Romance Attraction Spell Jar

nobody:

the cemetery groundskeeper the morning after jason todds ressurection:

The Hunger Games, Actual Teen style!

On the left, 15-year-old Josh Hutcherson.

On the right, 16-year-old Jennifer Lawrence.

Think how much creepier it would be to see them killing other kids when they look so squishy-cheeked and little.

crocheted this stegosaurus for my nephew who was just borned! made with cotton thread

pattern by Heidibears

as much as the concept of Jesus being a fairly normal lad has its charms, im personally very intrigued by the idea of him being just… extremely weird. not even in a mystical sense, just…….staggeringly BIZZARRE. 

you go to the well to get some water, and here’s Miriam’s boy, staring at the sky, completely still. his expression is unreadable. you hazard a hello and ask how he’s doing, and he slowly, unblinkingly, lowers his gaze on you (he’s 8 and is missing his frontal teeth, not that this is making you any less uncomfortable) and says “I cannot speak of the state of my being, Nathan son of Saul, my brother, but rejoice for the water you shall take today will be as pure as the soul of the children of Heaven”

…you start sweating

Unsolicited Witch Tip 24

Catching a falling leaf before it hits the ground is supposed to be good luck. Add it to your altar for good luck, protection, and abundance throughout the autumn season.

click here to read more

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⛤Love Spell With A Pink Satin Ribbon⛤

This is a ritual that serves to attract love. 

You’ll need:

A pink satin ribbon

A pink candle

It is necessary to prepare one pink ribbon of satin so that it does not have a knot, which we will wrap around the candle of soft pink color. 

Then the following is written on the paper:

"I am asking Venus, the goddess of love, to send me true love (say what virtues and characteristics a person should have)."

This paper is left next to the burning candle. 

Before the candle burns out, take the pink ribbon and carry it in a wallet or purse.

⛤Isidora ⛤

Blood & Buttercream

Chapter One - Exposition.

Baker!Reader x Butcher!Simon Riley

CW: None, SFW.

Word Count: 1.2K

You’re sitting in your local Costa, sadly picking at an overpriced, sad sandwich and lukewarm coffee. Chains are never your first option if you can help it, but this small town doesn’t have a local cafe open past 10am.

Another sigh, you could do it so much better, you think, grimacing at a bite of soggy bread. As a baker, you know good bread and this, this is not good bread.

How difficult can it be, really, you sip from your cup; musing.

You could do it, you think, you already have a steady business as an online bakery and a presence at the closest local markets, known for your delicate bakes with pretty decorations.

The savoury side of things though…you know what’d you’d do, sandwiches with homemade focaccia, doorstep thick toast, savoury pastries.

It’d have to be right though. The voice pops up unbidden and you bite your lip, your need for perfection is both a blessing and a curse.

You abandon the remnants of your sandwich and head home thoughts churning.

In your kitchen, you create a focaccia, flaky salt, good olive oil, rosemary and cherry tomatoes.

Once it’s cooked you realise you don’t have the right meats and you drag yourself to the store, you stand in front of the deli meats aisle for longer than you want to admit, until your fingers start to get a little numb and you take home a selection and painstakingly try a little of everything with the bread and nothing's right, nothing works.

You hiss in frustration before cutting a large chunk and wrapping it in wax paper and grabbing your keys.

You know you must look like a crazy person, stomping into the butchers and dropping the bread on the counter in front of the mountain of a man who works there, the bottom half of his face covered by a black mask.

“I need help” you say shortly “I’ve tried the supermarket meats and it’s not right.”

He stares at you, shocked, confused, you can’t tell.

“Look, you're an expert right?” A slow nod. “Good. I’m fed up with having no good cafes so I’m gonna do it myself but I’m a novice at savoury, so taste that.”

You wave a hand irritably at the wax-paper wrapped focaccia “and please tell me what meat is supposed to go in it.”

There’s a beat, two, before callused hands are unwrapping the bread and tearing a chunk off, corner of the mask lifting to accommodate before being lowered.

A moan. “I know” you say, slightly smug “so I’m not putting it with mediocre fillings”

The man hums, swallowing, before turning to a leg of something along the back counter and cutting a thin slice, dropping it onto a paper plate before handing it to you.

“Try that” he rasps, you take the plate and try the meat, it’s salty, slightly smoky and so much better than whatever you brought from the supermarket and combinations throw themselves into your head.

You’re unaware of the butcher staring at you.

“How much will I need to make at least ... .four sandwiches?” You half ask, half demand.

“Bout 15 slices” he replies after a moment's thought.

“Great, that then please,” you say sweetly, “and you can keep the rest of the bread.” You add on when you’ve paid and have the wrapped meat in your hand before almost running out of the shop to get home.

Simon stares for a long time, before devouring the rest of the bread.

The next few hours are spent in your kitchen, every surface covered in pans and bowls. The meat he’s given you, you learn, is called Serrano and it’s so good. 

You’re lucky enough to have a garden and a greenhouse and you pull some rocket from the soil dropping it into a colander for later. Back in your kitchen you create a chilli jam, not too spicy with a slight acidity to balance the salt. 

A quick google suggests that manchego is a common pairing but you worry that it will make the finished sandwich too salty and you bite your lip, scouring your fridge. Burrata. You’d brought it to make your own pizzas but…you wouldn’t need all of it. 

You catalogue what you have in your head, salt from the meat and the bread, acid from the jam, fat from the cheese and heat from both the jam and the peppery kick of the rocket. 

You layer the sandwich and wrap it in greaseproof paper, pulling it tight before cutting it in half with a large bread knife. 

You smile at the cross section and take a bite. The flavours explode on your tongue and you grin, victorious. It’s so much better than the sad toastie you started your day with.

You tidy your kitchen, decanting the rest of the chilli jam into sterilised jars and carefully storing the meat and cheese before washing your paraphernalia. 

You’re about to become that poor butcher’s worst nightmare, you think ruefully as you start to compile a list of other things you’d want to stock. 

You feel so guilty in advance that you assemble a peace offering, the other half of the sandwich, a jar of your new chilli jam and a caramel brownie. Is it weird if I bother him again? You shake the thought away, you have questions and your brain needs them answered. Now. 

You pack your offering into a box and head back out, chucking a notebook and pen into your bag as you pass the countertop. 

The man behind the counter looks surprised to see you, if the slight raise of his eyebrow is any indication. 

“Alright?” He asks slowly.

“Yeah,” you chuckle slightly nervously as you introduce yourself, “I think I’m probably about to become your worst nightmare.” 

“Doubt that” he mutters, “‘m Simon.” 

You nod “Simon, it’s nice to meet you.” A smile, you brandish the box containing your peace offering. 

“I need to ask you some questions about, well, everything meat so here’s a…” you stumble over your words. “Gift? In return for the annoyance I’m probably gonna cause you.” 

The man, Simon, takes the box from you and flips open the lid, “this the sandwich you made?” He asks, fishing it out with one large hand, you nod as he unwraps the paper and takes a large bite. 

His eyes close momentarily as he chews and swallows “gonna bring me one of these every time you’ve got a question love?” 

Your brain stutters momentarily over the pet name and you feel your face get warm. 

“Um, yes?” You offer as you will your face to cool down, watching as he takes another bite and groans in appreciation. 

“Best sandwich I’ve ever had.” He tells you and you can’t help but preen at the compliment. 

“Thanks,” you whip out your notebook “so, if I wanted to make a quiche with ham in it but also sandwiches, would I need different styles?” The pen is pushed against your lip as you think “Oh and I know there’s a ratio of fat to meat for everything but if I wanted to do sausage rolls and scotch eggs would they need to be different too?” 

You realise Simon is staring at you and you shuffle your feet, ears going hot, waiting for the inevitable comments about you being ‘weird’ or ‘too much.’ 

They don’t come. 

You force yourself to meet his gaze, steeling yourself for whatever expression you find there. You don’t expect fascination, appraisal. 

“You this meticulous about ever’thin love?” It’s almost a growl and your mind wanders for a split second before you manage to eek out a “yes.” 

Simon grins, taking a large bite of the brownie “fucking hell, where’ve you been hidin?” 

the suffering never ends