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httpswritings · 3 months

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broken cycle — Alexia Putellas x Reader

Warnings: masturbation mentions

Word count: 825

Summary: The aftermath of putting your sexual encounters with Alexia to an end.

A/N: Third part of vicious cycle

You decided to put an end to your sexual encounters with Alexia. Your body couldn't stand the feeling of touching her. The love you had for that woman was quickly accompanied by a feeling of shame that ended in pure numbness. She took it well; that's what you saw from her. The only thing she asked was if she had done something wrong or if she had hurt you. That was the worst part; her still being this considerate to you couldn't make you hate her.

You watched her from afar, but both of you still had a friendly tone when you had to talk to each other for football duties.

Little did you know Alexia was not doing well without your touch. She missed you, and to her surprise, not only sexually. Alexia knew she had fallen in love with you, but she was convinced that she could put her feelings aside and keep meeting you at your house without any trouble.

She had spent a bunch of nights crying herself to sleep, missing you. Her sex drive almost disappeared, as if you had kept her desire for love and passion.

One day, the idea of pleasuring herself to the thought of you came to her mind, so she proceeded to do it. She closed her eyes as she watched in her mind the image of you being on top of her. She imagined you doing all kinds of things to her body. As she was about to reach her orgasm, she mumbled a delicate “I love you.” When she came back to reality, she sobbed at the memory of you.

When you were near her, she had to pretend to be okay, as if nothing had happened.

One day, Mapi asked Alexia if she could give her number to a good friend of hers. “Ale, Sara is really nice. You won't regret having a date with her.” You were next to them, changing into your kit, and you felt Alexia's eyes on you. “No, Mapi, I'm sorry.”

Mapi sighed. “C'mon, I don't remember the last time you talked to me about a woman. You need to go out and meet some people!” You looked toward them when you heard Mapi say that. You had been Alexia's secret for a few months, and whatever relationship you had with her was non-exclusive, as you weren't dating. Didn't Alexia get with other women since she started seeing you?

As Alexia looked at you, she said, “I'm not interested in doing that. Maybe I could do it with someone I've already been with, but I'm not looking forward to meeting other women.” You smiled forcefully, taking her comment as her way of saying, “I still want to have sex with you as we used to.“ Little did you know Alexia had given her comment a deeper meaning. “Ale, Olga is not in Barcelona anymore, and Jenni is in Mexico. Can you tell me with whom you are planning to do that? That's why I'm insisting on you meeting other women; it'll do you good, amiga.”

“If I get with a woman, I'll do it to enter into a relationship, not something sporadic. I've just realized how much I crave that, but I understand some other people are not looking for that.” You frowned. Was Alexia lying to Mapi just to get rid of her insistence, or was she serious? “I'm just scared to be vulnerable, Mapi; you know it's not easy for me.” You've had enough of only listening to the conversation and not participating, so you anticipated Mapi's response. “Maybe you need to look for a woman who won't judge you. Someone who would want everything with you. But you have to take the risk.”

«I meant every word I said in the locker room.» That was the text message you received from Alexia. «Come home, Ale.» You didn't want to have that conversation on the phone. You heard the bell ring, and when you opened the door, Alexia didn't even let you greet her. “I mean it. I don't want to meet other women. I want you. I miss you every day and every night. I can't stand not touching you, not kissing you, not being alone with you. I don't want to only have sex; I want a future with you, one we both deserve.” You stood there in silence. “I love you...” That's when you lost it. Hearing Alexia pronounce those words, which were directed at you, made you run onto her arms.

As you deepened the kiss, you began to lose your patience. You had had enough time without feeling her skin against yours that the only thing you wanted to do was make love with her, but Alexia had other plans. When she noticed your intentions, she stopped you. “Let's not do this today. I want to show you that I crave you in every aspect of you, not only sexually.”

#alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas #woso #woso imagine #woso x reader

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emeraldexplorer2 · 2 months

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Alice Denham was born on January 21, 1927 in Jacksonville, Florida, USA. She was an actress, known for Olga's House of Shame (1964), She Should Have Stayed in Bed (1963) and Olga's Girls (1964). (Photo: 1956)

#vintage #beauty #smoking #cigarette #sexy smoking #hollywood #actress #alice denham #playboy magazine #playboy playmate #1950's #1960's #smoker #smoking cigarette #sexy smoker #old hollywood

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charliethomascoxuniverse · 1 year

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Treason' Proves There’s More to Charlie Cox Than 'Daredevil'

By Kelcie Mattson January 12, 2023 (X)

The actor beloved for 'Daredevil' has much more to offer the world, especially in Netflix's 'Treason.'

If there’s one thing most Marvel fans can agree on, it’s the impeccable casting of Charlie Cox as Daredevil/Matt Murdock. Like Robert Downey Jr. and Hugh Jackman before him, few actors have better inhabited the tormented skin of their superhero counterpart. But Cox was already establishing himself as an acting force to be reckoned with prior to 2015's Daredevil, leaving a trail of memorable performances that culminated in his ongoing MCU role. Five years after Daredevil's cancelation, Cox returned as a Netflix leading man for the service's new original series, Treason. The role of Adam Lawrence, an MI6 agent devoted to protecting his country and family yet harboring the weight of past indiscretions, proves an ideal vehicle for Cox's defining traits as an actor and cements him as more than just a guy in a red devil suit.

What Is 'Treason' About?

Treason is a non-stop espionage thrill ride reminiscent of the BBC classic Spooks, The Night Manager, and Daniel Craig's era of James Bond. After Russian spy Kara (Olga Kurylenko) poisons the head of MI6 (Ciarán Hinds), second-in-command Lawrence is thrust into the intelligence agency's leadership vacuum. And it comes with no shortage of expectations, as Lawrence must balance being Britain's first line of defense with juggling the politics of jealous colleagues, managing a CIA investigation into his loyalties, keeping his wife and children safe, and stopping Kara from using their old love affair to blackmail him.

As Treason's Lawrence, Cox funnels the individual qualities that make him a compelling figure into one role, particularly his earnestness, ferocity, delicacy, and ability to walk the fine line between a good man with noble intentions and a flawed human with ongoing failures. When Treason opens, Lawrence's life is idyllic: a devoted wife, two children, a cushy job, even a fancy house. Cox's performance, naturally, reflects this; Lawrence is relaxed and assured whether he's visiting with his son's classmates or issuing severe orders to his staff. His relationship with his wife Maddy (Oona Chaplin) is tender, and he's playful with his kids. That security quickly falls apart as his past indiscretions catch up with him. The revelation that Kara has secretly engineered his lucrative career, which raises the CIA's suspicions about his allegiances and invites personal betrayal, leaves Lawrence fearful and flailing in the wind. He has no choice except to clear his name, expose the true traitor, and protect those he loves.

Cox Brings Emotional Maturity to His Roles

No matter the character or the size of his part, Cox brings emotional maturity to the material. An inherent commitment simmers beneath his body language and expressions, a sense that the actor is reaching deep to find his character's truth and performing with all he has. There's no half-assing it with Cox, at least on the surface. In Daredevil, his resolute and angry tension allows for no doubt concerning Matt's passion for protecting the helpless and redeeming his home, nor the depths of his barely restrained rage. And despite Lawrence's questionable actions in Treason, if the audience is meant to question his devotion to king and country, Cox's natural sincerity makes Lawrence's ultimate integrity a foregone conclusion. He's too good of a person when and where it counts.

This is best exemplified in relation to Lawrence's family. Adam isn't the type to sacrifice his loved ones for the greater good. Rather, he prioritizes them so highly that he commits treason to rescue his kidnapped daughter Ella (Beau Gadsdon). With her life at risk, he can't focus on the larger threat even though he's leading MI6. He keeps secrets from his wife out of shame, fidgeting and staring agitatedly into the middle distance. When he begs Maddy to understand that his love for her has never wavered and his secrets stem from guilt, all of that earlier intensity transforms into something quieter if no less vehement. It's an earnestness rooted in a gentle and steadfast love like Matt Murdock's encounters with Karen Page (Deborah Ann Woll) or Foggy Nelson (Elden Henson).

The same energy applies when Lawrence reunites with his daughter or reassures his frightened son Callum (Samuel Leakey). Cox rarely raises his voice in Treason and doesn't need to. The thrumming energy in his physicality says enough. As a character, Lawrence feels lived-in despite Treason's fast-paced plot, and Cox demonstrating those consistent characteristics sets him apart as a believable and adept actor.

Taken in the context of his past roles, that easy truthfulness isn't a surprise. Daredevil could be a ludicrous series in different hands, but Cox contributes to its grounded style by never overacting while still rising to the emotional level a scene requires. Whether it's questioning his lifelong faith or fighting an array of evil ninjas, Murdock's pain is visceral in every punch and broken rib, as is his repeated heartbreak. Hatred, remorse, and love echo off the screen and transfer naturally into applicable instances in Treason.

'Boardwalk Empire' Was a Breakout Role For Cox

Take HBO's Boardwalk Empire, where Cox portrays IRA member Owen Sleater, the right-hand man to main character and criminal Nucky Thompson (Steve Buscemi). Sleater is armed with a sharp intelligence and ruthless willingness to assassinate enemies as much as he's armed with guns. He's a man made rough around the edges by poverty, but in true Cox form there's an unexpected sensitivity to his romance with Nucky's wife Margaret (Kelly Macdonald). His demeanor softens at their first meeting, and as their affair progresses, it's clear that he adores her enough to move heaven and earth if she asked. He doesn't conceal his infatuation, and his ensuing Victorian-levels of yearning is disarming.

If only Owen's optimism weren't at the mercy of an HBO series. After a mission, he returns to Margaret and Nucky as a corpse in a box, but his goofy smiles and belief in love remain unique to Boardwalk Empire's world and help distinguish Cox's strengths. Owen, Matt, and Treason's Lawrence are each victims of their romantic and familial fidelities, and the sheer commitment from Cox guarantees that audiences engage with him.

A Star Is Born In 'Stardust'

That holds true in a different (and surprisingly happy) way in the fantasy adventure Stardust, which was Cox's breakout role and now a cult classic. A besotted young man who promises to retrieve a fallen star for his lady love, Cox's Tristan instead falls in genuine love with the star herself, Yvaine (Claire Danes), over a series of adventures together. Their chemistry sparkles with classic enemies-to-lovers banter and Tristan's romanticism is bright and charming. He's the ideal floppy-haired hero for the genre: a swashbuckling swordfighter, a smooth dancer, and delicately devoted to Yvaine. Even in 2007, Cox's innate presence and emotional substance distinguished him from the many young men of the early 2000s who starred in fantasy films.

Give Charlie Cox All the Roles, Please

Naturally, Cox has more to offer the world than Daredevil even as the buzz around his return (and his own excitement) soars high. Seeing him recognized by Netflix again with Treason is a deserved delight. He makes each role unique, yet the consistency across his career is how each character feels natural. He combines fervor with honest fragility, and Treason undoubtedly proves that Cox possesses the necessary caliber to lead any series.

~*~

#‘’Give Charlie Cox All the Roles Please’’ indeed 😎💗#charlie cox #adam lawrence #treason 2022 #treason spoilers #matt murdock #daredevil #owen sleater #boardwalk empire #tristan thorn #stardust 2007 #article

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

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Fic: Misty, chapter viii

Read on Ao3

Rating: Explicit (whole thing)

Fandom: Prospect

Pairing: Snowman!Ezra x f!reader (monsterfucker au)

Tags: it’s basically monster fucking but with a snowman which could technically be classified as a monster i guess?, gothic horror kind of, sorrow, dementia, anxiety, dog murder, masturbation, Frankie thirst, pet murder, racism mention, huge age gap, implied possible sexual abuse of minor, spookiness, PiV sex with an actual snowman, possible hallucinations, hypothermia, Frankie yearning, the spookiness continues, More dog murder and implied sexual abuse of a minor, implied illegal abortion, adulterous kissing, lots of crying.

Chapter warnings in addition to the above mentioned: Further mention of implied predatory behaviour.

Summary: Escaping your empty apartment after having been dumped by your fiancé, you rent a cottage at Oakgrove House over Christmas to nurse your wounds. But strange things seem to happen at the estate, where an old woman wanders around in search of old friends long gone, and snowmen appear as if by themselves on the lawn…

Chapter word count: 3,021

Tagging: @harriedandharassedsed @paulalikestuff @pazizz @lovesbiggerthanpride (let me know if you want in)

Keep falling. I'll find you.

His whisper settles around your skin like a prayer. His lips are cold against yours. His one arm is around you as he leads you out on the ledge. A feral glint in his eyes, a conceited smirk on his ruggedly handsome face, a little nudge - and you fall.

You jerk awake, nauseous the minute you leave the heavy, sick sleep you had fallen into after your breakdown on the couch. Your body is aching, itching, sweaty and shivering at the same time, and your head feels like someone has transplanted a cast iron cauldron inside the bone. You blink sluggishly against the bright embers that remain of the fire, then see how they reflect in the water on the floor.

Damn it.

Exhaustion is making your limbs heavy, and you have no idea how you'll be able to get up and wipe the floor dry from your little tantrum. Not to mention what the upstairs must look like.

You shiver and close your eyes to fight the nausea. You have no idea what happened last night, but you must have dreamed it all. The other explanation is too wild, too much like a dark fairy tale to be true. There simply is no way that a possessed snowman came up those stairs and fucked you. It must have been some insane dream, one that made you sleepwalk and open the window to let in the falling snow. The melted snow on the stairs was from Frankie's boots.

Frankie. How will you be able to look him in the eye again? Maybe you don't even have to: you're leaving tomorrow. You can just hide in the cottage until then. You groan as the shame makes bile rise in your throat, and you manage to heave yourself up from the couch and stagger to the bathroom. Bent over the porcelain bowl, you give in to the cramps of a stomach expelling its contents, but nothing comes up, and you sink down on the cold tile floor.

You want to make sense of the things Olga told you this morning, but you're afraid to go there. It's too sad, too upsetting, to think of that 16-year-old girl, enthralled by a dashing stranger twice her age, getting into the only kind of trouble that sort of relationship could lead to, then having to kill her beloved dog for him to even deign to help her deal with it. It's sickening.

Does her family even know? Not that it's your business to tell them, no, you would never talk about this to anyone, but it would be horrible if the old woman had gone all her life without ever telling anyone. And why would she tell you of all people?

The scratching on the inside of your ribcage is driving you mad, the pressure on your sternum is making it hard to breathe. Somehow, you realize that you're spiraling towards a panic attack, and that you have to ward it off, so you get off the floor, take deep breaths, and walk into the kitchen. Your hands need something to do, your brain needs a distraction. Strong, sweet tea seems to be the way of Oakgrove House, so you put the kettle on and fish out a bag of Earl Grey from the jar on the counter. There is no honey, but you find a bag of sugar. Sitting by the kitchen table, you sip your tea and gradually calm down as the beverage seems to spread warmth and sweetness not only in your belly but also in your veins. You look at the clock on the kitchen wall and discover that it is late afternoon. A glance through the window tells you that it has finally stopped snowing, and the short December day has already ended. It's not dark, however: the moon is casting its silvery light on the snow-covered world. It's almost as light as the daytime and seems even lighter, since there is no snowfall to cloud the view. You see warm yellow lights in the distance, telling you which windows are lit in the main house.

The snowman on the lawn is still gone. You wonder if it was ever there.

The tea revived you strangely, so you get up and start to clean the floor. Going methodically, you soon have the living-room floor dried off. Taking one step at a time, you work your way to the second floor, and the bedroom.

You stop when you see the bed. The sheets are still damp, and there are bits of wet branches and frozen garden on your pillow. Brown straws and moist moss that smell of forests in the fall are spread over the tangled sheets, bringing the ghost of Ezra's popsicle kisses to your lips. You pick up some of the remains, touch them to your lips, smell them, before throwing them back onto the sheet and gathering it up. Opening the window, you let the sheet out of it, and beat it forcefully several times, before taking it back in and closing the window. The sheets are now damp only. You strip the bed, wipe the floor, and leave the laundry in the basket in the bathroom, as instructed by Denise when you signed the rental contract.

Your phone is on the bedside table. It's low on battery, so you connect it to the charger, and look over the text messages you've received. Most of them are from your parents, the rest have been sent by friends. They all say the same: are you okay, what are you doing, where are you, please respond, Merry Christmas! You reply to them all with the same I'm fine. Been out walking and then sleeping before ignoring the missed calls from your mother. You let the phone stay silent, even turn off the data, and leave it on the nightstand. You have no interest in talking to anyone or seeing any more messages.

Beginning to feel more like a functional adult, you prepare a simple meal for yourself, relight the fire in the fireplace, and eat while watching the flames consume the logs, plate balanced on your thighs.

"Well, merry Christmas," you tell yourself, wishing in the same moment that you had just kept your mouth shut. The quiet little greeting to yourself sounds lonely in the empty room, perhaps even more so with the fire crackling cozily.

Your eyes start to wander over the spines of the books in the little bookcase next to the couch. The classics are all there, well-thumbed paperback copies from decades ago, along with some newer bestsellers, probably left by earlier tenants. A few field guides to North American wildflowers, fishes, and birds. One thick, older tome of birds, no doubt with drawings instead of photographs. Putting the dinner plate to the side, you stand up and pick out the older bird book. You never were that good at identifying birds, and living in a city, you mostly just saw pigeons, ducks in the park, and various corvids picking at the trash on the streets. Opening the book, you browse through it, admiring the beautifully painted drawings of small birds as well as bigger ones, read little snippets of information about the robin, grackle, and common shelduck. Turning the page, you find the Turdus merula, or common blackbird, and with it, an envelope.

Albeit unremarkable and unmarked, the envelope is not empty or sealed. Hesitating for a moment, you eventually decide to take out the once-folded paper inside.

It is a letter, and it is dated in September but lacks a year.

Dear E,

I will expect you at Christmas. Thank you. Your Blackbird.

After that simple message follows a poem, and you realize that it's the same one you heard in your strange summertime dream, the one in which you could see Olga as a young girl read for Ezra. Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall...

It's heart-breaking, this little note from a young girl to her first love. You wonder if Ezra ever even got it. And if he did, why did he leave it behind? Where did he go, and what promises did he make about returning?

Your imagination is running wild. Ezra, a feral predator smelling fresh blood, seduces the rich, protected daughter of the house, gets her pregnant, forces her to have an abortion and to drown her own dog to make sure she'll never talk, then leaves her with false promises of returning for Christmas. You yourself were a love-struck teenager once, yearning for the big romantic love story that you had been assured by media and society would soon befall upon you, and you can just imagine what the torture of waiting.

"Where the fuck did you go, you asshole?" you mutter to yourself, closing the book but keeping the letter. "What did you do?"

Putting the papers back into the envelope, you fan your face with it as your anger rises.

"Men are such shit jerks," you say out loud, remembering Sandra Bullock's inability to call out her incompetent coworkers in some action comedy. "Just shit jerks. Shit jerk dick fucker assholers."

Suddenly filled with holy rage, you leave the letter on the coffee table, pull on your outerwear, and go out in the garden.

"Where are you?" you call out into the night. "Where are you when I actually need you?"

There is no trace of the snowman, but you feel the change in the temperature, and when you grab a handful of snow, it forms easily into a ball. With an almost manic sense of purpose, you start to roll a body from the snow in the front garden of the cottage. Fueled by anger, you quickly proceed to the second ball and, eventually, the third. There is no longer any chance of digging up anything from the lawn that would serve to model your snowman's face, but you form ears and a nose for it, and make indentations to suggest eye sockets.

It is a poor substitute, but it is something you can punch as you start screaming at it.

"Why? You fucking child molester, why?" You kick at the soft mass of white where the crotch would be, finding grim satisfaction in the total annihilation of the area, before hitting the face until the head falls off. You proceed to kicking at it in the snow before stomping on it until pressed into the ground.

"What on earth are you doing?"

You turn around and see Olga standing in the wet snow, rubber boots on her feet but no coat. Catching your breath, you lean towards what is left of the snowman. The old woman's blank face tells you that she is once again trapped in some past that you so unwillingly have been granted glints of, and you don't know whether or not it's a good thing.

"Olga..."

"He came to you last night, did he not?" she accuses, her voice filled with envy and sadness. "He came to you but not to me."

"I didn't want him to," you defend yourself. "I don't want anything to do with him!"

"I told him not to come back, it was too dangerous for him here. Every Christmas I waited for a sign, and he built me a snowman so that I would know he had been here..." Olga's voice trails off as she moves closer. Reaching the beheaded snowman, she caresses her bare hand over what would be its shoulders.

"Poor Ezra... dear, poor Ezra..."

"There's nothing poor about him," you object weakly. "He was a terribly person."

You might as well be speaking to the dead balls of snow between you two, because Olga does not react to you at all. She keeps patting what remains of the snowman, mumbling to it. You just watch in exasperation while you fight the urge to grab her by the shoulders and just shake her out of this misplaced grief, shake some anger into her instead.

You snap out of it when you realize that she's not wearing a coat.

"Olga," you say, now with a gentle voice, "why don't we go back in?"

There is no reaction, so you try again. "Olga?"

Her head snaps up and she stares at you, fear and shame shining in her eyes, like she has been caught doing something bad. You try to present a friendly smile to settle her, but she regards you with such suspicion that it almost makes you feel guilty for something you have not done.

"I don't want to go back to him," she pleads. "Don't make me go back there."

"You never have to go back to him," you promise, taking a tentative step towards her. "He can't hurt you anymore."

"Mother and father didn't know. I couldn't tell them." A tear runs down her wrinkled face, and your heart aches for her.

"I know," you nod. "Olga, it's okay. You're safe, but you need to go back inside."

"That's where he is!" she yells, agitated and retreating when you try to get closer. Not wanting to scare her, you stand back, a little lost as to what to do. Your phone is upstairs so you can't call Denise without leaving Olga. You have a feeling that if you turn your back at her, she'll be gone, just like the ghosts that haunt her mind.

"Olga," you try, "what would you like to do?"

She frowns, as if trying to remember, and you choose your following words carefully:

"Would you... like me to help you with something?"

Olga hesitates for a moment, before nodding.

"Yes."

"What can I help you with?"

She blinks and looks around her, as if looking for the right words in the snow around her.

"Find... find him. Find Ezra. Tell him to come back and take me away from here."

"Mom!"

Denise comes running from the main house, another woman in tow. You guess it's one of the sisters. Olga seems disoriented and frightened, but you close the small distance between the two of you, and take her hand.

"It's going to be alright, Olga," you tell her just as Denise and her sister reach you.

"Oh my God, thank you!" Denise pants, taking off her coat and putting it over Olga's hunched shoulders. You mumble a reply and nod at the sister, but both she and Denise are too busy fussing over their mother to do any introductions. It suits you well, and as soon as the trio are on their way back home, you return inside the cottage and head straight for the fireplace to rekindle the embers and load more wood into it. When the crackling flames are licking the sticks and logs, you stand up, at a loss for what to do. Turning around, you regard the bookcase for a moment before stepping up to it.

Something about what Olga said has sown a seed a suspicion and doubt in you. That disoriented sadness of hers in combination with her words; it just did not add up. Something was telling you that there was more to this than you initially thought. You still had no idea what had happened last night, but it had felt real and moreover: you had not been afraid. You had been calm, aroused, curious. You had enjoyed it, whether or not it really happened or was only the queerest of wet dreams. The snowman that you had come to call Ezra was not a threat. Ezra was not a threat.

Methodically, you start to pull out the books and check each and every one of them for more letters, notes, cards, any little thing that would tell you more, tell you that Ezra got what he deserved, that Olga had a happy, healthy life until dementia decided to throw her right back into her adolescence and the abuse that she was subject to.

An atlas of North America finally yields something: a card drops out, and another one is pressed between the old pages. You pick up the card and retire to the couch with it and the atlas. The card shows the rather boring-looking main street of a small town in Arkansas. Frowning, you turn the card but find that it is empty, save for Olga's name and address, scribbled by a hand that knows how to write elegantly, but lacks the time. You put the card to the side and pull out the next one. Another dime a dozen small town postcard, this time from Nevada. Nothing written on it except the same name and address, in the same hand. You browse through the atlas and find three more cards, all of the similar kind. Looking at the pages where you found them, you see that each page corresponds to the place the card was sent from: Arkansas, Nevada, Montana, North Carolina, California...

You get up and fetch your phone from the bedroom and turn on the data. Googling the names of the towns, you soon realize that they all have one thing in common: they are, or have been, mining communities. Each one has a gemstone mine of some kind.

You chew your lower lip in contemplation. There is nothing that suggests that these cards are from Ezra, but the post stamps are from the 1950's, which would correspond with Olga's age, and you just have a feeling. You are not exactly Miss Marple, nor did you ever aspire to be, but you know you are onto something here. These cards are from Ezra, and they are his way of signing to Olga of his whereabouts. Her parents did not approve, Olga had said the other day. Had Ezra written a single word of greeting on these cards, they would have been intercepted by her stuck-up parents.

But why are the cards here? And are there more?

You realize that have seen a hatch in the ceiling above the second-floor landing. The cottage has an attic, and the attic is where old secrets go to die.

#ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra au #prospect movie #my fic

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earth-scented · 6 months

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🍂 Autumnal Granfathers (Dedy, aka Dziady) – Slavic Week Devoted to Commemorating the Dead 🍂

From October 21 to 28 (this year, 2023) Slavic Pagans celebrate Grandfathers’ Week – time dedicated to commemoration and communication with the dead. The veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, and it is time invite the deceased loved ones over to share a meal with the living. Those are not the days to be in a hurry. The house needs to be cleaned – it is really a shame to invite your ancestors into a mess; the commemorative dinner has to be prepared.

Finally, everything is ready – the house shines, the candles are lit, and commemorative dinner stands on the table. Extra plates and silverware are served. Now the master of the house invites the Grandfathers – deceased ancestors that loved us and wished us well. He calls out their names, remembering their deeds. “Dear Grandfathers, we’re calling for you. Dear Grandfathers, fly to us through.” Hot steam rising from the food tickles the nostrils attracting hungry spirits that miss the scent and taste of food in the Otherworld. Slavs believe that the food for the dead has to be hot, as the spirits ingest the steam instead of actual food. Crepes, cereal, pies – all these foods are enjoyed on the Dumb Supper by both living and dead. Traditionally, this meal is quiet, full of memories of the people that are no longer with us. If this year happened to be successful, Grandfathers deserve to be thanked for it, if not – it is okay to ask for help. Remains of food are left at the table overnight, and in the morning they are used to feed wild animals and birds.

Once the dinner is over, one can peek into the future and communicate with Gods and spirits by means of divination, be it runes, or crystal ball, or pendulum. The answers will be clear and easy to read this week – our own ancestors stand behind our shoulders helping us on our way. Protection spells are also very powerful at this time.

Friday on Grandfathers’ Week (October 28 this year) is called Makosh’s 11th Friday (11th Friday of Makosh). This is one of the chief festivals devoted to this Goddess for the whole year. A candle is lit on the household altar in Her honor and a traditional offering of a skein of natural fiber or a length of thread is left there for Makosh: later on, this offering may be cast into flowing water, left near a well – our ancestors used to throw skeins of fiber into a dry well, a wishing well may work, too, or tied to a healthy spruce tree – spruce and yew are trees associated with the Goddess of Fate. Older women spin a white thread while sitting by the window on this day. This thread calls on the patronship of the Ancestors and may be used in knitting, embroidery, ritual tying of knots, or spindle rituals meant to attract something or call for Ancestors’ help. Since Friday has been traditionally associated with women and the feminine, it makes sense to hold a ritual dinner devoted to all the deceased females in a family (Grandmothers’ Day).

As the week passes, spirits need to be thanked for visiting and released with words: “Dear Grandfathers, you stayed with us all week, enjoyed the food and things to drink. Now it is time for you to fly back”. After this, the candles are blown out, and the realization of magic that had just happened is slowly getting into conscious mind. Like never before, our life path stands clear before us.

Don’t miss this week. Slow down and listen. Turn around to remember and say “Thank you” for your very existence in this world.

Olga Stanton

#slavic #slavic tradition #folklore #old ways #autumn

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