#*(not Farmer's Market™️ but a market for farmers)

[bigdumbbambieyes]

i haven’t written anything for my Trauma Blondes™️ in a while so here are some more besties Billy and Chrissy headcanons 🤍 plus their boyfriends obvi

• Chrissy loves going to the Farmer’s Market with Billy every Saturday morning. She’ll put on her favourite outfit and do her hair, looking so fresh-faced and sunny when Billy finally rolls up to her house at 9am. She says a rushed goodbye to her parents before running outside and settling into the passenger seat, smiling knowingly as she shuts the door and eyes Billy. He’s slumped in his seat, aviators on, and dressed in his usual blue jeans but he’s wearing what she called his ‘hangover shirt’, which is an old tour t-shirt for Led Zeppelin. He’s hungover as shit and she laughs at him, runs a manicured hand through his hair, which he scrunches his nose at and swats half-heartedly at her. When they get to the market, she buys him his breakfast as a ‘thank you’: black coffee and a pastry. He follows her around and holds her bags as she shops for fresh garden vegetables and hand-picked fruit, both of them taking turns smelling the homemade soaps and looking at jewelry. Billy may look disinterested or tired but it’s his favourite part of the weekend: to spend his Saturday mornings away from his dad and home and just be soft with his best friend. Chrissy loves it for exactly the same reasons.

• Chrissy’s first memory of Billy is when she and a few girls from the cheer squad were walking outside the school and a blue Camaro revved its engine loudly, on purpose. All the girls including Chrissy either jumped or screamed in surprise (or both). She remembers looking into the window and seeing a smug smile on the new boy’s face, like he was proud of himself for startling them. She and her friends had rushed away and she didn’t expect to see or talk to him ever again.

• Billy’s first memory of Chrissy is seeing her in the hallway during his first week in Hawkins. He thought she was pretty, for a hick, but way too skinny and quiet for his tastes. The day he remembers clearly is when they were walking towards each other in the hall and she glanced up from the floor, her face breaking out into a big smile with slightly crooked teeth that made Billy almost trip over his own feet. But, that smile wasn’t for him - it was for her friend, who had been walking behind him. He couldn’t get that bright smile out of his head for a long time and used to pretend it was for him.

• Chrissy is the first girl his age to respect Billy, in all ways. She is respectful of his physical space, actively listens to him when he speaks, gives advice when he asks, apologizing when she accidentally says something hurtful, looks him in the eye (that took a while but came eventually), she’s discreet when they talk in public, etc. She doesn’t want him for anything except for who he is and it’s refreshing because no one ever has.

• They tried to run away, once. Packed their bags and snuck out on a random night just before their senior year after talking about it for over a week, about how they could start over in California. They got beyond the city limits after midnight and drove and drove until they shared a look. They couldn’t do it. Not yet. They hugged in the Camaro for a very long time, muttering quiet promises to each other before Billy let Chrissy go and she snuck back into her room with her luggage. They didn’t try to run away again.

• Chrissy’s been a vegetarian ever since she went to a butcher shop as a child and accidentally witnessed a chicken’s head get cut off. She’d cried uncontrollably and couldn’t look at raw meat for months, which made her mom angry and her dad confused. But, once they realized that she wouldn’t eat any animal put in front of her, they let her be. Billy’s mom was a vegetarian and had been feeding Billy a similar diet for his whole life, which was something he’d been proud of because he was just like his mom in that sense. But once she left, driven away by Neil, his father had told him to ‘cut that shit out’ and fed Billy meat with every meal. It made him sick and he refused to eat it, which never went over well, so he’d often suffer from terrible stomach pains at school and at bedtime. It got easier after a few years, but when he and Chrissy become close and he finds out that she’s a vegetarian, he cries. She’s not sure why he gets emotional but she holds him tight and tells him that it’s okay. She makes double of her lunches and brings it to school for him every day, loving how touched he looks when he realizes what she’s doing.

• One of their favourite thing to do is sit around a fire in Steve’s backyard with their boyfriends in the summer and early fall. Billy brings the beer, Eddie brings the weed, Chrissy brings snacks and music, all while Steve makes the fire and ensures everyone is comfortable. They all sit around and talk, joke, gossip - whatever. Sometimes they invite others, like Robin or Heather or Tommy and Carol, but usually it’s just the four of them. Those nights always bleed away into the early morning, when the birds begin to sing and the sky turns a soft blue with the rising sun, and Billy squeezes onto one of the pool recliners with Steve and pulls a blanket over them as they cuddle. Chrissy is usually perched in Eddie’s lap by the fire, both of them covered in a blanket as they quietly talk and kiss. Once the fire begins to die, Steve ensures it’s completely out before the four of them go inside to sleep.

[cartermagazine]

Today In History Dr. George Washington Carver was an agricultural scientist and inventor who developed hundreds of products using peanuts, sweet potatoes and soybeans. He is believed to have been born the month of January in 1864. Dr. Carver discovered over 300 products from peanuts, soybeans and sweet potatoes, which aided nutrition for farm families. Dr. Carver wanted to improve the lot of “the man farthest down,” the poor, one-horse farmer at the mercy of the market and chained to land exhausted by cotton. Unlike other agricultural researchers of his time, Dr. Carver saw the need to devise practical farming methods for this kind of farmer. He wanted to coax them away from cotton to such soil-enhancing, protein-rich crops as soybeans and peanuts and to teach them self-sufficiency and conservation. He achieved this through an innovative series of free, simply-written brochures that included information on crops, cultivation techniques, and recipes for nutritious meals. He also urged the farmers to submit samples of their soil and water for analysis and taught them livestock care and food preservation techniques. Dr. Carver took a holistic approach to knowledge, which embraced faith and inquiry in a unified quest for truth. Carver also believed that commitment to a larger reality is necessary if science and technology are to serve human needs rather than the egos of the powerful. His belief in service was a direct outgrowth and expression of his wedding of inquiry and commitment. One of his favorite sayings was: “It is not the style of clothes one wears, neither the kind of automobile one drives, nor the amount of money one has in the bank, that counts. These mean nothing. It is simply service that measures success.” CARTER™️ Magazine carter-mag.com #wherehistoryandhiphopmeet #historyandhiphop365 #carter #cartermagazine #georgewashingtoncarver #blackhistory #staywoke #blackhistorymonth #history #blacktwitter https://www.instagram.com/p/CnMQ9zoO1gr/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[onsunnyside]

COWBOY ARI THOTS INCOMING !!!

the idea of this huge, imposing figure well-known within the town for his business and steely demeanor going all soft for this sweet lil thing HAS ME SWOONING !! i’m imagining that he’s kind of cold and guarded and has the THICKEST thighs. 

is this a period piece or modern ? i need to know if i should start watching yellowstone to feed my fantasies.

REGARDLESS, I WANNA GET FUCKED IN A HAYLOFT !!!

i was thinking a mash up of different times like FK, is it the 80s ?? is it the early 2000s ?? i don't know but it's modern enough for cell phones and laptops. someone said it’s like beauty and the beast hehe, let’s just sprinkle in some western vibes

Ari is very cool, collected and guarded, staying in his own bubble on his ranch on the outskirts of town. sure, he wouldn't bite your head off if you spoke to him, but catch him on a bad day and there's a chance you'll get on his bad side. he doesn't fuck around—he's grown up in this town and knows the ins and outs, all the gossip mouths and people who are just in it for quick cash. he could make it big in the city, they say about his steely attitude and resilience, but he refuses to abandon his family's ranch and all those animals.

he grew up misunderstood and the town bad boy™️ with his fellow rebellious friends™️ (it's a wonder how one of them ended up the sheriff). he wanted to skip town but stayed for the sake of his family's ranch, so he's a little bitter about seeing the same damn faces every day.

reader is a good girl: you volunteer at fundraisers and daycares, all while managing a farmers-market-esque business with your best friend (baked goods ?? bouquets ?? honey ?? i don't know what they'd sell).

you've heard the rumours and whispers, the scary stories about him being responsible for the missing hitchhikers (people are so mean sometimes 🥺 no wonder he's as grumpy and closed off as he is). but none of that, not even witnessing him throw a guy across a bar, is enough for your stupid heart to understand he's bad news—at least, that's what everyone has made you believe anyway, but you know there's more to the story, there's more to him.

very much grumpy x sunshine/grumpy to everyone else but you

[creekfiend]

a silly flirt: I am taking you on a picnic to your house. I’m bringing two baskets, one for people snacks and one for gotes / dog snacks, and we can sit and and munch and watch the creatures and laugh

a less silly flirt: we are going to the farmers market and buying anything that looks delicious, and then going home to cook a Feast™️ (like we were little animals in Redwall)

1. The basket for human food better have a padlock on it and be made of metal

2. Now I am thinking about meadowcream. What was wrong with Brian Jacques, do you think

[daandyli0n]

so...i've created another one (dsmp oc)

she's an anthropomorphic creeper who took One Look at benchtrio post-nov. 16th and went, "Is anyone gonna give those kiddos a happy childhood?" and didn't wait for an answer

her name is Asterix

some facts:

-used to be a part of c!dream's little gang at the beginning of the server, then went to l'manberg, and now is just living in a peaceful little cottage.

-her right eye has. definitely seen some better days (pun not intended)

-she's so tired

-she t a l l (8'2")

-also Buff

-Mom Friend™️

-i like to think that she has a small stand named "The Farmer's Market" where she sells items from her farm. imagine if you were told that this place has a farmer's market and you go to it only to find A Singular Stall and a Very Tall Buff Woman going "Hello would you like some bread? Maybe some apples? :]"

-her voice claim is sha the sheep from the walten files (i feel like a good example of where to look would be Bunnyfarm, specifically towards the beginning). basically just a very sweet southern woman.

that's all i've got for right now. i might add more later.

[ellsbclls]

𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄-𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇  🍂

𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓

4.7K

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

click the source link!

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘

autumn came in spite of winter, just as winter came in spite of spring, and spring in spite of summer. so on and so forth the seasons topple onward, a sonorous affair that eclipses the last's ephemeral breath, but above all else, two things remain true — the seasons start and end with peter parker, and autumn never truly feels like autumn until he burns his tongue on hot apple cider.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 & 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒

a lovely, dovely shoutout to my dearest @aniqua​, @cocoamoonmalfoy​, @arachine​ for holding my hand through this process 🥺 this. . . this is the frankenstein of hot messs™️, so proceed with caution. there will be nsfw content, so if you are a minor, please do not interact!

extended warnings ➛ nsfw, fingering (f receiving), dirty talk, cunnilingus, slight exhibitionism (but no one gets caught), and peter parker being a little shit.

SEPTEMBER 20, 2021.

WESTCHESTER, NY. 

The moon dawdles beneath a tarp of star-seamed stucco — a crepe-paper mobile eclipsing the seam of Westchester, swathing upstate New York in its amber embrace. 

The harvest moon is out tonight, and so are the people.

You watch as it’s pale icteric gaze kisses apple-crate storefronts, casting champagne highlights across the cobblestone pathways and all its inhabitants. What once was a desolate farmer’s market was now a bustling, late-bloomed village, where pumpkin carving dwellings and apple cider conservatories sprout from the grasslands in kindling droves, replicating the warmth autumn has so swiftly snatched just to ignite a sleeping village with amorous brushfire.

Despite the waxing influx of visitors, it somehow feels like you and Peter are the only two people in the entire world, your footsteps syncing up in perfect tandem as leaves whirl around your feet like russet - gold tumbleweeds. 

In this moment, it’s just you, and him… and the ever cautious mantra of the apple cider vendor — reminding Peter of how hot the cup is. 

That she’s about to hand him the cup, and it is extremely hot.

And he nods — he has the audacity to nod — as if he isn't clearly reaching for the flimsy paper cup with bare, outreached hands.

By the time he has the beverage clasped in his grasp, you don’t have the heart to look at the vendor — not when his thin veil of ease is busy masking the comical grimace that comes with an inflamed hand. Instead, you usher him away from the plywood hut, avoiding the blithe audience that has accumulated behind you.

The palm of his hand eclipses your own with a warm inner-face, an unconscious effort to keep you in his orbit. Fingers weave into your own with a familiar ease, build up a steady swing with each southbound step, but you can still make out the light rhythm he taps across your knuckles. It’s something fast-paced, and far too complex for someone with so little musical prowess. It elicits an all out grin from the twitch of your lips regardless.

That sweet moment of solace, that pocket of time reserved solely for the two of you, is upheaved by a bolstering —

“Shit!” 

You resist the urge to sink yours eyes into the back of your head when MJ’s goading alto pecks at your ear, besmirching the cruel reminder of how wrong you were. You should have bet money on it, should have known better than to imagine a year where Peter Parker didn’t attempt to gulp down a six ounce cup of streaming hot cider like the web of life dangled upon it — but your friend had a penchant for being right, and no amount of money could ever amount to the sheer joy of knowing it.

Your chuckle — a stilted minuet of half-hearted levity— chimes through crisp, harvest air in sweet triplets. “Sheesh, Parker. Without fail.”

He doesn’t bother to answer you, far too concerned with the scorched plane of his tongue to muster a coherent enough response. That’s when your lite motif barrels into something heartier, something the helm of your porcelain gates does little to assuage, as you outright laugh at his improvised balm, panting into the night air with thick, foggy plumes of breath.

“Calm down, Lassie. Do you want me to kiss it better?” You tease, head lolling to the side, taking the opportunity to survey, and ultimately intake, his helpless demeanor. Your heart would squeeze at such a sight if it weren’t so humorously acquainted with it. 

Your wounded lover attempts to accept your offer, but his, “please?” quickly melts into a dilapidated “ble?” before he can salvage its remains.

Moments like these just beg the question of how you got so lucky. How did you manage to find someone so seemingly hand-crafted for you — a twinkling star fit for the palm of your waiting hand? Awkward, and clumsy, and frayed at the seams, but yours all the same. 

You're ripped from your lovelorn reverie by a wonted fanfare — The Imperial March.  

Ned.

It only takes a few seconds for Peter to scour the message before he parrots it back to you. Regardless of whether its sent in the groupchat, or to Peter in  private, Ned is painfully aware of how little is off-limits when it comes to you.

“Ned said him and Betty have been in the hay maze for forty-five minutes,” Honeycomb hues meet yours instantly, only one thought circulating through your shared orbit. “Think we can beat ‘em?”

“Marco?” Is this the third or third hundredth time? You’ve lost count — the name foreign, yet all too familiar as it rolls off your tongue. “Marco!”

“Polo.”

You can tell he’s exhausted. That’s one of the many benefits of lending your heart to him — and vice versa — his fatigue seeps into your own, blurring and melding until it’s one gaudy semblance of debility.

You can also tell that his head is pressed against the bale of hay opposite you. If the gentle rustle of hay didn’t tickle your senses, then the accompanying forlorn sigh surely would have.

With roughly eighteen inches of forage separating you, you wonder just how looming a threat your boyfriend truly stands against New York’s most fiendish villains. How — when his greatest enemy at the moment is cow fodder?

You decide to meet him halfway, nuzzling your forehead into your side of the barrier as if it was his own. “We’ve been going at it for hours, Peter."

His chuckle — something light and twinkling with mischief — punctures the air. If you didn’t know any better, you’d wonder if it was truly your boyfriend on the other side, and not some mythical woodland creature.

But alas, his humored timbre qualms any sense of doubt. “I don’t see why you’re complaining — if memory serves me right, you’ve lasted way longer than twenty minutes.”

You sigh — opting to ignore his shameless display of immaturity — pushing yourself off the wall and further from him.  “Are you sure you don’t remember where we split off?”

“Well, I remember making a turn at a stack of hay, and then I made another turn…” You don’t need enhanced hearing to make out the tap of his finger against his chin. Serves you right forgetting your boyfriend is equal parts ‘shy schoolgirl’ and ‘little shit’. “Yeah, at another stack of hay, and if you wouldn’t believe, there was another stack of hay! Wanna take a jab at—”

Though you prayed for silence, you never imagined it would come in abundance. The floor dropped out from beneath his testimony, drowning you in tides of worry. The unknown is a mighty tempest, a jarring typhoon of possibility, and with little sway for your excessive imagination.

What if one of his sworn enemies has taken this brief moment of solitude to ambush him? What if his blood sugar has spiked beyond medical aid? What if someone heard his sarcastic quips and knocked the living daylights out of him?

“Peter?” Your voice strives to slither past the foraged divide, but to no avail, barely meandering over the peak,  “Peter, are you okay?”

No response. Not a sound, save for the distant chatter of disparate maze runners, and the far off rustle of leaves dangling just above the maze. If it weren’t for their gentle pizzicato, you might have heard the faint thump of barley, and their subsequent restock. Hell, maybe you’d even notice the slight nudge of the wall beside you, and how you were the prey — a raucous, buzzing little thing with no chance against your silver-fanged predator.

“Gotcha!” The sound, the newfound presence, the inevitable sense of danger — it all renders you motionless. Toned arms wreath around your unforgiving frame, clasping hard around the squirm, trying hard to immobilize you despite your valiant efforts, and though his voice lends a calming salve to a fretful situation, you persist. Blind to the reality of the situation, hampered by the fear. “Hey hey hey, it’s me! Look — Look at me. It's just me. I’ve got you.”

You finally still in his arms.

One, two, three blinks, each divided by a sharp, jagged breath, and then a shove. Two shoves. Three shoves. You’re nearly inclined to tackle him to the ground, but you think better of it, seeing as your dress isn’t suited for hand-to-hand combat.

You’re not satisfied until he’s struggling against a nearby bale of hay, nor do you stop until his digits encompass your wiry wrists — and even then, you still struggle against his grasp, his stifled laughter only prompting you further.

“You’re really cute when you’re angry.”

The cocky remark summons a scowl to your brims, and there’s not a hint of hesitation when your knee collides with the inside of his thigh. He’s just lucky that the angle is skewed, a couple degrees to the left and it would have landed hard against his —

“No really, did I mention how cute you look today?” He tilts his head, and somehow, he successfully catches you off guard.

A small frown forms between your perfectly manicured brows, tilting your jaw downward to survey what was once a hastily strewn attire — a simple, cotton dress that kisses the top of your knees, bundled under the oversized expanse of your chunky, woolen sweater. If it weren’t for the lazy circles he managed to sneak into the back of your knees, you would assume he was teasing you, but his attention is clearly piqued. His eyes flit across your frame in a shameless display of endearment, and you narrowly avoid the buckle of your knees.

“You think so?” Pearly veneers dig into the corner of your lesser lip, a preemptive strike against the dopey smile that forms from his confirmation.

“Adorable, actually.”

His timbre drops barely above a rasp, unfurling into a territory most treacherous and rarely inhabited outside either of your bedrooms. It’s low, and desperate, and curling it’s fingers around the base of your stomach, setting off alarms at every corner of your tightening chest.

“Reel it in, tiger.” You affectionately trace your finger down the bridge of his nose, unsuccessfully fighting the simper that swells to fruition when you stroke the tiny notch in its path. His random spurts of desire aren’t so random in your eyes. In fact, all they really take are a couple instances worth of bait — a couple slaps here, a goading comment there — anything to get his blood flowing. And flow it does, rising and boiling into a tepid froth, and whether his spider senses are cause for any blame, you’re formally acquainted with the aftermath of such taunting.

It’s sitting right before you, a wolf licking its chops beneath a lamb sheared mane.

“What?” he chirps, blinking up at you with his best attempt at faux innocence, swallowing what little mischief riddles his tone. “I just think you look nice.”

He closes the gap between you before you can conjure a witty response, fervent lips stealing the remainder of your words, your breath, in a longing union of lips, and tongue, and teeth galore. Your thoughts were soon lost to the overwhelming onslaught of him, thin lips cascading over your own in greedy waves, threatening to sweep every ounce of you up into his rolling tide, devour you whole, shallow out the spot closest to his heart in hopes of lending you its eternal residence.

“I really like your sweater.” Amidst gradual passes of his feather-light tongue, ivory veneers nip at the swell of your lips, soothing his blistering assault with a tender caress. “Bet you’re super warm.”

“Yeah?” You brows nearly shoot into your hairline, a staggering sigh toppling from the back of your throat as his hands map out the curve of your waist, toying with the hem of your sweater until it sheaths his fingers — and even then, it’s not enough. They dance along the ruched seams, waltz in time with the shivers that rack your spine, until finally, they take residence just beneath the curve of your breast, knuckles faintly tracing the underside. “I’ll, uh- I’ll look for one for you next time we go-”

“No bra?“ He wonders aloud, intrigued by the thin divide between you and the cup of his palms, letting an octave give way to his corroborative hum. Your weak excuse dies on the tip of your tongue, and you try to convince yourself that the thick swallow that follows is one of consumption, and not bridled with tension.

His hands, those calloused fingertips, venture beneath billows of cable knit catacombs, scour up, up, up acres of match-lit skin in search of an answer. Smothered within the cavern of your throat, entombed beneath skidded sighs and staggering pants that stockpile like boulders, upon the crest of your tongue it lays.

And he loves it. Trips over himself in pursuit of that fleeting sense of submission.

You allow yourself just enough clarity to compose a suitable defense, testifying on the skewed grounds of, “I didn’t — the sweater… it felt a little redundant.”

“Hmmm,” he muses, nearly pensive, as if the reality of your bare chest hasn’t plagued his mind since the very thought occurred. “That’s true. Though I’m not complaining.”

His thumb finally grazes over the spot where your nipples strain against your dress and you both fold — you, with your fluttery intake of breath and him, with his fierce exhale. Even the ghost of pressure sparks a light deep in the barrow of your belly. “And so it seems to you.”

The thin canopy of foliage that skirts the blueprint of the hay maze does little to quell your fear of being caught, but just enough to propel your further into his grasp — lithe digits sprouting amidst the nape of his neck as their twins dig lunettes into his bicep, grappling for leverage, for some tether to the ground, lest his whirlwind of ruttish ministrations send you careening toward the harvest moon itself.

You can’t. You’re ripped from your lavish stupor by stark realization, a backhanded strike of clarity that begs the question — where does this end?

You don’t care to find out. So, you scramble, clawing at stray seedlings of an excuse.

“Do you wanna—” A sin-slick tongue climbs the juncture of your jaw, cauterizing the thought, sterilizing the sound, confiscating the air in its very tracks. Yet, you persevere, reviving your feeble attempt, “Do you wanna go back in the maze?”

You already know his answer, so it barely surprises you when downy, chestnut curls tickle the side of your neck with an abstinent shake — the chuckle you release is but a sheer mask for your bittersweet sigh.

“No? No, me neither.” And so he continues, greedy palms weighing the curve of your breasts as his lips reclaim dominion over the plush valley of your own, swallowing your tiny mewls with a hunger seldom seen until you, begrudgingly so, tear yourself away again.

“Maybe we can — Maybe we can go back in the van?”

The thought of getting off in the back of his 1980′s Chevy G30 is a sobering one, to say the least, especially when it’s tethered to the fact that it’s under Ned’s name as well — but a small part of you would rather a creaky backseat rendezvous over a fine for public indecency.

With a disgruntled sigh, Peter tears himself from the cradle of your neck with a wet smack, diverting his palms to the swell of your hips. You’re cornered by his puppy dog gaze, maple leaf hues strung beneath asymmetrical brows, and struggle to swallow beneath the gravity of his silence alone.

“What’s wrong, pretty girl? You don’t like this?” His palms sooth over the blistering expanse of your thighs, twin trespassers voyeuring beneath the rumpled hem of your dress — traipsing upon the silk-spun rope of his advances. He knows you like the back of his hand, charts out the starry gleam of your gaze like the trails of his palm’s indentation, pinpoints the exact coordinate of your desire, and whether it leans in his favor. If the keen thrust of your hips, seeking refuge in the wealth of his wandering hands, serves any inclination, he’s found his vantage point. “You don’t want me to make you feel good?”

Caution is soon swept into November’s galeful sigh as his knuckles swipe across the front of your panties, sparking a sliver of friction against the wet patch that has formed there. Providing a mere whisper of what’s to come.

His name struggles to spill from your lips —no obstacles to place the blame upon, no hindrances — just the sheer result of his teasing advances brings your voice to a rearing halt.

No matter, he takes advantage of this opportunity, filling the silence with his wicked words. “Just relax for me. You know I won’t let anyone see. This pussy was made just for me.”

He’s good. He’s so good, it takes you a while to remember why you were apprehensive in the first place — why you stopped him from steering you to the balefuls of hay scattered at your disposal, why you refused to let your legs lounge upon his shoulders, why you deprived him of such an intimate showcase of your devotion — of the arousal pooling past your cotton panties, smearing across your thighs in translucent floe.

“So, so sweet.” he hums against your core, his tongue near ravenous as he laps at the nectar spilling from your tight little hole, savoring each languid stroke and the cloying waves of arousal that accompany it.

He can feel the eagerness building in the hollow of your hips, bucking against his tongue in needy strides. You’re on the verge of damn near riding his face, overwhelmed by the hunger that festered deep within his actions — and had his arms not trapped your thighs in a vice-like grip, you very well would have.

“Please, Peter.” you beg, mind so muddled with pleasure that you can barely find a reason for your mindless pleading.

“Please what, pretty girl?” He tears himself from your centre just long enough to shoot you a condoling gaze, and you can;t suppress the pitiful whimper that spills past your lips, the absence of his tongue depriving you of his warmth in all its vulgar glory. Even as his broad, sweeping shoulders press into the back of your thighs, forcing your legs down and apart with his biceps, and even as his fingers voyeur underneath the hem of your nightdress, bunching the silky fabric to your waist, you still need more — more of his skilled tongue, more of his filthy words, more of him. So, never one to disappoint — nor waste a hard earned meal — he replaces his tongue with his fingers, ghosting lazy circles over your sensitive bud whilst he waits for an answer neither of you know. “What do you need? I’ll give you anything you want, but you gotta speak to me.”

“M-more.” You manage to spit out, voice desperate and wrecked under his barely there pressure. “I need more, Peter.”

“More of what?” At this point, he’s outright punishing you, what with how quickly his lazy circles shift into gentle strokes of his thumb, teasing you to a point where the hay you’re strewn upon provides more friction than his ministrations — but if it means that he can revel in the pretty little noises that sneak past your lips, and the feeble stir of your thighs against his hold, for just a moment longer, then it is all the more worthwhile. “You want more of my tongue, or do you want me to use my fingers?”

You don’t even hesitate, writhing against his arms as you chase his barely there pressure. “Both, Pete. I want both, please.”

“‘Atta girl. You’re so wet for someone who wanted to go back in the maze.” Like a rubber band, something taut within him finally snaps, and his eager, hot mouth is back where it rightfully belongs, spoiling your clit with a series of quick, remorseless laps that leave you gasping for air. He wastes no time burying his middle finger into your heat — slowly, carefully working you open, your walls lighting up like a circuit board against the lithe intrusion.

“So fucking tight, too.” he notes casually, as if he isn’t buried to the last knuckle. The force of his digits pumping your arousal around causes the most obscene sounds to pour from your sopping hole as he plunges his middle finger deep inside you, and he promptly adds the adjacent when he notices your breathy sighs grow needier, laced with an urgency only the stretch of his fingers can provide. “Just know you’re gonna feel like heaven wrapped around my cock.”

To compare your body to heaven, though, feels like a gross understatement. How can he be privy to such sweet, unfettered salvation, reign at the disposal of someone as enchanting as you — clad in nothing but that dulcet half - smile he yearns to be on the receiving end of. If your thighs are the pillars to a hidden sanctum, there he is as nothing but a humble disciple, preaching gospel into the space between your legs, glorious waves of ambrosia blessing his tongue as it ravages every inch of your warm, velvety walls. You’re like the scripture, a body of work he’ll dutifully follow to the end of times, devoting his life to the memory of your puffy, kiss-weathered lips and heat-stricken glow. Heaven can do no justice when you are the faith itself, a religion he can finally find peace in — find home in.

And if you haven’t felt it before, there is no denying it now, his fingers and mouth devouring you like you’re his last meal. The back of your wrist is bathed in the parting breath of your needy, wanton moans, mixed with the vulgar sounds he produces each time he pats his tongue against your clit. His fingers are busy pounding into your opening, curling them at the hilt of each thrust, and a wild blush blooms across your cheeks as pools of your arousal drip from his fingers like honey.

You can hear it, the excess wetness squelching against your cunt at a punishing tempo.

You muster just enough strength to lift yourself up without a traitorous moan, stray needles of hay prickling at your elbows as you lean on your forearms, and the view of Peter’s handiwork is enough to tighten the coil slowly building in your stomach. He is obscene, with his warm caramel hues fluttered to a close, and his chin glistening in a thin sheen of your arousal. He has abandoned your clit in pursuit of your opening again, replacing his fingers with his tongue just to indulge in yet another course of your sweet juices, his broken nose clumsily knocking against your clit as your walls clamped around his tongue.

A small part of you yearns for a distraction, selfishly aches for a semblance of reprieve amidst the brutal onslaught of his tongue.

Yet, as if he can hear your very thoughts, his hands climb the curve of your hips, branching off from your waist to intertwine with your hands, offering you support with a reassuring squeeze.

There’s something so tender about that moment, something far greater than the open expanse, with your fingers nestled perfectly between his own, and the sinful drag of his tongue caressing spots you didn’t even know existed, forever etching his name into the most intimate pieces of you.

You’re so glad you didn’t go back in the maze — hell, in your cockdrunk stupod, you’d be grateful to have him tucked between your thighs in the maze — so long as he’s the one by your side.

It takes you an embarrassing amount of time to realize that you're free of his hold, that you’re free to grind down against his ravenous tongue, chasing your high as it peaks  just over the horizon. “Peter, I’m gonna cum.”

“I know, I can feel you.” he hums against your core, the vibrations only adding to the warmth that floods your body each time he laps at your snug, weepy entrance. “Let go for me.”

It only takes a couple more sinful drags of his tongue, paired with the dizzying reappearance of his thumb against your clit, to push you over the edge. Something guttural bubbles in your chest, soon erupting in a helpless scream, and all thoughts are lost to the sweet wash of release he coaxes out of you, your sopping cunt clenching around his tongue in sporadic waves.

His calloused fingers are quick to dig into your hips, guiding you back to his tongue as you try to shy away, and you aren’t sure if he wants to help you ride out your high or simply push you to yet another earth-shattering orgasm. Either way, you melt into his touch, tiny whimpers tumbling from your lips as he works your tender walls.

And even as fatigue blankets your weary form, and that once looming threat floats back to the surface of your lust-washed brain,  one thing is for certain — you can’t wait for him to fuck you.

A low, hearty chuckle peals against your centre, and you wonder if Peter can feel you getting worked up all over again.

You pressed your palm against his head, silently urging him to let up, and he complies, the labored rise and fall of his chest further exemplified once he sits back on his haunches.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” he coaxed you into his lap with a pat of his thighs, watching you struggle to bound off your makeshift surface and crawl into his embrace with wobbly legs. You muster just enough strength to straddle his waist, draping yourself around his sinewy frame in a desperate attempt to suffocate any space between you, and his hands scale the side of your face, tenderly cupping your cheek. “Come taste how sweet you are.”

You waste no time crashing your mouth against his, and he wastes no time prying the seam of your lips apart with his tongue, using his free hand to cradle the back of your head as he pours lifetimes worth of yearning, of insatiable want, against your waiting mouth — woefully humbled by just how mutual the feeling is.

You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue and paw miserably at his back, aching to feel more of him, to be impossibly closer.

But soon his hands are patting your backside, shucking shy leaflets off the downy fabric against your backside, and his hand finds purchase against the crown of your head. He combats your incredulous gaze with a warm, enchanting sweep of a laugh — so saccharine, so tooth-achingly infectious, that it coaxes a flurry of soft giggles from your belly.

And for a fleeting second, you forget that the curved imprint threatening the sanctity of Peter’s jeans feels perfect against your sensitive heat, and that your panties are nowhere to be found, and that the late-bloomed weather is what sends a shiver up your spine. All you know is Peter, Peter, Peter — and the harrowing weight of love that he pours into his gaze whenever it lands on you.

“Let’s get out of here.” He suggests, applying just enough pressure to the back of your head to bring you down to his lips, punctuating his soft reassurance with a soft scattering of chaste kisses, your forehead blushed with apple cider kisses.

It takes everything in him to tear his lips from you, but he fails to smother his soft chuckle once you whine at the loss of contact, opting to offer you his hand for leverage. The ground feels foreign beneath your wobbly stature, regardless of your intimate acquaintance, and you’re further disoriented once he pulls you into his chest, hushed words curling around the shell of your ear.

“The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can finish what we started.” Sealing his sacred vow, he plants one last, lingering kiss to the spot just below your ear, a contrastingly tender period to such a frazzling statement. You get the privilege of wondering how he does it so casually.

“Hey, where’d you guys go?” Ned is the first to acknowledge you, wrapping you up in one of his signature embraces, just tgt enough to knock the wind out of you, along with any doubt that he cherishes you and your place in his arms. He then turns to Peter, and the ceremonial handshake commences, filled with hand acrobatics and the remainder of his query. “There was this guy dressed up as Spiderman on Main Street, reading ghost stories to the kids. You would have loved it.”

MJ’s knowing gaze is a hot poker on the side of your face, and despite the deep flush painting your chest, and the stray piece of hay itching at your scalp, you find enough courage to ignore it. Opting to prop your chin onto Betty’s shoulder, nuzzling through the curtain of tawny locks precariously curled upon her shoulder.

“Do you know what story he was telling?” Peter’s brows are stitched to his hairline, trapped in a ceaseless spell of intrigue and disbelief. “Please tell me it’s not the piragua bit again. You spill piña colada syrup on your suit one time-”

You don’t bother listening to his dissertation, you’ve heard it one too many times before. You just choose to relish in this very moment.

The warmth of it all — the flash of hope — in your friends, in the buzz of the town at it’s witching hour, in the love of your life. It sits, and festers, and then it blooms In spite of lost summer youth, and wintry whispers of demise, it blooms evermore.

Autumn comes in spite of summer, as winter comes in spite of autumn. So on and so forth, they barrel over one another, taking stock of what came before and persevering in it’s haste. No one season is like the last, but above all else, two things remain true — the seasons start and end with Peter Parker, and autumn never truly feels like autumn until he burns his tongue on hot apple cider.

[lesbian-hannibal]

I have a series of questions for you because I think that they’re important to the Hannibal cooking mythos:

Is Hannibal a bay leaf bitch? Does he cook seasonally? Why didn’t he cook pasta in Italy? On a scale from store bought puff pastry to Master Baker: where does he lie? Thank you, that is all.

omg omg omg

1. he’s just a seasoning bitch in general

2. if you mean, does he use things that are currently in season in his cooking, yes ofc (i like to imagine him visiting farmers markets n buying fresh stuff from them)

3. he’s italianphobic (actually i think he just likes the meat™️ to be the star of the show and pasta outweighs all meat)

4. master baker, i like to think he makes things from complete scratch when and if he can

[zosociologist]

"Dating George Harrison would be like..." Headcannon

(a/n: I'M BACK IN ANOTHER STRESSFUL COLLEGE SEMESTER AND WRITING IS THE ONLY THING THAT WILL HELP ME COPE. I'VE BEEN SITTING ON THIS HEADCANNON IDEA FOR MONTHS BUT DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO FORMULATE IT. I don't even care how many notes it gets, I just wanna write cause I missed doing it😩; *WwABRIM* but anyone is welcome to read😌💜)

Warnings: NSFW mentions in one area BUT nothing bad per say.

Time Set: For this specific one I'll go with early/mid '70s👌🏾

If there's one thing you didn't expect....it would be the fact that on some random Saturday afternoon, you'd be napping on a large picnic blanket in your backyard with George laying next to you with his legs crossed, hands behind his head and an open composition book filled with lyrics covering his face🥺💞

(a/n: PLSSKSKSKSK THAT IS SO CUTE I'M OVA HERE ABOUT TO LITERALLY BAWL WHY DID I PLAY MYSELF LIKE THIS PLS SEND HELP I-)

SO...you two crossed paths TWICE. You're a renowned lens jockey a.k.a music photographer AND videographer and any band that is a BAND, or singer that is a SINGER...is shot or filmed by you😌🥃

You lended your expertise to capture George and The Boiz🐞™️ during the production of the Get Back (Let it Be) sessions AND Abbey Road sessions

He peeped the quality in your craft and enjoyed your "contagious creative aura" so he started hanging out with you 💫platonically💫

Y'all got very close and I'm pretty sure he name dropped you in every other sentence of a conversation he had with someone that had to do with cameras and what-not

The footage and shots you got from those sessions would go down in rock history as being one of your most notable works..................................

THAT IS UNTIL................

A manager by the name of Peter Grant-

(a/n: oh yeah; iykyk😏 Top 10 Best Anime Crossovers)

Requested and commissioned you to be the photographer and videographer for a cute little band🙂..............

Zeppelin......the band was Led Zeppelin👀

It was a great experience and George was glad that you were out there dominating the photography field-

But sometimes you'd bring up in a conversation with him how Robert Plant also admired your work and you'd do solo shoots for him at his cute little country home, and uhh......he was a little jealous😔

And sure, at first George was all like "Ooooh, I think he's growing romantically fond of you😘🍸" AS A JOKE....but after a while.....he didn't think it was a joke anymore😞

Homeboy realized he was literally involved in a game of fastball now, so he went ahead and did the UNTHINKABLE

Not really...but it caught you off guard

You two were out at an outdoor farmer's market near your place just looking around-

When he pulls you into a nearly empty cobblestone bookstore nearby and kisses you for what you believe is a good 15 minutes, or at least to you it felt like it although it only lasted a few good seconds....but you were so mesmerized it felt like forever<3

When you finally caught your bearing and reality set in you kinda just covered your mouth in surprise and looked at him while he cornered you waiting for you to say something-

It's like it took you ALL THIS TIME to FINALLY get starstruck,

"Did you mean to do that?", "Yes I did, and I probably should have done it a long time ago.", "I didn't know you felt this way, I wish you would've told me sooner"

The way you said those words was enough to make his heart stop

"Oh no, are you two seeing each other? If so I do apologize-" *you had to calm this boy's nerves where he was so worried, bless his heart*

"Me and Robert?! Absolutely not, I haven't talked to him since I did their last shoot and I always talk to Grant first. You have nothing to worry about,"

That reassurance allowed him to exhale peacefully and actually express how he really felt about you, and you were able to do the same allowing for you both to finally fess up about your love for one another!

THE WAY YOU AND GEORGE COEXIST IS AMAZING! Truly a beautiful pair🤍

You both are creatives and travel a lot so the time you spend together is just that much more important and special

You two LOVE going to various exibits, festivals, concerts, film viewings, small get-togethers, LARGE get-togethers, you name it! You absolutely love the arts.

You two also have your days where you enjoy being home-bodies, you enjoy the peace and solitude of personal space, one on one time, and even prayer and meditation.

George especially loves spending time at your house most of all because of how peaceful he finds it to be, he is OBSESSED with your backyard specifically because of this secluded bushy garden area you have.

He likes to set up camp there with a picnic blanket and have you keep his company while he writes, or sings, or plays guitar, or reads, or even vents to you. And he appreciates that you always listen and he always does the same.

He loves to hear about your experiences and outlooks about life, what motivates you, what inspired you to get to where you are, your doubts, setbacks, and triumps, differences and similarities in cultures. He likes to talk about it ALL.

When I tell you this man is 👏🏾DOWN👏🏾BAD when it comes to you and embracing the melanin😩

He came in your bedroom one evening while you were sitting criss-cross on your big ole bed, tending to your hair while Ruler of my Heart by Irma Thomas was in rotation.

He didn't know if it was the smell of the coconut in the hair grease, the cocoa butter you just moisturized with, or even the raw emotions and soul that was pouring out of your record player, but he DID know that he was gonna do some sinful things to you that evening🥃

YOU ALSO VERY MUCH APPRECIATE THAT HE KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TERMS "HARDER" AND "FASTER". VERY MUCH SO.

But I digress.....

Talk about excellent support system, you like to tease him sometimes by humming some of his old tunes, you sang 'Do you want to know a Secret' while dancing around your living room and he randomly joined in and that dumb starstruck syndrome thingy hit again...your knees almost gave out....he ended up turning the joke on you instead😖

Number one hype person regardless, you sang Crackerbox Palace with a group of randos once when it came on at a kickback you both were invited to, where you tipsy? Yes. But was it an out of body experience? Absolutely.

You know your feelings for someone is severe when your heart does a lil flip whenever their name is mentioned.

That's an effect that you both have on each other, whether you are in the same room or hundreds of miles apart.

What you two got going on? That's real love if anyone's ever seen it💞

[double-yellows]

Whenever I'm having a crisis or a bout of laziness or whatever and can't bother thinking up something Sexy™️ to make for a week's worth of dinner, I sometimes make rice + chicken breast + sauteed kale with garlic. This week, I decided to make the Sexiest™️ most oomfed up version of this basic-ass dinner possible and y'all it's just the best. Wild rice/brown rice mix with a shitload of herbs and lemon. Pan-seared chicken breast seasoned with a maple seasoning I got from the farmer's market. Organic dinosaur kale with heaps of garlic. Instant mood lifter.

Anyway, this is me romanticizing what's usually a "lazy meal" to keep me fron going off the deep end 💖

[heatyourmeat]

Reposted from @mostly_nuts Like I always say, when someone tries their first taste of Hot & Sweet Honey Habanero Mostly Nuts, "This pairs perfectly with butternut squash soup!" (Made with Andy’s World Famous HeatYourMeat™️) Excellent way to warm up these dark and stormy nights... Get yours now at mostlynuts.com - local pick-up, limited local delivery, and nationwide shipping available. Locals can also find me tomorrow 10am-1pm @durhamctfarmersmarket Holiday Farmers' Market at the United Churches of Durham (CT). I'll have FREE tastes, delicious giftables, and all your Mostly Nuts favs to enjoy through the holidays! #MostlyNuts #BackRoadsBites #MostlyNutsCompletelyDelicious #HeatYourMeat #UpgradeYourEats #GrainFreeGoodness #GlutenFree #DairyFree #HealthyFood #HealthySnack #HealthyFat #HealthyTreat #TreatYourself #GoNuts #SmallBusiness #SmallBatch #Nuts #FarmersMarket #FreeSamples #FreeTastes #ShopLocal (at Andy’s World Famous LLC) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmQCGljMo8V/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jestermolester]

You know how at the farmers market the Bee Guy™️ always has bees around his stand just chilling, sampling some honey and whatnot? You ever wonder if the bees are like “hey let’s go to the farmers market, I heard the Bee Guy™️ is gonna be there”

[merzelifestyle]

My First Days In California

It is a warm sunny day here in California, and I wanted to make a quick non-alcoholic beverage and sit outside to enjoy the day.

I found these heart-shaped Linzer cookies at a local shop here in San Luis Obispo (SLO) and had to pick them up. They are my favorite type of cookie, and having raspberry jam in the middle makes them even better!

Most of you who follow me know that I am from Connecticut and have recently moved to California. My company is now located both in Connecticut and California. I will spend some time on both sides of the country throughout the year. For now, I am enjoying the fantastic weather, topography, and people here in SLO. It’s truly a wonderful place to live.

Here in SLO, you have the massive Pacific Ocean just a stone’s throw away and outstanding boutique vineyards even closer. What’s not to love!?

"“She stood there bright as the sun on that California coast.” "  -- Bob Seger

SLO has a huge festive farmers’ market every Thursday evening in their downtown. It is filled with fruits, vegetables, flowers, and other goods that local artisans sell to the public. There is music and shopping along the way. It is a very good time.

As I was shopping for flowers, I found a vendor that told me about Eufloria Flowers and recommended I go there to find beautiful roses. The following day, I traveled to the distributor, and I was not disappointed in the least. I couldn’t be more delighted to see the large varieties of roses they sell, and they will undoubtedly be one of my leading suppliers for MERZE Lifestyle. The bouquet I picked when I visited was an array of large blooms to sweetheart roses.

This tea rose is gorgeous. It is small, but what a statement it has!

The next day, I decided to make a beverage for my husband and me and sit on the patio to enjoy the summer day.

The beverage I made has four ingredients:

Raspberry Lime Rickey

INGREDIENTS

1 cup raspberry simple syrup

1/2 cup lime juice

48 ounces club soda, or you can use Ginger Ale if you want a sweeter drink

Lime wedges or other fruit for garnish.

Mix all in a pitcher and add ice.

That’s it!

Recipe for the raspberry simple sugar

3/4 cup of raspberries (6oz)

3/4 cup water

1 1/2 cups cleaned raspberries

In a small saucepan, add together the sugar, water, and raspberries. Over medium heat, bring to a simmer for about 3 minutes.

Reduce the temperature to low and simmer for another 5 minutes. Take the pan off the burner.

Let cool

Strain the mixture so that you only get the raspberry juice.

Once all the liquid is strained, place the liquid in a container.

You can keep the rest of the simple sugar for one week.

NOTE: You can also freeze the simple syrup in ice cubes to be used later

That’s it!

This is the bouquet I made with the roses I purchased. The array of roses IS just spectacular. This confit pot is an antique, and I didn’t want to add water to it. The trick is to PLACE a smaller vase filled with water into the confit pot. then place the flower stems into the vase that is filled with water.

Note: Ensure the vase inside isn’t too filled with water. I tested it before I placed it in the confit pot. The water can splash into the confit pot and ruin the vase if it is filled too much. Antique confit pots are truly precious and should be treated with care.

"“I try to greet my friends with a drink in my hand, a warm smile on my face and great music in the background.” "  -- Ina Garten

As with everything I post on my blogs, please feel free to comment or if you have any questions, please email me through my contact page. I welcome it anytime!

Design with your heart™️

Happy entertaining my friends!

Mary

  "May your home be a place where friends meet, family gathers, and love grows. "  -- Anonymous

[radiclerootsla]

Superfood Salads™️, perfect for on-the-go! 🌟Catch us every week at one of our many Farmer's Markets below OR DM us about pickup directly from the farm in DTLA's Arts District!🌟 🌱Tuesdays🌱 830a - 1230p @pasadenafarmersmarkets at Villa Parke 🌱Fridays🌱 7a - 11a @venicefarmersmarket 🌱Saturdays🌱 9a - 2p @marinadelreyfarmersmkt 🌱Sundays🌱 9a - 2p @rivieravillagefarmers 9a - 2p @westlafarmersmarket 9a - 3p @dtlamarket #radiclerootsla #dtlaartsdistrict #dtla #dtlafarmersmarket #womanownedbusiness #microgreens🌱 #microgreensfarm #supportfemalefarmers #eaterla #eatlocal #eatlivingfoods #livingmicrogreens #livingfoods #nutrientdense #superfoodsalad #womanowned #womanownedfarm #artsdistricturbanfarm #artsdistrict #artsdistrictla #verticalfarming #indoorurbanfarming #losangelesmicrogreens #marinadelreyfarmersmkt #rivieravillagefarmersmarket #dtlamarket #historiccoredtla (at Los Angeles, California) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cf7k05jPP1K/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[jakejrnla1]

#SweetSelfie En El "Farmers-Market" de Quezalte!🥰 💗#PUPSAS❣️ #PUPUSAS😋#chocolate☕ #JakeGuySummerJacobson™️💯🖤🦋 🌊🏄🏻‍♂️🙃🤙🏻 #JGSJacobson94®️💯🖤🦋🌊🏄🏻‍♂️🙃🤙🏻 #Jakey®️💯🖤🦋🌊🏄🏼‍♂️🙃🤙🏻 #YoDude☝🏻🏄 🤙🏻 #DefinitelyMaybe😁🏄🤜🏻 #LetLUVShine😘👌🏻🙏🏄‍♂️ #LUVTHiS!💯💙☝🏻😉👌🏻 #JakeGuySummer™️ #AboutAGirl👩🏻 #jake #Krazy4U😈💯🖤🦋 🌊🏄🏼‍♂️🙃🤙🏻 #gaysurferdude🏄 #wellduh😳🙄😂☝🏻 #jakesurferdude #gaydudesrock #surfssup😁🏄👊 #almosthome #electrocardiofriante #handsomegaydudeinpink😘🏄👊 #electrocrazier😜 (at El Salvador Quezaltepeque) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cb5YqBkugfj/?utm_medium=tumblr

[sing-against-the-sky]

I already reblogged this but I just love this picture. My favorite pictures of Sammy are when he looks like Some Guy™️ hands down. He looks like someone you’d see buying soap at a farmers market. I love it

Sammy in sneakers: such a rare aesthetic

[realisticflyinglesbian]

Share Bear, Treat Heart Pig, and No Heart. Questions courtesy of my adorable little cousin.

Share Bear: Most recent present you’ve given to someone?

I think the last present I gave to someone was a small little mushroom cookbook I found at a cafe because mushrooms are their favorite food.

Treat Heart Pig: What is your favorite way to treat yourself?

Eating fruit, cooking/baking at home, being outside in nature, reading, taking long baths, looking at flowers, going to farmer’s markets, stargazing, thinking about kissing/cuddling girls, making and being around art, daydreaming about coming home for the summer and seeing all my friends again.

No Heart: Something you don’t care About?

Straight and Cis Men™️, the patriarchy, toxic masculinity, the government, capitalism.

Please tell your little cousin that I love her