#thyme warp

[crystalchespin]

HEYY GUESS WHAT TIME IT IS . ART DUMP ATTACK‼️‼️💥💥💥‼️

thyme warp because they r funny!!!

more under the cut!!!

this one's based off that one image by sweepswoop_ on twt . Also it's supposed to say stun peas. I was tired and didn't notice until later:heartbrocken:

homing thistle and red stinger stuff bc they r cute together :flutters my eyelashes:

and some traditional stuff!!! (i don't do these often for some reason lol)

[ilrococo]

hello pvz fandom

been lurking in the tags for a pretty long while

[polevaultingzombie]

soda jerk!🥤

[fatima100]

[mypvz2]

[cherrysoder]

silly thyme warp :3

[jannytimig]

Merry Christmas Eve. And Holidays Eve! I've been getting into more nostalgic fandoms like freaking Plants vs Zombies!!?

I only played the game once, but I swear you show me a 2 hour long video from a mobile game I haven't heard of in years, I'll be fixated on it

I drew hypnoshroom and a zombie but I also drew Thyme Warp from the second game

I love them they're cool :)

And I'm also working on a bigger art piece for tomorrow and that's more sprunki related so yep!

[mint-mango-uwu]

[superbattle117]

Plants are enjoying Halloween trick or treating and wearing nice costumes🎃🍬

[novaqueenofmadness]

James Potter Fics (1)

james potter fics i've enjoyed

Too Soon by @jackie5656

Triwizard Tournament by @patrophthia

Championship Cups by @perpetuallydaydreaming

Playing Pretend by @dilf-lover99

Castle on Fire by @anneisnothome

Thistle by @thyme-in-a-bubble

All of the Benefits by @astonishment

What Letters? by @patrophthia

Lover Four by @theemporium

Maybe it was Then by @unearth1y-chi1d

If I Kiss You, I'm Sorry by @astonishment

You're Losing Me by @astonishment

Your love is better than gold by @yrluvjane

the fake date plot by @sunflowertuliplily

Pool Boy by @kquil

rockstar!james x photographer!reader?? by @luveline

request by @theemporium

Walk You Home? by @astonishment

two ghosts by @bellatrixscurls

I want to be loved first by @livinginshambles

I needed to hear you say it by @livinginshambles

Letter from Professor!James to Professor!Reader by @ddejavvu

James and reader meet-cute but reader has a boyfriend by @ddejavvu

Time Warp by @astonishment

No Longer Yours by @singmyaubade

James Potter x slytherin!reader p.1 James Potter x slytherin!reader p.2 by @moonstruckme

she's all that by @unearth1y-chi1d

it will pass by @mischiefmoons

big beefy James who gets a little too drunk at a party by @inkdrinkerworld

Goodnight by @robynlilyblack

Something sweet by @robynlilyblack

a star between hands by @luveline

i'm not gonna be the one to get hurt by @cupidddd-d

where wolfstar set them up by @ladylokilaufeyson5

Bodyguard!James and crytalgirl!reader by @luveline

Invisible String by @lupinsera

mesmerized by @sp1rit-realm

making out with rockstar!james by @ddejavvu

All because of a silly little niffler, and a necklace by @slayingqueenchal

picnic by @morwap

kiss cam by @kquil

Maroon by @pretty-little-mind33

reader works at a grocery store by @moonstruckme

he kisses you after a q game by @folkloresthings

Is it cool you're in my head? by @boneblushed

Forget-Me-Nots by @singmyaubade

Playing with my heart by @lightblue07

I thought you'd be different by @livinginshambles

only like you can by @moonlightspencie

[youryurigoddess]

On love and sacrifices

There’s so much more to this scapegoating business and big sacrifices referenced in the Good Omens narrative than the literal goats. And they’re only getting bigger, louder, final.

But let’s take it slow and start with the beginning, quite literally — i.e., with the Good Omens 2 title sequence. As we follow Aziraphale and Crowley on their journey, the universe warps and their usual left and right side positioning switches during the magic show (not accidentally an act of trust and sacrifice required both from the angel and the demon). They stay so throughout the next scene, which is their little dance in the air, and after they seemingly get settled on the A. Z. Fell and Co.’s roof and back to normal, the flipped sky in the background suggests that something’s not quite right yet. In the central part of the shot looms a large, humanlike shadow of the Elephant Trunk Nebula.

The nebula is a part of a constellation called Cepheus, after an Ethiopian king from the Greek mythology who agreed to sacrifice his only daughter in order to appease the gods and end a local calamity started by her mother and his wife, Cassiopeia (talk about generational responsibility). With time and a delightfully ironic twist of fate, the name of said daughter, Andromeda, became more famous than that of her father. Although she was chained up to a rock and offered to the sea serpent Cetus, the girl was spotted by the warrior Perseus, casually flying over the sea — either on the back of the Pegasus or thanks to a pair of winged sandals — after his victory over Medusa. He fell in love on the spot, defeated the serpent (with the help of a magical sword or Medusa’s severed head, depending on the varying sources), and freed the princess. That’s not exactly where their story ends, but we won’t be getting into the rest here.

Not surprisingly, Neil has mentioned two parallel child sacrifice stories from the biblical context back in August. The first is one of the big ones — The Binding of Isaac. God's command to sacrifice Isaac, his only son, was a test of Abraham's faith. The angel of the Lord intervenes and provides a ram to be sacrificed in the boy’s place.

The second one isn’t nearly as popular, but you might have heard a variant of it in fairy tales or as the Law of Surprise invoked in The Witcher saga. In exchange for Israel’s victory over its enemies in battle, Jephthah had rashly promised God to repay the debt with the first thing seen on his return back home. The victorious warrior didn’t suspect to see his only child moving innocently "to meet him with timbrels and with dances" though. In horror, Jephthah covered his eyes with his cloak, but to no avail: ultimately, he was forced to honor his vow to God, and the girl was sacrificed. As grisly as it might look like in the Old Master’s paintings, it’s important to remember that human sacrifices weren’t limited to physical offerings only — Jephthah’s daughter might have been offered to God in the sense of officially shunning her family and dedicating her life to service instead, probably sequestered in a temple somewhere.

Interestingly, the main character of a big chunk of the Bible and the reason for the Second Coming happens to be THE most influential child sacrifice in the modern history. You know, a certain 33-year-old carpenter sent by his Heavenly Father to die on a cross for the sins of the mankind? Someone better call Aubrey Thyme ASAP.

Circling back to Aziraphale, he could be also seen as a representative of the concept of filial piety, since Eden willing to personally take a Fall not only for the humanity’s collective or individual transgressions, but the shortcomings of his Ineffable Parental Figure as well. Our favorite angel angel always fights for what is right and good, sure, but why would that be even a thing if God was truly omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent?

If Aziraphale’s medal is anything to go by, it looks like we might get an answer from the way it’s introducing another mythological narrative into the game, that is the story of Daedalus and Icarus. The most absorbing thing about this is the stark contrast to the recurring child sacrifice references for S3 mentioned in this post — Daedalus isn’t a father who wanted to sacrifice his son, it was his attempt to save him from imprisonment that ultimately drove Icarus to his death. The boy ignored his father’s explicit instructions, committing the grave and culturally universal sin of disobedience to one's parents that simply couldn’t go unpunished, one way or another.

But Icarus’s transgression could be seen both as high-flying ambition and striving for personal accomplishment as well as humanitarian sacrifice for knowledge and humanity’s advancement in general.

Similarly to a certain angel who left everything for what superficially seems like a work promotion, but is the ultimate act of love — both for his demon and the children they have been protecting and nurturing together for six thousand years. From the very Beginning, his white wings have been shielding everything he holds dear in this world.

[ominous-faechild]

FAERIE'S DAWN

PROSE TEASER

CHAPTER 1: “A NORMAL FAERIE”

(or, just a bit of it 😉)

The magic around Nova was powerful—and of course it was. She was close to the edge of Kilrey, a faerie town ruled by an archfaerie… of course, by the name of Kilrey.

Nova anxiously clutched at the magic enveloping her as she stared across the long expanse of trees and forestry between her and the town.

This essence isn’t clinging to me. Or conscious. It’s just strong—so he probably hasn’t noticed me. This is just… a normal, everyday visit. To a town you’ve never been to… so nobody should care, Nova told themself.

Still, their heart pounded in their chest as they struggled to breathe evenly.

Besides the sheer amount of power concentrated there, Kilrey was normal. Its residents did little but work toward expanding their master's dominion—the region he controlled.

Talamhdé was a vast expanse of little but raw, uncontrolled magic. Archfae—fae who collected so much power and influence they were practically gods—“claimed” its essence to build upon their dominions, growing and expanding their power.

And Kilrey was just one example of many.

So, like all other faerie towns, Kilrey was a hotspot of magic. On top of being a culmination of all the essence the archfaerie had collected, it was full of the countless faeries he’d subjugated under his will. Thralls.

Faeries themselves were beings of pure magic. They lived by magic, died by magic, and were made from magic. Every bit of their existence revolved around Magic.

So places where they gathered—like the faerie town of Kilrey—were absolutely suffused with it. 

And yet Archfae Kilrey's magic still stood out above all the others.

He was just that powerful. After decades of effort, he’d taken control of Talamhdé itself, stealing possession of the region from the God of Magic Themself.

And that was just one of the many reasons Nova worried about entering Kilrey's dominion.

The main was their… circumstance.

Nova took several slow, shaky deep breaths as they struggled to steel their nerves.

I’m not taking much power with me, they told themself. He shouldn’t notice me. I should be fine to enter…

Invisible strands of Nova's essence fidgeted with the magic in the air, warping it around her to cool the area and set a feeling of calmness over her.

It’s okay, Nova told herself, flexing her jaw and struggling not to cry. If I just teleport in there… few fae will even be able to notice me, with all that power there!

… except Kilrey. And what if he notices me? What then?

Nova quickly shook his head, forcibly letting out a heavy sigh and repeatedly smacking his cheeks to try to knock some sense into himself.

No. Can’t think that way. If he comes… we can fight him. Or escape. Lead him away if we must… and he won’t be able to do much by himself, he told himself.

Nova glanced over his shoulder—and his long, fae-tipped ear drooped from anxiety—to eye the Talamhdé past Kilrey. Although it was far out of sight, he could see it well.

Distance had never mattered to Nova. Vision had never mattered to him. He was able to see just about everything with his magic.

That was his domain.

… and if he tries to bring his thralls, Nova told himself, he’ll still lose access to a majority of his essence if I take him far enough. I can overpower him, then.

The faerie gave himself a curt nod, quickly returning his eyes to the town of Kilrey.

Alright. We can do this, Casey, he told himself.

Then he paused, a scowl twisting his lips.

I don’t much like that name, either, he thought annoyedly.

Still, Nova just gave a heavy sigh before focusing their essence in the distance, disappearing, and reforming their body within the town of Kilrey.

SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE NOVEL VERSION!?

for comparison, here's part of the full outline:

story intro table of contents

divider by @thyming

[nataliabdraws]

darling heart, i loved you from the start (VIII)

pairing: maglor x original female character

summary: Olwyn and Maglor take a trip north.

warnings: N/A

word count: 5.1k

author's note: oof its been a minute. I'm juggling so many things right now, I'm happy to finally have this done. I hope you enjoyed and I look forward to reading your thoughts! - nat

read full thing on ao3

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3+4 | chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 |

Eydia and Felwin’s estate is one of the nicer Langstrand cottages, perched like a sun-bleached seashell amid the rolling highlands. Whitewashed stone glows softly under the midday sun, its heavy thatched roof sloping low as if bowing to the wind. Two stories—compact but proud—anchor the land gifted by Edyia’s father, a yeoman whose fishing vessels still haunt the village docks like skeletal sentinels. The new build looms large, though not unkindly, its garden twice the size since Felwin traded his family’s cramped cottage for soil and sky. Vegetable patches quilt the earth in emerald rows, fruit trees huddle along the walls, and the orchard, once gnarled and stunted, stretches its limbs greedily toward the horizon.

Olwyn hitches her mare outside the wooden fence, patting the beast’s sweat-damp flank before trudging up the gravel path. She knocks, the sound swallowed by the thick oak door painted a cheery, chipped red. Movement stirs inside—a clatter of crockery, the thump of boots—before the door swings open. Edyia beams, her apron dusted with flour, hair escaping its braid in wisps of oak brown. “Olwyn!” she exclaims, then cranes over her shoulder. “Dear, your sister is here!”

The cottage swallows Olwyn in warmth. Fresh bread perfumes the air, tangled with the sharpness of mint tea steeping on the hearthside table. A fire crackles, its light licking the copper pots hung above the mantel. The kitchen table, scarred and sturdy, hosts a vase of wildflowers—yarrow and clover, plucked haphazardly from the meadow. Olwyn slides the wicker basket from her arm, its contents spilling fat tomatoes, knobby carrots, and a bundle of rosemary still damp with morning dew.

“From the garden,” she says, though Edyia is already plunging her hands into the bounty, humming approval.

Felwin appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands smudged with soil. His grin is a mirror of Edyia’s—too wide, too warm, as if he’s still surprised to claim this life as his. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he says, nodding at the vegetables. “The carrots last time were sweeter than Edyia’s honey cakes.”

Edyia swats him with a dishcloth. “Liar. Nothing’s sweeter than my cakes.”

Olwyn smiles, but it falters as her gaze snags on the ledger open beside the hearth—pages dense with Felwin’s cramped handwriting, numbers marching like ants. Debts? The orchard’s expansion, the new roof, the fishing nets Edyia’s father gifted… none of it free, she suspects.

“Stay for lunch,” Edyia insists, already slicing bread. “The stew’s nearly done.”

Olwyn nods. Her stomach growls, a traitorous sound, muscles quivering like overstrung lute wires. The cottage—her cottage, with its moss-choked roof and smoke-stained hearth—feels leagues away now, though she’d ridden here in under an hour.

They slouch at the hearthside table, boots hooked on chair rungs, sunlight striping their faces through warped glass. The stew smells of thyme and nostalgia of her childhood, but it sits like lead in her gut. Edyia, ever a bull in a silk shop, lobs the question Olwyn’s been dodging since dawn.

“How’s that elf of yours?” she asks, stew dripping off her spoon. “Y’know—tall, broody, looks like he’s chewing on wasps?”

“Edyia, really.” Felwin’s frown could sour milk.

“Oh, shush. If he makes her smile, I say we embrace him. He hasn’t bedded you, has he?”

Olwyn chokes on her broth, cheeks blazing. (Some months ago, Ruebia’s wedding. Maglor’s hands tangled in her hair, embraced in her sheets and warm furs, both of them too wine-drunk and wrecked to do more than kiss—clumsy, desperate, his mouth a brand that lingered for days.)

She stabs her spoon into the stew, broth sloshing. “It’s not like that. He's leaving soon,”

“He’s leaving?" Felwin asks, too sharp.

“Sea-longing,” Olwyn mutters, the word ash on her tongue.

Edyia blinks. “Sea-longing?”

“An ache,” Olwyn says, staring at the steam curling off her bowl. “To sail West. To abandon this…mortal mess.”

“Can’t you stop him?”

Felwin gives Edyia a look.

Olwyn’s laugh is brittle. “Stop an elf older than the hills? Might as well chain the tide.”

Edyia’s mouth crimps shut, eyes slitting like a cat’s. Felwin leans forward, elbows gouging the table, and Olwyn tastes the question—sharp as nettles—before it leaves his lips.

“Have you considered following him?”

Heat scalds her from scalp to soles. The cottage seems to still, dust motes frozen mid-drift. (She imagines Maglor in the doorway, rain-soaked and ruinous, his eyes twin voids of ancient grief—gods, had she not bled enough for him already?)

Her answer rasps out, dry as a tomb. “No.”

She doesn’t realize she’s split her palm with her nails until blood beads crescent moons into her skin.

Edyia tilts her head, all faux innocence. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not fully—elf-kind,” Olwyn corrects. “The Valar wouldn’t permit it. Even if I begged.”

Felwin exhales through his nose. Edyia sets down her wineglass with a clink that cracks the silence.

“Well,” Edyia says, too bright, squeezing Olwyn’s wrist, “Langstrand will always want you. Broody elves optional.”

read the full chapter on ao3

[plasterbrain]

As a self described Pizzologist (Pizza Game scholar) I must ask about the characters you created.

In terms of the six dateable characters & Kiane, what is all of their favorite Pizza toppings? Ik Arimnaes likes Pepperoni but what about the others?

Kiane - every single kind of cheese at once, peppers

Mr. Arimnaes - pepperoni (boring)

Chris - ham?

Keen - sausage, bacon

Roobit - oregano, thyme, basil

Warped Lamp - buffalo chicken

Sensei - pineapple

[spunknbite]

South Downs, revisited

The garden faces south.

Wisteria and lavender. Borders of delphinium. Brilliant violet asters, peonies and shock-white hydrangeas. Hostas that could use splitting come spring. Hollyhocks thriving, standing ten feet easy. Lady’s Mantle, climbing roses, snap dragons. Yarrow, a lot of yarrow.

Grow you a garden. Start from seed, from the beginning, the inception. Dirt under fingernails, cracked terracotta pots, noon sun high. Watch stalks rise and flowers bloom, creation, something new and whole and yours.

There’s lattice-work arches too. A little neglected, water-warped wood imprinted with decades of climbing tendrils tattooing the grain. The clematis has fallen back, overstretched and thinning at the apex, but still the stains of its vines remain on the wood, revealing past summers. The patio stones that dot the perimeter are smoothed almost slippery from years of use and rain. Initials are carved in the trunk of the overgrown birch that shadows the back gate. SM + RB dug deep in testament, a fine layer of moss creeping at the edges.

Loved, this garden was loved by its former caretakers. Could be loved again, certainly.

There’s room enough to spread out. Add some colour — daylilies, cosmos, bellflowers. Coax some ivy up the brick. Mint as ground cover, along with flowering thyme, lily of the valley, phlox. 

He could build an awning off the back wall, offer some more cover. Move the hostas – they’d be happier under the protection. Plant some astilbes, coral bells, some begonias in the summer. Add a few lounges, a place for an angel to read while it storms. 

Maybe an apple tree, if he’s feeling bold.

-----

“I quite miss the country,” Aziraphale says one afternoon. A sip of tea, the familiar clink of cup on saucer. “It’s been centuries.”

“Tadfield?”

“Centuries since I’ve holidayed properly. The occasional day trip hardly counts.”

“You can’t leave this shop.”

“Not permanently, maybe just to get some air. See the sky again.” Saucer meets desk. A smile his way, blue eyes alight,

“And I will make thee beds of Roses  And a thousand fragrant posies,  A cap of flowers, and a kirtle  Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle”

“For Satan’s sake, you’re invoking Marlowe of all people?”

“And why shouldn’t I? Just because he’s been a smidge overshadowed by —”

“You know he was an atheist, angel?”

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”

“And that broken clock can write poetry too?”

“Quite.”

The bell above the shop door rings, and Aziraphale is off. 

-----

The third bedroom is just a nook really; it peaks out of a dormer window overlooking the back garden. It has built-in shelves along one wall, inset and bordered with the sort of colonial crown moulding that Crowley imagines only Aziraphale would truly appreciate. Grandmotherly; shelves seemingly meant to house sun-faded doilies and ceramic cats.

But it could be a library. Granted, a small one, but there was space enough for a collection of the essentials with room to spare under the window for a desk. An angel must keep up with his correspondence, after all. 

Dear angel, he’d written once, centuries ago. Then scribbled it out.

Dear angel, he’d written again, not long after. Then burned it.

Dear angel, he’d written again and again and again. Wasted paper made pulp made paper again, never sent.

-----

He buys the damned cottage. 

Dumb idea. Impulsive, really. Like a lot of what he did, what he still does — gets a notion in his demonic skull and just charges on, unencumbered by reflection. As if he trusts some higher power is looking out for him, has his back – the absurdity of it. Once upon a time before the beginning of the world, he’d sauntered vaguely downward without really considering all the consequences, the ramifications of it all; hadn’t weighed and measured, worked out the celestial maths. No, he made a choice and paid for it without knowing the price.

(he would have kept sauntering on anyway, knowing where it would ultimately lead — earth and humans and their wonderful cars and Aziraphale and and and — but he hadn’t known then, couldn’t have known, just what shape his damnation would take, and that was rather the point; he was a careless idiot)

Here too, on earth. We can run away together — Alpha Centauri. Get an idea, a cocked up, stupid thought and go all in on it. 

The Bentley, raging down London streets. A sharp, nearly blind corner. Is there oncoming traffic? Could he stop if he wanted to? Who’s even in control, has he ever been? Has he gone from one master to another to another?

You go too fast for me, Crowley.

So he buys the damned cottage, because what else can he do?

-----

Aziraphale gets in the elevator and Crowley gets in the Bentley. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it’s not South Downs.

Also on ao3 for anyone interested.

[mypvz2]