them are completely incapable of moving. The muscle is working harder to push out the blood, but you somehow know that it’s failing at the task.

A gleeful grin precedes another tap, another spike of pain. Almost half of the vulnerable organ is rock solid. Each beat causes the top half to violently flail with every distended thump, though the heavy part keeps it firmly in place.

The pace picks up even more, leaving you gasping for every breath as your heart strains under the load. Another tap makes you whimper, the pain increasing. The atrium and flesh halves of the ventricles balloon out with every fast contraction, straining to the maximum to get the job done.

It feels as if an elephant is sitting on your chest, crushing everything under an enormous weight.

Another tap, then another. You are beyond dizzy, your vision fading in and out of blurriness. Your chest is nothing but a sea of pain, poured into a bottle far too small to hold the volume of liquid. You gasp and wheeze, only one third of your heart functioning.

The part that is still flesh continues to pound erratically for several seconds until it stops, fluttering in place.

Your vision turns black and it feels like your throat has closed, no air getting through. Consciousness fades as your heart quivers in v-fib.

The gargoyle chuckles and petrifies the rest of the shuddering pump, releasing your aorta. It grips the statue that your heart has become, every blood vessel seemingly carved with the utmost care by a true professional, and rips it from your chest.

It carries its prize to a section of the cave where dozens of heart statues are displayed on a carved out shelf. It places the newest statue in line and grins proudly, forked tongue licking its lips.

Don’t climb the mountain. 

— — —

3 parts down, 3 to go. I'm having fun finding various supernatural ways for things to end. I hope any readers out there are having just as much fun reading about it!

[acommonanomaly]

Curufin for @feanorianweek.

Inspired by a scene from my fic, What Fades Away.

Excerpt:

Maitimo shook his head, smiling softly as he approached Tyelkormo’s room. He himself was dressed and ready to depart, though he knew it would be some time before his younger brothers were wrangled into their best robes and made presentable.

Maitimo paused with his hand on the door handle, glancing up briefly at the colorful spider hovering above him on the carefully wrought filaments of its web. He was not overly fond of spiders himself, so he understood Makalaurë’s aversion, though he had to admit that it was a magnificent specimen.

Atar had described to Tyelkormo all he knew of the species, remarking on the artistry with which it wove its web, his voice carrying some of the same admiration he expressed when describing the creations of some of the Noldor’s most renowned craftsmen. His appreciation had infected Tyelkormo, who had loudly let it be known that he would not have anyone disturb his guest.

Maitimo pushed the door open and entered the room, and he was immediately struck by the difference in the quality of the air here.

Tyelkormo’s windows were always open, and smells both earthy and airy drifted in along with the singing of birds and the trilling of the insects outside.

His room was what Amil affectionately called an ‘organized mess.’ Tyelkormo seemed determined to bring the outdoors in, having scattered about neatly presented collections of minerals, gemstones, and other natural things that caught his fancy. Charts of pressed flowers and leaves adorned the walls, and scattered around a plant that had long since began to overflow its pot were life-like marble sculptures of forest creatures that Amil had made for him.

Maitimo ducked beneath a wooden bird that hung from the ceiling, its wings slowly flapping so that it bobbed up and down, and he moved deeper into the room. He stopped when a live bird let out a shrill twitter from the window sill and flapped its glossy black wings.

“Good morning,” Maitimo said politely to the bird. Let his brother not accuse him of being rude to his guests.

The bird cocked its head to the side as it watched him, a beady pale yellow eye unblinking.

“Nelyo?” Tyelkormo called out.

Maitimo walked to the bed and pulled back the gauzy netting that surrounded it. The little bells sewn into fabric chimed delicately, and Curufinwë sat back on his heels, his grey eyes going wide as though he had been caught misbehaving. 

In each hand he clutched the carved wooden figure of an animal, and there were several more scattered around him on the bed. Though he had reached the age where he proudly proclaimed to anyone who would listen that he was no longer a baby, he did not mind at all when Tyelkormo coddled him and made him toys. Tyelkormo sat cross-legged next to him, whittling away at a chunk of wood that was beginning to take on the likeness of a bear. Wood shavings littered his lap and the bed, and Maitimo shook his head before tying back the netting and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Amil won’t like you doing that on the bed.”

“Then don’t tell her,” Tyelkormo said curtly, though his gaze darted to the open door.

“Amil wants Curvo to have a bath, and you should be getting ready, too.”

“Turko doesn’t want to go to the celebration. Why must he go?” Curufinwë asked, giving Maitimo a guileless look that might very well have worked on Amil, or even Atar.

Maitimo turned to Tyelkormo. “Tyelkormo, what have you been telling him?”

“I was just talking.” Tyelkormo kept his eyes lowered, continuing to whittle at the chunk of wood. “And anyway, I don’t see why I should have to go.”

“Because we’re all going.”

“It’s a minor celebration. No one will miss me.”

Maitimo sighed. Tyelkormo had been invited to the house of Oromë and was eager to join the Vala for a hunt. Though the invitation did not stipulate that he should arrive by any certain time, his excitement over the prospect of spending time with the great hunter made him impatient. The celebration they were to attend seemed to be even more of a chore to him than it normally would be.

When Tyelkormo had expressed his desire to be left behind, though, their father had said that if the rest of them had to suffer through such a tedious gathering then so would Tyelkormo.