#I once worked for a farmer who said “A weed was just a plant that they couldn't sell”

[re-the-bear]

"The most accomplished of all herbicide survivors is a little Poa annua found on a golf course, which resisted seven families of herbicide."

Nature abhors monoculture.

I've started to actually get excited for school starting, I spend a lot of time online reading scientific papers about my favorite weeds, and I think I want to study weeds forever.

Apparently it's an ongoing mystery why dandelions in North America are so diverse, when all dandelions that have been found so far are apomicts that reproduce only by cloning themselves.

However, any given site will have many distinct dandelion genotypes, with many different traits.

For example, a site might have one dandelion strain that blooms primarily in fall, and another that blooms primarily in spring.

One theory is that there's new genetic information constantly coming in from Eurasia somehow. Apparently dandelion seeds can spread on the wind 150 KILOMETERS! Perhaps some are just blown across the ocean in a storm? But if that's the case, why weren't dandelions found all over North America already when European settlers came?

The other theories are that there are sexually reproducing dandelions here that we just haven't found yet, and that they somehow make new diversity very rapidly purely through mutations and recombination and such.

[drabblesandimagines]

Sweet & Salty

I'm feeling a bit sad today so wanted some comfort... Sebastian x (afab) reader, Stardew Valley, Fluffity fluff Warnings: Mention of recreational drug use

-

It’s been a day. You’d sat down heavily on your porch steps, trying to keep the tears at bay. You should probably go mope in your bed, instead of staring at the land that is causing you so much distress. Despite your carefully placed scarecrow, you must’ve miscalculated the distance because the crows have still had a go at your most recent plantings and that’s hard-earned money down the drain - again. You’ve been here two months now and, surely, by now you should know better. The farm has been somewhat transformed since you arrived - a mass of weeds, stone and dead branches - but it’s nowhere near how you remember it in your grandpa’s heyday. He would’ve never made such a rudimentary error in his scarecrow placement.

Some of the fences around your crop patches have started to erode too – it won’t be long until they need replaced, but you’re trying to save up your wood supplies to put in a coop from Robyn. You desperately want to add chickens to the farm as eggs would be steady income – or at least you reckon – but you also don’t want them pecking at your crops alongside the crows, so having a fence seems important too. Your endless to-do list swirls around your head again. Why’s everything so hard?

It's not just your failings on the farm on your mind, but also your lack at making any real friends around here. Shane glared at you this morning as he headed off to work. That’s not unusual, despite your best efforts of a smile and a friendly greeting. Then Haley looked you up and down, judging your dirty dungarees. You’d only popped into town to get some seeds from Pierre’s. It didn’t make sense to get changed… Elliott is sweet but locked away in his cabin most of the time, Emily in her own little world… Sebastian, Sam and Abigail have invited you to play pool with them, but they’re such a tight-knit group and you always feel like you’re missing out on the joke, especially when you were partnered up with Sebastian. He’d been teaching you how to hold the cue correctly, leaning over you, his breath tickling your ear. Sam and Abigail kept nudging each other and whispering, but you couldn’t catch what about and it was clear Sebastian was becoming irritated. You’d begun to think they were making fun of your abysmal pool skills.

Ugh. Your emotions are a rollercoaster and the twisting pain in your stomach reminds you why – stupid period. It emerged with a vengeance this morning. It had stopped in your last months of JoJo Corp. There was no chance you were pregnant, your last intimate relationship fizzling out a year previously, though you’d taken tests just to be sure. The doctor in Zuzu City said you were stressed, burnt out… that it would return once you were feeling better in yourself. So why had it returned now, of all times? You feel more stressed and burnt out than ever before, regretting ever moving here. Why did you think you could become a farmer…?!

The barrier finally breaks and you let out a sob, hugging your knees.

To your shame, there’s a scuffing footstep and your heart stops as you look up, worried who’s seen your breakdown.

“Sebastian?” You sniff. You’re tempted to rub the tears from your cheeks but maybe he hasn’t noticed in the evening light. The black-haired man is standing there looking sheepish, a brown paper bag from Pierre’s clutched in his hands.

“Er, hey…” He’s not meeting your eyes. Poor boy probably wants to run. “Sorry, I… I was just leaving Sam’s and I didn’t want to go through town and see everyone, so I thought I’d take the scenic route back home through your farm…”

“Oh.” You mumble, waving him on. “That’s okay. Go ahead.”

He takes a step as if to go on his way, but then hesitates. “Are… Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you plaster a smile on, which you’re sure makes you look ridiculous as the stupid tears are still flowing. “I’m just being silly. Don’t let me keep you.”

He stares at you for a moment, before a sympathetic smile graces his lips. “You’re a terrible liar, you know?”

“I’m not ly- Ow!” You flinch as your stomach cramps terribly and you squeeze your arms around it, hoping in some way it might alleviate the pain.

Sebastian is suddenly at your side – the paper bag from Pierre’s dropped to the ground. He’s kneeling down on the first porch step with a frown on his face. “Whoa, are you hurt? I can get Harvey…” His hand hovers over your arm,

“No, honestly, I’m fine…” You try and wave him off again with one hand, the other arm still wrapped around your stomach.

He stares at you, a raised eyebrow. He seems to be putting the clues together – the wincing, clutching your stomach, the tears… He nods, making up his mind and gets to his feet, picking up the discarded bag from Pierre’s as he does so.

“Come on, let’s get you inside.” He offers you his free hand.

“Thank you, but I’ll be okay. You get on home…”

“Farmer, I know I’m probably not the person you want to see right now, but let me help you out, okay? I can’t go home and just leave crying on your porch.” He waves his offered hand again. You look at Sebastian, hesitantly. He looks genuine, at least, but there’s something a little off about him tonight… Heck, you’ve already made a fool of yourself enough, so what’s one more thing?

This time you accept his hand and he easily pulls you to your feet and leads you up to your door. He opens it – you’d easily adapted to the habit of leaving the front door unlocked since moving to Pelican Valley.

You go to open your mouth, to tell Sebastian thank you, but he can go now. You’re inside, you’ll go to bed and pretend this never happened.

“Sit down.” He orders, pointing at your bed. “You like hot chocolate, right?” You wonder how he knows that, how he knows you have a stash. Had you mentioned it at the saloon before? “I’ll make you a cup.”

“But you don’t know where…”

“I’ll find it. Sit!” He pushes you gently towards the bed and you do sit, keeping a wary eye. To be honest, it is quite easy to find your cups and kettle. Robyn had advertised an extension to you but you don’t even want to think about the price and the materials needed. For now – perhaps even for the rest of your life - you’ve got a cupboard filled with crockery and silverware. The fire’s roaring away, you’re thankful you’d lit it earlier to try and make it cosy ahead of going to bed later on. The cabin always had a slight chill at night. Sebastian retrieves a mug and spoon, scooping the hot chocolate powder into the mug, fills the kettle with water from the jug you keep besides the cupboard, before taking it over to the fire to heat.

“Do you have a hot water bottle?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Huh?”

“Hot water bottle.” He enunciates.

“Y-yeah, I think it’s under my bed. Let me…” Before you can bend down, he drops to his knees and Sebastian is now crawling under the bedframe to retrieve it. You pull your legs up off the floor to the bed, not sure what to say.

He reverses back out, holding the fluffy hot water bottle in the air triumphantly, and gets back to his feet. “Finally, where do you keep the snacks?”

“I don’t have any. Sorry, I wasn’t really expecting to entertain.”

“Not for me,” a chuckle – it sounds a little odd coming from him - “..for you!”

“For me?” He’s acting so weird.

But he’s not listening, already rummaging around the brown bag from Pierre’s. He walks over to the sofa and empties the contents besides you – there’s a couple of packs of chips, cookies and candy. “Ta-da!”

You look at the assembled junk food and back up at the black-haired man, noticing his blood-shot eyes.

“You’re high.”

Sebastian laughs again, rubbing the back of his head. “Guilty. Is that a problem?”

“No, it just… explains a lot.” You wince again as the kettle on the fire whistles. Sebastian grabs the mitt you keep nearby for that exact purpose and places it on his hand, removing the kettle from the fire and placing it down on the hearth. Methodically, he pours some hot water in the hot water bottle, tightening the cap, before pouring some in in the cup he retrieved, stirring the hot chocolate powder until it dissolves. Once he seems happy with his work, he brings the two over to you on the bed.

“Okay, since you worked out my thing, it’s my turn. Time of the month, right?” He flops down next to you on the bed, ripping open a bag of chips. “My sympathies.” It feels surreal as he holds the bag towards you and you take a handful – maybe junk food would make you feel better, and the warmth of the hot water bottle is soothing too now against your sore tummy.

The only sound for a few moments is the rustle of the chip package and the crunching of said chips. You take a sip of hot chocolate, probably a weird combination at that moment in time, but it’s working.

“Sebastian…”

“Mm?” You’ve caught him with his mouth full.

“How are you so good at this?”

“Erm…” He swallows. “Well, I guess cos I have a sister and a mom… and a friend named Abigail.” He replies in a teasing tone. “Maru and Abi usually just get super pissy though. Mom’s the crier.” Sebastian leans forward and grabs the blanket off the end of your bed, throwing it over the both of your laps in a smooth motion. Who knew he could turn into a right chatterbox? “Wanna watch some TV?” He picks up the remote control and turns it on without waiting for a response, flipping through the channels. “Do you have a preference? Nothing deters Abi from horror, Mom and Maru go chick-flick mad…”

You burst into tears again.

“Whoa, okay, no TV! That’s fair too.”

“N-no, it’s n-not that.” You let out a shuddering breath. “Why are you being so nice?”

“Because we’re friends…?”

“No, everyone hates me here.” You know you’re being irrational now, but the floodgates have well and truly opened.

“Come on, you know that’s not exactly true.” His face looks serious now.

“It is. I don’t know what I was thinking – I worked in customer support, why did I think I could farm the land? I’m going to be broke by the end of winter if I lose another batch of crops and this town is so tight-knit that they’re never going to like me being here.”

“I like you being here.”

“No, you’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me.” You go to take another handful of chips, but he snatches the bag out of your reach indignantly.

“I am not.”

“You are.” You clip back.

Sebastian lets out a huff in frustration and he acts before he can even consider the consequences. He puts a hand on the side of your face, turning it slightly and presses a gentle kiss on your lips for a moment or two, immediately causing your tears to cease.

“Would I kiss you if I didn’t like you?”

“I…” You don’t have any words.

He swipes his tongue over his lips. “Mm, salty. That’s not how I expected our first kiss to go, I’ll be honest.”

“Our first kiss?” Your face is on fire. It has to be on fire, why else would it feel so hot?

“Yeah, well, I told you I like you, didn’t I?” He grins, before it drops. “Though I’ve just realized that you probably don’t like me like that, I’m high, and now I’ve made this a hundred times wor-…”

You cut him off, caressing his lips with your own for a moment.

“No. I like you too.”

“Well, that’s that settled, then, isn’t it?” He leans back, a smug look on his face before he grabs the packet of candy. “Shall we see what a sweet kiss tastes like next?”

-

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi I'm also running an event for x reader fics to celebrate 200 followers, so please check it out and send in your requests.

[swarvey]

broken pieces | shane x oc

Shane has spent years wallowing in the dark alone, thinking he’s too far gone — Kai begs to differ. After a rocky first meeting, the two will have to learn how they can save each other while, at the same time, they save themselves.

a/n: a fic i've been writing on ao3 (saturnice) and have recently picked up again after a few years ! while i work on new chapters, i will be reposting the ones i have already written onto here. sorry to those who wanted more :')

chapter 1: the first spring

"Did you hear about the new farmer, Shane?"

Shane didn't even look up from his meal. He shrugged, having another bite of his egg. The morning light glared into his eyes through the window; he grimaced, finishing the rest of his plate quickly.

Time to get another day over with.

"Well," Marnie continued, ignoring his silence, "I heard from Robin that she's very nice."

"Okay, and?" He got up, putting his plate in the sink before rinsing his hands.

"And, I think it would be nice for you to make a new friend." He scowled. “I mean, you know I love you dearly, Shane, but you should start talking to more people other than me and Jas—“

"See you, Marnie." Shane left without another word, shrugging on his jacket to head to Joja.

The air was sickeningly fresh as Shane breathed in, trudging his way past Jodi's house. The only part of the morning he liked was the emptiness — barely anyone got up as early as him. Shane took in the sight of the quiet, vacant town. Just how I like it, he thought, continuing to walk.

The peace was broken, however, when he saw a stranger standing in front of Pierre's shop.

Shane paused. Damn it.

He tried, he really fucking did, to pass her without any notice. He turned his head and sped up, the sight of the bridge fueling him—

"Um, excuse me?"

Shane reluctantly stopped, eyes closing as he refrained from screaming as loud as he could.

"What do you want?" he asked bluntly, not even bothering to turn around.

He heard the stranger snort quietly, undoubtedly because of his attitude. "I was wondering when this shop opens." She paused. "That is, if you know, of course," she added, a teasing tone to her voice.

He turned his head, sending her the nastiest glare he could gather that early in the morning. "Screw off, I don't even know you," Shane snapped.

The last glimpse of her he saw was her head tilted slightly in confusion, arms crossed.

Asshole.

-

Kai had never been a morning person, so she had no idea why she was making herself wake up at six.

Despite that, she couldn’t help but feel amazed as she opened her door and took in the sight of the field in front of her. Sure, there were trees, rocks, and weeds littered everywhere, but Kai already felt more at home than she had in the city. She would be lying if she said she didn’t miss the lights and sound of cars passing by in the night, but she would never go back to working in a cramped office. Kai smiled — for the first time in years, she felt free.

That is, until she realized she had to clear the field, plant the seeds she was gifted, and then buy some more before repeating.

Sighing, Kai decided to get some more seeds first, pulling on her coat before heading into town. The spring air bit at her cheeks for just a moment, settling down after it sunk in. She had always loved spring; the rain, the warmer weather, the life. Everything felt new, and after the crappy life she’d been living, Kai really needed a fresh start.

She winced at the thought of her life in Zuzu City. Her job was bad, but her life outside of work was worse. She barely even bothered to call her parents anymore, considering they basically cut her off once she went to college. Kai would get a call from them once in a blue moon. Even then, they would only talk for a couple minutes, making sure everything was fine — Are you alive? Eating well? — before hanging up.

And then, of course, there was Tom.

She tried not to think about him.

Kai entered the town to find it empty. The sound of the river flowing filled the air, calming her nerves. Birds chirped and flew over head while the sun continued to rise, casting a golden gleam over all the buildings. Kai smiled.

She was ready to start her new life.

Looking back at the store, Kai noticed the lack of lights and the locked doors. Sighing, she placed a hand on her hip. The paper that read “Shop Hours” at the top was ripped up below.

Just as she was about to head back, Kai noticed a man heading her way. He had his blue hoodie pulled tightly around him, his gaze glued to the ground. She could tell he didn’t feel like talking.

Chewing her lip, Kai thought about what to do. She hated to be bothered in the morning, too, so she understood why the guy was practically sprinting past her, but she also really wanted to know when the store opened.

“Um, excuse me?” she called out, trying to sound as friendly as possible.

Kai saw him freeze. “What do you want?” She snorted to herself. She wasn’t a morning person, but she was never rude to anyone who tried to talk to her. He didn’t even turn around to look at her while he spoke.

“I was wondering when this shop opens,” she said, crossing her arms and perking an eyebrow. “That is, if you know, of course.” She couldn’t help herself. Kai blamed her tease on the lack of sleep and coffee affecting her.

What she didn’t expect was the man to turn his head ever so slightly to give her the scariest glare she ever witnessed. Kai was, admittedly, taken aback. You took it too far, idiot, she thought, feeling embarrassment crawl up her face.

“Screw off, I don’t even know you,” he growled, leaving with his hands shoved in his pockets. Kai blinked before rolling her eyes, quietly defending herself in her head. Not my fault someone woke up on the wrong side of his bed.

Prick.

-

Over the following week, Kai learned when the shop opened from another early riser named Alex.

“Oh, Pierre’s? He always opens at nine, except on Wednesdays. He’s always closed on Wednesdays,” he had informed her, gridball tucked under his arm.

“Thanks,” Kai had replied. She gestured toward the ball. “You play?”

Alex’s chest puffed up a bit as he smiled smugly. “Yeah, I’m planning on going pro. I always get up early to practice a bit before working out; gotta keep these muscles working, am I right?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” After saying another thanks, Kai had left, not very eager to see Alex again.

A few days later, she visited the Stardrop Saloon. The sun was starting to dip below the skyline as she walked in, the music immediately lifting her mood. The saloon’s atmosphere brought her at ease, the tension in her body seeming to melt away.

“Ah, you must be the new farmer!” the man behind the counter said, grinning. “I’m Gus, nice to meet you.”

Kai walked up to him, holding out a hand. “Kai,” she responded, smiling back at him.

“Your grandfather used to come here on Fridays, too, you know,” Gus started, his smile growing a little sadder. “After a week of hard work, he let himself have a drink as a reward. He was a fine man.” He patted her hand. “I’m sure you’ll take after him, Kai. Welcome to the Valley.”

She nodded, placing her hand lightly over his. “Thanks, Gus. I needed to hear that.”

When Kai’s grandpa passed away, she hadn’t taken it very well. She’d stayed home for two weeks, skipping work and ordering food for most of her meals. At the time, it’d felt surreal — her grandfather had been the stone that kept her grounded throughout everything that happened. Hearing about his death crushed her — Kai didn’t want to know what would’ve happened if she hadn’t remembered his letter for her.

"Here — take this, on the house." Gus slid over a glass of beer. "While you're here, why don't you talk to some of the townsfolk? I'm sure you'll make friends quickly."

Kai took a look around the already crowded saloon. "Sure, why not," she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "I can't say I'm the best at starting conversations, though."

Gus perked an eyebrow before smirking, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Why don't I give you a hand, then?" Before she could decline, Gus waved down a long-haired man that had just walked through the door. "Elliott! Come meet the new farmer!"

Kai felt her heart jump. "Gus, I— what are you—"

"Relax. Elliott's one of the nicest guys in town, just sit and have a drink with him."

"But I—"

"Hello there, miss," Elliott greeted, his voice deep and smooth. "I don't believe we've met."

Kai swallowed. "No, we haven't." She cleared her throat quickly before pushing away her anxiety. "Why don't we grab a seat so we can talk more?"

“That sounds delightful.” He headed toward an empty table, hair flowing behind him.

"Good luck," Gus whispered, giving her a thumbs up. "I'm sure you two will get along greatly."

"We better," she muttered, grabbing her drink and heading to her seat.

Thankfully, after several more drinks between the two of them and some icebreakers, Kai found herself completely relaxed. Talking to Elliott was easy — his attentive eyes and comical facial expressions made it hard to not feel welcome in his presence.

Somehow, she ended up bringing up the incident in front of Pierre's. "Honestly, I feel kind of bad," she said, taking another sip of her drink. "Maybe I was too harsh."

"Oh, please," Elliott exasperated, leaning back in his chair. "You must have ran into quite a sensitive soul. What did this person look like?"

She thought for a moment. "Well, he had a blue jacket on with a green shirt — oh, and his hair was kind of like this." Kai gestured how his hair hung out to the side.

Elliott's eyes left hers for the first time that evening. "You mean him?" He pointed behind her before taking a big swig of his drink to hide his amused smile.

Kai tentatively looked over her shoulder to see that, indeed, the "sensitive soul" had entered the saloon. Gus already had his drink ready for him as he grabbed it, muttering a quick "thanks". The man then made his way to the corner, drinking alone. Kai felt a small tug of sympathy for him.

"That's Shane," Elliott said quietly, bringing her attention back to him. "He's not the most social fellow. He lives with Marnie and his goddaughter, Jas." He hesitated before continuing, "He also has a bit of a drinking problem, I'm afraid to say."

Kai tapped her fingers on her glass. "Oh." She took another peek at him. Shane was staring blankly at his drink, the dark circles around his eyes prominent in the dim saloon lighting. "I feel a bit worse, now," she admitted, shoulders slumping.

Elliott's eyes lit up. "Why don't you give him a heartfelt apology? Words are always the cure to a wounded heart," he advised.

"Really? You think so?" Kai knew her judgement was clouded, although an unfamiliar confidence sprouting in her chest fueled her. "Elliott, I don't know. He looks like he wants to be alone."

Elliott scoffed lightly. "Believe me, dear Kai, he always looks like that." He made a "shooing" motion with his hand. "Go, spill your heart to him." He smiled at the glare she sent his way as she got up, finishing her drink for courage.

As Kai grew closer to Shane, she felt the confidence that had driven her dissipate. She inhaled sharply when he looked up at her, eyes widening.

"You again?" he asked roughly, gaze narrowing. "Why are you talking to me?"

"I just, um," she stuttered, taking in a breath, "I just wanted to say sorry. You know, for what I said the other day." She saw his eyes light up momentarily in surprise before darkening once more. "It was early, and I was super sleep deprived— I mean, that doesn't excuse what I said, but . . ." Kai felt her face heating up. She decided to blame it on the liquor. "I just . . . I'm sorry. I don't want to be on bad terms with you because of something stupid I said, you know? I swear I'm not that bad, once you get to know me." She laughed slightly, lips lingering in an awkward smile. "So, I'll see you around, I hope."

Kai turned, heading back to Elliott with burning cheeks. She fell back into her chair and buried her face into her arm, letting Elliott pat her shoulder comfortingly.

"I'm an idiot," she mumbled.

"You aren’t. I'm sure you did just fine," Elliott reassured. He looked up. "You must have — he's coming over to our table, right this instant."

Kai shot up. "What?"

"Hey."

Her head turned embarrassingly quickly, greeted with the green fabric of Shane's jersey.

"Hi," Kai replied, moving back to look at him properly.

Shane nodded at Elliott before returning to her. "About . . . that." Kai felt her chest tighten. "It's, uh, it's fine. I don't care." She nearly jumped out of her seat as relief crashed through her, hoping the man in front of her hadn't noticed. She was amazed how excited she became because of six simple words; seven, including “uh”.

"Thanks," Kai managed, her choked voice causing Elliott to smirk. "I'm glad to hear that, I guess."

With another nod, Shane walked over to Gus, handing him a few coins before exiting the saloon. Kai turned around, sliding down into her seat.

"See?" Elliott said, raising his glass. "Words are always the cure."

-

The next week, Kai made it her mission to befriend Shane. With Elliott's support and guidance, she managed to even give him a couple surprise gifts.

The first was a meal. After speaking to Marnie in the morning, Kai had just what Shane needed to cheer up.

"He didn't even eat breakfast this morning," she'd said, wringing her hands in worry. "That's how I know he's not in a good mood."

"I could drop something off, if you'd like me to," Kai suggested.

"Oh, would you? Thank you, Kai — here, take this to him, sweetie. It's his favorite."

So, Kai stood in front of the Joja Mart, a wrapped plate of pepper poppers in hand.

"He works here? Seriously?" she questioned.

Elliott shrugged. "Everyone's talents lie in different places. His just happens to be here," he replied, looking at the store distastefully. "I can't say I'm fond of this place, though."

"Well, he has to eat," she reasoned, nodding to herself. "I'll just go in, tell him this is from Marnie, and go on with my day."

"That sounds like a brilliant plan, Kai," Elliott encouraged. "May I ask where you obtained this sudden determination?"

"I don't know, that night at the saloon, I guess he kind of proved my theory."

"Which was?"

"That he isn't a total ass."

Huffing out a laugh, Elliott nodded. "Then, by all means, proceed, dear Kai. I'll be right out here in case you implode." Punching his shoulder lightly with her free hand, Kai swallowed her fears and walked forward into the blue store.

She found Shane easily. The aisles were empty, the sound of her boots hitting the floor echoing throughout the store. He didn't even notice her at first — he was crouched on the white tile floor, almost mechanically shelving soup cans. He only looked up when she cleared her throat.

"You're awfully fuckin’ persistent," Shane grumbled. Marnie was right — Kai could tell he was in an even worse mood than he usually was. "Don't you have your own work to do?"

"Not right now, I don't," she replied, voice somehow steady. "In fact, I could even call this my work for today. Here."

He took the plate hesitantly, eyeing it cautiously. "What's this?"

"I talked to Marnie earlier and she said you didn't have breakfast. I already finished most of my farm work for today, so I offered to bring these over for you. Marnie made them herself — she said they're your favorite."

Unwrapping the foil to look at the peppers, Shane's eyes lit up, lips curling up into a small smile.

Kai, honestly, was amazed. Up until then, she'd questioned if she would ever get the stoic man to show any sign of happiness.

The moment ended abruptly, however, as Shane covered the plate again and looked away.

"Thanks, I guess," he said, placing the plate carefully next to him. "Tell Marnie not to worry so damn much."

Kai laughed. "I'll make sure she gets your message," she said, grinning as she began to make her way back to the entrance. Success.

"Seriously, though." She stopped, turning her head to look back at Shane. He still wouldn't look at her, although Kai could see a hint of pink in his cheeks. "You didn't have to do this."

She simply shrugged. "I know." He looked up at her to meet her eyes just before she walked away, still smiling.

"You’re in one piece, so I'm assuming everything went well?" Elliott asked as she approached him.

"Very well," she corrected, grabbing his arm. "Come on, I need some lunch."

The next gift Kai gave Shane ended up being a simple beer. She and Elliott had decided to head to the Stardrop Saloon once again, promising to each other they wouldn't get as drunk as they had the trip prior. Only an hour into their visit, however, Elliott glanced at the clock and frowned.

"Ah, I'm afraid our time together has to end early tonight," he stated, sighing. "To be quite honest, I've been neglecting my writing duties since I befriended you. Your charm has its toll." He smiled as he got up from his seat, dropping some coins onto the table. "There, that should cover your drink, as well as mine."

Kai shook her head, pushing them back towards him. "Elliott, come on, you don't have to do that. I can pay this time."

"I insist, Kai. Consider this a trade."

She raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

Elliott smirked, raising her hand to place a light, quick kiss on her knuckles. "I pay for you — and give you the gift of a kiss, mind you—" Kai yanked her hand back, a smile blooming on her face in amusement, "and you talk to you-know-who."

"Oh, please, you're bribing me to talk to Shane? I can do that for free."

"A brave one, I see," Elliott teased. "Fine. Buy him a drink and I'll pay for next time, too."

"And just where are you getting this money from, rich boy?"

"Is it a deal or not, dear Kai?" He held out his hand.

Shrugging, Kai shook it. "Sure, why not." She knew alcohol always made her confidence soar, so why waste the feeling?

Elliott grinned. "I trust you will keep your word. Until next time, my friend. Trust your heart!" He gave one last wave before leaving swiftly.

Like clockwork, Shane walked in a few moments later, following the same routine as the past week. After he received his glass, Kai made her way up to Gus, letting out a breath. As always, the beer’s high was already starting to wear off, a pit beginning to grow in her stomach.

"Hey, Gus," she greeted.

"Kai! It's good to see you," he replied, cleaning a glass and placing it down. "Now, how can I help you?"

She placed the money Elliott had given her onto the counter. "Here, this should cover everything Elliott and I had." After a quick count, Gus nodded in confirmation, slipping the coins into his hand before dropping them into the cash register.

"Anything else I can do for you? Another round, maybe? Some pizza to snack on?"

Kai shook her head, grabbing a few more coins from her own wallet. "Actually, I'd like to get Shane another drink, please."

Gus blinked, surprise evident on his face as he smiled. "Oh? Another beer, I suppose?"

"That sounds great." He handed her another glass filled to the brim with the drink. "Thanks a bunch, Gus."

"No problem, Kai." Gus eyed Shane before looking back at her. "So, you've taken a liking to Shane, I see. I can't say I'm not surprised—"

"No, no! It's, uh, it's not like that," Kai explained, gaining a few stares.

"Of course, I'm sorry for assuming so rashly." Gus smiled knowingly. "Are you sure there's nothing I can get for you?”

“Positive. Thanks again, Gus.” Kai took the drink and walked over to Shane as quickly as she could without spilling, setting the drink in front of him right as he finished his first one.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she heard him mutter.

“Hey,” she responded, choosing to ignore his comment and taking the seat across from him. “I hope this seat isn’t taken.”

No reply. Shane merely stared at the new glass in front of him.

“I don’t usually see anyone sitting here, so I just assumed it was free. I hope you don’t mind.” She winced, cringing at her own words.

Silence. More staring.

Kai’s shoulders dropped. “Look, I know you’re probably annoyed at how much I’ve bothered you these last couple weeks, but I think you’re a pretty decent guy, Shane.” He looked up at that, as if he was surprised she knew his name. “I mean, we had a pretty rough start, but I want to get to know you better. Maybe find out your favorite color, or something.”

Kai really, really wanted to smack her head on the table.

All of her energy seemed to drain out of her as Shane began to avoid her eyes once more, gaze now aimed at his lap. The sound of arcade games dinging and loud laughter from a group of people seemed to grow louder in Kai’s ears as she wondered what she was even doing.

Shane had made it painfully clear he didn’t want her around. Kai thought back to all the times she’d tried to approach him over the past few days. He had always replied with some annoyed remark — The hell do you want? Haven’t I been rude enough to you yet? — and walked away, leaving her in the dust. More anxious thoughts filled her head as Kai balled her fists in her lap, shaking her head slightly to herself.

Maybe I’m the prick.

Already thinking about how she was going to explain this to Elliott without spontaneously combusting, Kai pushed her chair back, rising from her seat.

“Sorry for wasting your time,” she said softly, any last bit of enjoyment in her gone. “I’ll, uh, see you around, Shane.”

Kai began to walk away, catching Gus’s eye on her way out. He gave her a questioning glance, and she shook her head in response. Not now, she wanted to say. He seemed to understand, nodding.

The evening breeze cooled Kai’s hot face when she opened the door. She let herself savor it for a moment before beginning to walk, tipsy and heavy hearted.

Just then, she heard the door open behind her once again before shutting. She didn’t think twice about it; at least, not until she heard someone come her way.

“Kai.”

She stopped, eyes widening. Kai turned to face Shane, noticing how the evening light brought out the red in his cheeks.

Cute, she thought, feeling a blush hit her own face.

“I’m sorry for freezing back there. I just didn’t expect you to come over.” She nodded. “And I guess I’m sorry for being rude to you before, too. I was a dick.” Another nod. Shane rolled his eyes. “You gonna say anything or am I wasting my breath?”

Kai blinked. “Oh, uh, don’t worry about it. I guess I was being kind of annoying, too.”

“Yeah, kind of.” She grimaced. “I’ve never really had anyone want to talk to me that much before, though.” Kai felt that same feeling of sympathy she’d felt that first night at the saloon. Shane rubbed his arm, looking away. “I guess I just didn’t know what to do. I sorta freaked out, to be honest.”

Now Kai really felt bad.

“Geez, Shane, I’m really sorry,” she apologized, sighing. “I had no idea I was making you feel so uncomfortable. I promise I’ll leave you alone from now on.”

“Oh.”

Kai felt shock stun her when she recognized the tone of his voice.

He was disappointed.

“Unless,” she began slowly, “you don’t . . . want me to?”

Shane’s face went red. “Yeah. That.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Kai felt as if a whale had been lifted off her chest.

“I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Yeah.” Shane cleared his throat, heading back to the saloon. He paused in his step. “Thanks for the drink, by the way.” He waited a beat before quickly adding, “And it’s blue, if you’re still wondering about the favorite color thing. So, yeah.” With that, Shane rushed back in, leaving Kai in the cool of the oncoming night.

Blue. Kai kept that in mind as she walked home, feeling lighter than she had in years.

[angeltoroa]

Hot Mocha

Crowley handed a takeaway cup of mocha to Aziraphale, coils of steam floated up in the cold air as they walked along the river together.

"Mmn, yum." The angel said, rubbing his lips together after the first chocolaty sip, "Amazing."

"Hmm? What is?" Crowley asked.

"The coffee, obviously, but just how clever humans are to come up with these things, chocolate from the Americas, coffee from Africa...how very clever." He opened up the lid. Crowley ripped open the sugar packet for Aziraphale, pouring it in for him, "You don't say?" ~~ "So, you're saying if I drink what the cow is making-" "Milk, yes." Crowley stood beside the farmer watching the cow feeding her calf. "-Then I can have more food all winter?" "Well yes, you have to turn it into cheese first to preserve it all winter, here, try some." The demon tempted the farmer with some cheese. She nibbled on it and her eyes opened wide, "Not just milk and cheese, but cream and butter as well." "Show me." The farmer insisted and Crowley smirked. He'd neglected to tell her to make the cheese, she'd have to removed the calf so it wouldn't take all the milk; to use the rennet of the calf's stomach to separate curds and whey; that they'd need to clear the forest for more land and more cows; that she can't quite digest the milk properly yet. Little moments of suffering for Hell. ~~ "Just eat the berries you dumb animal." Crowley shoved the berry bush into the goat's face. "BLEEEEEEEH!" The goat bleated and bounced off the demon and the rock. He sighed, it was hard trying to wrangle overcaffeinated goats at the best of times. "What's going on here?" An Ethiopian shepherd was coming over to inspect the goats and Crowley dropped the coffee berries and turned himself into a snake, sliding out of sight. The shepherd raised his torch and suppressed a yawn. Slowly, he looked at the berries, then back to the hyperactive goats, then back to the berries. The shepherd picked up the berries and brought them back towards his camp. Mildly addicting, from now on millions of people would look to coffee to get them through the day, the withdrawal of it would cause numerous arguments between spouses and coworkers. More little moments of suffering from Hell. ~~

The man looked at Crowley skeptically, taking the charred stick of what was a stringy, tough weed from the Demon's hands. He chewed it and exclaimed, "It's so sweet!" He picked out the splinters from his tongue. "If you process it enough, it becomes this." Crowley sprinkled fine white sugar from a pouch into the man's hand. The man licked up the sugar from his palm and Crowley could see the man's eyes dilate, "Good, huh? Better than honey." "How much processing is required?" "You'll need teams of people, and it's hard hot work, believe me." Crowley shrugged, waving his hand in the hot, humid climate. "I think I have an idea, I need cheap labour and I know where to get it." The man said, and Crowley smirked again. Teams of cheap labour were also called slaves. More suffering for Hell and another commendation for Crowley. ~~ Crowley opened up the shell of the cacao plant, taking out the white beans inside, "Xocolātl." He said, offering it to the people. They all took a small bean and once it was in their mouth, they smiled at each other happily. "It's so nice." "Ah, but not as nice as what drinks you can make out of the nibs." Crowley offered up the cup of frothing chocolate drink; the smell itself was inciting and seemed to draw the villagers in. They all had a sip from the cup and immediately they were asking the demon on how it was created. Worth its weight in gold, Crowley thought, there would be suffering like no one in Hell had ever seen. ~~ Aziraphale stirred his sugar into the mocha, "I could be naughty and add a second packet." The demon who spent most of his years tempting others to eat what they shouldn't offered another packet of sugar to the angel, "Here, the things I do for you, I swear." He grinned.

[guhamun]

@cropsimmortal said (inbox):

' hm ~ i suppose it might be a simple question to answer for the sect's scriptures and mentors, but unfortunately, i'm hardly anything beyond an aspiring practitioner, if not a humble farmer who tills and works the fields. ' yu haoyu says this gently as he brews and pours tea, the aroma strong and hearty enough to intermingle with even the raw, flowering scents of the valley around them. ' loneliness ... i suppose they would consider it another earthly desire, and an obstacle to attaining true enlightenment. but i don't necessarily believe a thing like loneliness can be utterly neglected, either. fields with thorns and weeds need be cleared, else they overgrow into something inhospitable. if the dirt is kept clear, however, then fresh crops can be planted and grown, even should they die out come winter. a stone might love a stone, but it also might fall in love with a lily-flower. sorrow, yes ... sorrow would surely be a part of it. but so would joy, i think. one would merely need to balance each one out in equal measures. ' the smile that they lend to the other is small and slight, but warm and reassuring. blinking at the other for a moment, yuyu reaches forward, just enough to set a hand upon athanasius's shoulder, patting twice, eyes fondly glimmering. ' you might have found a good place for yourself here, my friend! i knew there was something different about you by your demeanor since the beginning, and there are all sorts of immortals already that i am sure would like to make your acquaintance. when i ascend as well, i'll wait for you as one does the northern wind. shall i make it a promise? ' like this, bright life before serene death.

     ATHANASIUS COULD NEVER UNDERSTAND a desire for immortality – a desire to become divine under any circumstances. Perhaps because he had existed for such a long time that it was beyond his understanding why any would want to prolong their lifespan. Mortals were meant to be mortals. That was the way it should be and the way that he, and his creator, preferred it to be. Stepping outside of that seemed utterly bizarre to Athanasius…and yet, mortals always strove for what they shouldn’t have. However, things here might have been different from how they viewed it back in their own world, so perhaps…Yuyu looked upon this all in another way. Immortality seemed to coincide with enlightenment here; a gift given after one finally caught Heaven’s gaze. ❝Ahaha, you have an interesting way of looking at things. I do not believe I have encountered anyone who has ever compared such a topic to crops, stone, and flowers.❞ He laughed again, amused and almost pleased with this intriguing change to what he was used to hearing.

      Where he resided, immortality was not a gift. It was given to you from the beginning, or you found a way to reach it and went against the natural flow of things. Very rarely did those that fit the latter ever find joy. If anything, in time, they began to crave their own destruction or were driven mad from loneliness. Maybe it just felt more pleasant here due to one being able to be around other immortals in a way that Athanasius rarely could unless they were like himself. Finally composed once more, a pleasant smile still remained upon his lips before widening just a little more, the soft crinkle in the corner of his eyes speaking of how genuine his fondness was. A beautiful soul, this was. It always overjoyed him to encounter such individuals anywhere he went. ❝I will hold you to that. I hope, with the passing of time, you continue to shine as brightly as you do now once you ascend, and that it does not dull.❞

[captchalure]

According to our Arab middlemen pepper was grown in forests of pepper trees. Pepper was abundant. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was in the harvesting of pepper. For, you see, the pepper trees were all guarded by poisonous snakes. In order to harvest the pepper, farmers had to set fire to the trees and drive away the snakes. It was the fires that turned white peppercorns black and gave them their dry and shriveled appearance.

After each burning, the trees would have to be replanted which required money and time adding to the price. This myth survived hundreds of years. In actuality, pepper is a climbing vine plant, green in colour, and turns black and shriveled after it has been dried and white after it has been soaked in water. Pepper, also, was certainly not the only spice that carried a myth.

Cinnamon grew on inaccessible mountains and in order to retrieve the cinnamon you had to trick a type of bird, who happened to make their nests out of cinnamon. Locals would leave heavy pieces of meat out for the birds, the birds would take the meat to their nests, the weight of the meat would then break the nests, and the cinnamon would fall to the ground to be gathered. I’m guessing that’s not exactly how it works.

Stories and myths only retain power when knowledge is absent and facts are unknown. We can tell our own stories to control our image and brand. Yet, it only takes time for our quirks to inadvertently be revealed, good or bad, and for the reality to seep out. This is the truth for most things. Once we see it, once we know it we no longer believe the stories.  

       

THE PEPPER TREE

Kathy Bernard- Publisher

The field is the world, and the good seed stands for the sons of the kingdom.

The weeds are the sons of the evil one. 

Matt: 13:3-8

*in nature nothing is wasted, nothing is random. all beings serve a purpose*

One day Jesus told a story in the form of a parable to a large crowd that had gathered from many towns to hear him: 'A farmer went out to plant his seed. As he scattered it across his field, some seed fell on a footpath, where it was stepped on, and the birds ate it. Other seed fell among rocks. It began to grow, but the plant soon wilted and died for lack of moisture. Other seed fell among thorns that grew up with it and choked out the tender plants. Still other seed fell on fertile soil. This seed grew and produced a crop that was a hundred times as much as had been planted!' When He had said this, He called out, “Anyone with ears to hear should listen and understand.” Luke 8: 4-8

This parable brought to mind something that recently happened to me. A few years ago, a dear friend gave me a thriving seedling from a small pepper bush that grew in her beautiful garden. I call it a tree although it may be only two feet when it is full grown. She had cared for it carefully and when the leaves began to sprout and peppers started to show, she put a ribbon around the pot and gave it to me. She knew how much I loved spicy red peppers on food so she wanted me to have one of my own. As she handed it to me, she gave me a long look and said, “Plant it and make sure to water and nourish it each day until it starts to thrive and grow larger, and make sure the soil stays moist”.

As time moved on, I began to get forgetful and lazy about the watering. My priorities shifted to the business of other things and soon I forgot all about that dependent plant. When I remembered, I would just throw an initial cup or two of water on it, paying no attention to the weeds that had started to crowd the young plant and choke it. In time it began to turn brown and unkempt, losing its vital look. The peppers began to fall to the ground unnoticed without a care or a thought from me.

had not noticed that the seeds from the old bush had fallen to the ground and that those seeds had begun a new life because of the water and the care I had given the dying bush next to it. It was there all the time drinking of the water I had, in despair, put on the dead bush. I hung my head in gratitude, then looking to the heavens I said, “God, You are something else. Thank you for this special gift. I do not deserve it.”

There will be times when you will stumble and forget who you are as a Christian, times when you are weakened like that pepper tree by the neglect of this world. There will be times when your sins will become like weeds that will choke the trust from you and leave you feeling abandoned. But God, unlike us, does not start anything and leave it to perish. He will not forget to provide you with His living water. He will replenish you for He is the fountain of living water. All who drink from His fountain will never thirst and He tells us this in John 7:38: “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me and drink. For the Scriptures declare, ‘Rivers of living water will flow from the heart of anyone who believes in me."

Are you growing in your faith? Have you forgotten to give it the care it deserves? Time will pass on, but through your loving attention, the seeds of your faith and promise will continue to grow, scattering more seeds of salvation throughout your lifetime and to those who come after you. You can become a tree of hope.

Santa's lazy helpers

[neko-naruto]

strolling down the streets

(a fluffy x reader kind of requested by @lover-of-skellies, sorry if it isnt the best, i have a hard time with self inserts)

you strolled down the streets of the city you lived in, or what remained since an horrendous attack from a group of monsters, they where literal monsters, each of them a skeleton, two heartless murderers, one with hunger in his eyes, two gods and one a lost soul that followed orders. their existence struck fear into your soul as they desecrated your hometown, leaving barely anything behind. of course you attempted to retaliate against one of the gods, shattering your left wrist in the process of course it was fine, so long as the children where fine, which they where which made breaking your wrist okay. bearing everything with a grin you walked back to the crippled haven for survivors, only a hundred remained all but a few humans, the last monsters often shamed, except for one.

fresh, dont get me wrong their where two sanses in your world, but he was shamed less for being able to bring up the mood in an instant, quite literally, probably helped his relatively infectious positivity lasted for more than thirty seconds.

"hey bro you good?" the colorful skeleton asked as he rushed up to you, a single can of food in your hand.

"one can of tuna, nothing else, our sources are running dry." you said with a sigh handing the can to fresh hanging your head low in defeat.

"we could always try to get a deal with a farmer i know of." fresh ofered.

"fresh, i love you bro, but why the fuck didnt you tell me about this farer until now?!" you exclaimed in slight anger.

"well, things werent going so bad two months ago." fresh said, trying to defend himself in the slightest.

"forget it, you can just get him over here after we find some good ground." you said as monsterkid ran up to you falling over only once and making a quick save.

"Y/N! Y/N! we found the community garden! its in great condition, plants are growing! edible ones!" monsterkid exclaimed in glee.

"speak of the devil, go get your farmer friend right now, where bouta start a garden!" you exclaimed throwing one hand in the air the other hurting to much to do so.

"your choice." fresh said shrugging his shoulders before opening a portal hopping through, the portal closing afterwards.

"care to show me how to get their?" you asked monsterkid who nodded before letting you grab his ramshackle bionic arm, crafted by alphys shortly after the attack, assuming monsterkid would need an arm or two for balance if it ever happened again.

"its just over here." monsterkid said as he led you through one last corner to a relatively small plot of land, only twenty by twenty gardening area one corner covered in weeds, all of which being edible, and a tree or two with chestnuts that could be roasted beside the garden, which alphys and papyrus where in uprooting various inedible weeds.

"perfect, we can grow enough food to outlast the summer and fall, and maybe enough extra for winter." you said confidently as a portal opened nearby and fresh hopped out with a bag of fertilizer in one hand and some tools in the other, a second skeleton with a straw hat and overalls with a basket of seeds and a garden hose trailing from the portal which remained open after they both exited the portal.

"Y/N meet farm, farm meet Y/N." fresh said dropping the bag on the ground and laying the tools on the ground gently.

"lovely to meet you farm!" you said enthusiastically putting out your good hand to shake with farms who greeted you with a firm shake, a warm grin and a tip of the hat.

"lovely to meet you to, now if you want to make any progress on... that, we should get started right now or first thing tomorrow morning." farm said gesturing to the demolished plot of garden area which papyrus and alphys had stopped working on momentarily for some water from the hose, savoring the fresh, clean water.

"whats the ruckus about?" another skeleton asked walking over to you and farm, flowers crowding in his left eye socket, wearing overalls and a blue hoodie over top with some work boots, his name was flower.

"nothing much flower, we where just about to start working on our garden with farm." you said gesturing to farm and the plot, flower yawning before nodding at farms existence.

"nice, you ok if i just take a nap over their for a while." flower said gesturing to to the tree in the distance.

"only if you help us pull out some weeds first." you said.

"actually, some of them can stay." farm claimed. "those are garlic and are edible, those are dandelions and are also edible, the rest can go though, although their isnt enough to worry about weeding them out right now." farm explained, "so you can go and take a nap if you want to flower." farm said, flower halfheartedly thanking him before walking off.

"now, where exactly do we start?" fresh asked as he leaned against you, making sure to keep eye contact with farm, who glanced at the plot once more before handing you each a tool

"fresh, you till the land, Y/N, you sow the seeds." farm instructed you and fresh doing as told, the both of you taking the rest of the day to finish the garden, seeds sowed, land tilled, plants watered and a few weeds pulled, it was hard work to say the least.

"are we done yet?" fresh asked leaning on a hoe, before collapsing after farm said that you guys where, you collapsing on top of the colorful skeleton

"rewards will be reaped soon enough." farm said before handing each of you a watering can and a bunch of seeds. "more seeds for the next season, and make sure to water the plants every morning." farm instructed before saying his goodbye and took his leave, leaving you and fresh collapsed on the ground.

"that was harder than it shouldve been..." you said with a sigh before rolling over a bit so most of your weight was on freshes ribcage.

"agreed, but hey, itll be worth it..." fresh said with before instinctively wrapping an arm around you.

"it better be worth it, my entire body is aching..." you complained, still out of breath.

"im in the same boat as you are." fresh said with a light hearted chuckle as you started to pass out, still on his ribcage.

"yeah... goodnight..." you yawned before fully losing consciousness puting fresh in a somewhat awkward situation, if he moved adn woke you up he was screwed, if he didnt he was stuck their on the ground, with a nice human resting on his ribcage, yeah he chose option number two.

..................................................................................................................

youve made it this far, a reblog would be nice

[neonponders]

Oh hell. Here we go...

Priest Billy and Demon Steve ~ read on ao3!

• • • • • • •

Billy had his wild teens and early twenties filled with debauchery, sex, abuse, etc. He never expected to return to his parents’ Catholicism for solace. He couldn’t really say for certain that his mother really was Catholic but she loved the architecture, the stain glass art, and she loved to sing. Church choirs always needed singers.

He just...picked up The New Testament one day. Read it in a week. He knew most of it from lessons as a kid, but the local priest notices Billy hanging around the church when it’s quiet, and takes the man out on his luck under his wing.

Ha.

Billy never wanted to be a priest. He and God didn’t get along. The gold-plated saint pendant on his neck had been his mothers, and he still considered it hers, not his own.

He didn’t want to join the military, either, but church and military are similar in that they keep their staff employed. Billy found himself employed with room and board with the promise of job security too.

And he was good with “troubled teens.” His priest mentor laughed when Billy called them what they were: kids with fucked up parents and shitty circumstances who didn’t know better, and who weren’t going to know better under an institution that scandalized and shamed the dirty process of figuring one’s life out.

“We need more like you,” the priest said. “Kind, but honest.”

Kind was the last word anyone used to describe Billy.

But he was good at this. Memorized the holy words like a sponge and it was a priest’s own choice to dress the part on or off the job. So Billy kept the uniform on for work and took it off when the church closed.

Which seemed ironic. God kept business hours.

So it was easy. For Billy, it had nothing to do with God and everything to do with keeping teenagers’ heads from exploding. He actually had good taste in music and let the gothic architecture ring out with so-called blasphemous rock and roll. It actually helped the kids study. He kept a bowl of free condoms cached away for hormonal teenagers too impatient or naive to look after themselves.

Every priest has a thing, though. An activity. Billy’s mentor liked putting together doll houses. Weird, but not nearly as bad as what the Vatican stood by and allowed.

 Billy chose plants. He started by growing apple trees in the church yard. The elderly patrons of the church loved it. Symbolic of God’s wisdom or whatever. Billy didn’t have the energy to remind them that their precious origin story was founded on misogyny -

“Heirlooms. Nice choice.”

Billy looked up from where he was weeding the front landscaping around his young trees. The man standing a couple steps behind him looked about the same age as himself. “You know apples?”

The prominent brow bones made his eyes look tilted...or austere. He laughed and raked his brown tresses out of the way. “Yeah. I do. Isn’t it a thing that all apple varieties can be traced back to one tree in the Middle East, or something? Don’t tell the old white Betties that.”

Billy guffawed before he meant to. He stood up and conversed, “I got these from an heirloom apple collector who sets up shop in the farmers’ market over on Lafayette Avenue.”

The man’s smile lingered on his face as he held out a hand. “I’m Steve.”

Billy removed his gardening glove to shake it. “Billy.”

“Isn’t it, Father William?”

“I’m off the clock.”

Steve piped a laugh. “Sounds like you can do dinner, then.”

Billy...shouldn’t have said yes. Why did he say yes? Then again, priests weren’t not allowed to have friends.

But he didn’t say no when Steve began to frequent his off hours at the church. When Steve helped him harvest his apples and invited him to use his kitchen to make a pie.

“Not for the congregation. For you,” he’d said. “You grew these. You should enjoy them first. Have your apples and eat ‘em too.”

“My mom once said that baking something and not sharing it is bad luck,” Billy had countered with a warning jab from a fork in the air. “You have any ice cream?”

Steve smiled and withdrew a new pint of vanilla from the freezer. “Sure do.”

And Billy didn’t complain as Steve became an expected reoccurrence in his life. How he looked kind but murmured naughty jokes in Billy’s ear. How he taught the boys that Billy looked after how to dance so they wouldn’t be nervous at their school dances.

“A babe worth your time will respect that you’re on the dance floor. You’d be surprised how much you don’t need actual skill to dance. Girls just want a dance partner. Don’t let your coaches or dads lie to you: most wall flowers are guys. She’ll leave you behind if you don’t move your ass to the music. Don’t tell her no if you want it. Give yourself what you want.”

Billy frowned a little even as he smiled at the teens’ progress and blooming self-confidence. “Pretty sure it goes against everything here to tell them that.”

Steve caught his breath and took his time guzzling from a bottle of water from where they stood watching the kids dancing and waiting for their rides to pick them up. Then he merely sassed, “Okay, Father William.”

“You don’t call me that.”

Steve pinned him in place with a mischievous smile. “Why not?”

And...Billy didn’t have an answer to that. He could only let the music cover his silence and let Steve head out with the last of the kids leaving.

Sometimes Billy liked to leave the rows and rows of candles burning at the front of the church. Observe the way their red glass containers glowed like vampire blood and made the place spooky instead of sanctified. It was his job to move the little bell-shaped snuffer over them, but more recently he had taken to stopping halfway through. He sat on the nearest pew, letting his eyes shut heavily as fatigue washed over him. As if he’d been holding himself up for far longer than he pretended...

A warm palm with cool fingertips brushed over his combed hairline. Like he’d known it would be there, he unconsciously let his head fall into its softness. The intimacy of a palm on his temple, a touch that had done him more harm than comfort in his lifetime -

He caught the wrist of that hand. Drew it away from himself as he looked up at Steve gazing down at him. Steve’s large eyes and larger hands that Billy caught himself staring at far too often. Caught himself the same moment Steve did, warranting lingering gazes and thoughts shielded with petty taunts.

Why are you here? Billy wanted to ask, but it sounded like a foolish question even before it left his mouth. Why are you here? Why are you ever here?

You know why, Steve didn’t answer but did. He slowly sat on the pew next to him, his other hand come around to cradle the hinge of Billy’s jaw...

The guttural sound that escaped him when Steve’s lips touched him induced Steve to press his lips firmer over Billy’s. Billy had not let a man touch him in a long time. Years, now. He’d forgotten how soft a man’s lips could be. What that tender suppleness did to Billy’s insides and more, lower...

He felt his dick rise to meet the heat of Steve’s tongue sliding past his lips. In Billy’s experience, every man tasted different. But similar. Each one carried their own, unique taste...and Billy put Steve’s hand back on his face. Let him plunder his mouth, savor and claim Billy’s flavor while the sounds of their lips and tongues made the ache between his legs throb.

The pew creaked slightly as Steve got up, not breaking their kiss as he circled to Billy’s front. He knelt between Billy’s legs, only leaving his lips when he gripped Billy’s knees and gave them a yank. Billy caught himself on the edge of the pew bench, uncomfortably slouched but at the mercy of those hands undoing his black slacks.

He had only a second of bewildered giddiness at the sight of his red, glistening erection open in a church before wet, molten heat engulfed him. Billy’s jaw went slack as he held onto the edge of the pew, his knees hooked on Steve’s shoulders. With every pass of his tongue and lips, Billy was sure Steve tasted a new spurt of pre-cum.

It had been so long...too long. Billy hadn’t really meant to take celibacy seriously, but after years of using sex as an escape, when he finally had safety and time to occupy himself with other interests, he’d left sex behind.

Now he rutted up into Steve’s mouth, answering Steve’s lustful, encouraging groans with his sighs and moans. Squeezing his legs around Steve and daring to let his fingers plunge into the dark, silken tresses, holding them off of Steve’s face as he came hard and fast. Billy’s orgasm punched through him, aftershocks making his hips tremble like a smaller orgasms rolling right after the first.

The flat of Steve’s tongue dragged up Billy’s cock for slick lips to mouth at the head. A high-pitched breath shivered out of Billy and Steve finally released him, coming up to taste his lips, to make Billy taste himself...

Red.

Steve’s eyes were red. The whiskey brown had become infused with a similar crimson glint as the candle holders...

But they were behind Steve. His irises should have been cast in shadow, not infused with color like flames shining through wine or cognac.

Billy’s hands gripped the front of his shirt and jacket, holding him at bay, refusing his kiss as his eyes searched him, silently pleading for sanity to see something else. To see brown. To see -

“Don’t tell me no if you want it, Father.”

Billy planted his feet on those shoulders and shoved him away, but only far enough to give him the space to slap Steve across the face.

Steve caught himself briefly with a hand on the tiled floor, only to fully collapse onto his side. Billy clutched his trousers up, shielding and putting himself back together. “Get out.”

“Why?” Steve asked. He used the pew to steady his ascent to his feet and stood toe to toe with Billy.

“Because I said so.”

Steve scoffed a mirthless laugh. Billy recoiled from the little touch of Steve’s fingertips to his chin. “Just like a priest. Righteous to all but your god.”

“Get out,” Billy growled. “Your kind don’t belong here.”

“What kind is that? Queer or...old fashioned?”

“Is that your wording for it?” Billy threw back. He didn’t dare say it out loud. Demons were monsters of legend and bullshit, not....not.....

“We’re older than your god,” Steve said like a reminder. “And according to your own Scripture, start off the same as angels. What makes us different?”

“Disobedience,” Billy spat out, but the small, even warm, smile on Steve’s face was like a mirror showing Billy his own hypocrisy.

“We, are honest. Humans, are liars. I’m no different now than any other second you’ve known me. But you can’t use Scripture against me. You don’t believe in it.”

Billy grit his teeth, upset beyond measure that even through his anger and fear, he could feel Steve’s saliva cooling and drying under his clothes. “What are you, then?”

“Patient,” Steve replied as he began to stroll past Billy, his cheek inflamed a violent pink. “Next time you want to feel God again, you let me know.”

Billy snuffed the candles out and took the longest shower of his life that night.

And the night after that.

And after that.

Billy had grown accustomed to being alone. But when lights were out and solitude sloughed off into loneliness, he felt the bone-deep whine of yearning inside himself. He felt the ghost of hands on his thighs and his own fingers could not replicate the mouth as he jerked himself off once, sometimes twice a night.

He knows what he saw. Steve knows what he saw and didn’t deny it.

The kids began to ask where Steve was. If Steve was going to show. Even the old priest asked, “Where’s that young man who’s been helping you?”

Billy would not bow. He never bowed to his father, and he did not bow to God. He wouldn’t bow to some demon -

It’s not bowing if it’s pleasure.

Billy whirled around, hand clapping over his ear as the breeze tickled his hair. Dry leaves rolled over the walkways of the churchyard and along the street. Billy scratched his ear and returned to pruning his trees as they went dormant for the winter.

It’s not slavery if I’m your servant.

“Stop it!”

A pair of elderly women startled with sounds like, “Oop!” and shuffled past him along the street. Billy peered along the avenue, but did not see any sign of the creature - whatever Steve is - anywhere.

Billy went a year like that.

Not with whispers in his ears - those only happened the one time. Like a jape at Billy’s expense, the way Steve obeyed. Billy told him to stop, so he stopped. The Devil only corrupts those who let him in.

Except as winter finally gave way to spring. Billy began to wonder if he remembered things correctly. Steve’s laughter and the way he made the teens Billy mentored smile and come out of their shells.

But Billy warned himself that this rang a lot like missing him and focused on his apple trees blossoming.

Summer came easier. The heat and the work put Billy to bed for restful sleeps. Or maybe it was just Billy’s favorite season. Or maybe it was that he finally bought a house of his own and moved out of the church’s bedrooms. He had new things to occupy himself instead of just his job and gardening. He needed to figure out furniture and wall paint, and tearing out carpet shouldn’t be nearly as gratifying as it is considering how disgusting old carpeting is.

But the slope of summer into a new autumn only reminded Billy of the loneliness that hung off him like a dishtowel he forgot to take off his shoulder.

This time, he let the congregation do a mini apple picking event on his trees. They loved it. The old priest insisted that Billy take home whatever was left since he earned it by how well he tended to the trees and landscaping.

But that night, as he stared at the apples floating in his sink full of water, mid-wash because he realized the pie dough recipe he’d used last year was

Steve’s.

And it was bad luck to not share baked goods and

“This is stupid,” he muttered to himself. He shook his head all the way to his front door, condemning himself that if he opened that goddamn door and -

Steve waited on his porch, head perking up like he hadn’t expected Billy to open it. His hands stayed in his jacket pockets as his - brown - eyes briefly wandered over Billy’s bare arms, tank top, sweatpants, and bare feet.

“What are you doing here?” Billy bit out with what little air remained in his lungs.

As if Steve had stolen it, he inhaled deeply. Easily, and exhaled, “You want me here. So I’m here.”

Billy’s stomach curled, and before he could analyze with what emotion, he slammed the door in Steve’s face.

Except.

As soon as the door closed, it felt...wrong. Instant regret coiled in Billy’s stomach, making him realize that the initial curl of his belly wasn’t disgust at all.

He wanted Steve.

He missed him enough to draw him this far outside of town.

Billy opened the door, unable to wipe away the grimace of anguish on his face as he saw those stupid Nikes still standing on his welcome mat.

“Billy?” Steve uttered softly. Like he was genuinely concerned -

Billy reached across the threshold, gripped that stupid jacket that matched his stupid Nikes, and wrenched Steve into his house. Lips crashed into his. Billy laced his fingers together behind Steve’s head, locking them together as he felt Steve’s hands fist the tank top around his waist.

Little vocal sounds escaped with Steve’s breath, panting into Billy’s mouth as he tilted to the other side, moaning hungrily. Those hands lifted Billy’s shirt to feel his skin, to grip his waist and follow the road of his spine up to splay over his shoulder blades.

Gripping Steve by the hair, he pulled him back to say, “Take my pants off.”

Swollen lipped and groggy eyed, Steve gazed at him drunkenly before going about the task. He knelt before him, dragging the waist of Billy’s sweatpants down with him. Billy’s ankles stayed trapped in the fabric while Steve placed open-mouthed kisses over his thighs, nuzzling the golden peach fuzz with his cheeks, lips, and nose, 

Inhaled the smell of Billy’s skin.

Clumsy with his pants around his feet, Billy pulled Steve off again so he could turn around and fall over the arm of the couch. He didn’t even think about it, and Steve didn’t need orders. A second later, he felt his ass cheeks pulled apart, and blurted a curt sound at the wad of spit landing against his entrance. Then another exclamation moaned out of him as Steve’s tongue added to it, laving over his hole while his hands squeezed the backs of his thighs mercilessly.

Steve’s tongue did things Billy’s past lovers had been too shy to do; like plunging inside and wiggling lasciviously, making Billy drip and drool like an addict.

By the time Steve moved kisses across Billy’s lumbar and traveled up his spine to bite his nape, Billy was shivering with need. Steve whispered into his hair, “Billy?”

His arms curled over his head to thread his fingers with Steve’s hair. He exhaled something akin to relief at the sound of Steve huffing against the tug on his scalp. “Put it in.”

Steve only fumbled a second, like he had to remember that he didn’t need to use his hands to undo his jeans. Soft flesh and heat touched Billy’s ass before Steve wiggled a little, adjusting with his hair still in Billy’s grip. The head of his cock touching Billy’s hole made him lift his ass before his hands went slack at the pressure entering him.

Good pressure. The head of Steve’s cock pushing right into his prostate and not giving Billy a moment to adjust. Steve kept his thrusts shallow, driving directly into that spot while one of his hands slide up Billy’s torso. Billy felt open and vulnerable, the soft of his belly available to Steve’s wanderings. But far from afraid, he felt wanton and sexual as fingertips moved over his sensitive chest, making him rut backward onto Steve so he came at his own pace.

Steve wasn’t done.

With that arm around his front, he moved Billy further up on the couch and crawled on after him. Then he eased the rest of himself inside. Billy’s jaw dropped just as quickly as he picked it back up, clenching his teeth, but not from pain.

He was hard again, filled with that lustful thirst as if he hadn’t just splashed cum onto his new couch.

Steve sat up on his knees, and gripped the crooks of Billy’s pelvis as he said, “Tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Billy didn’t tell him to stop.

He listened to the slaps of their skin and his own voice until Steve’s orgasm gripped his heart with his soft moans of release. He let Steve turn them onto their sides, lifting Billy’s leg up to keep thrusting into him until Billy came for the second time. Then Steve turned him all the way onto his back, lapping up the mess on his abdomen as he glanced up at him with red eyes...

Billy’s cock gave a weak little kick, and he slowly gasped as Steve crawled over him to straddle his pelvis. He took Billy inside himself, somehow lubed, and Billy no longer cared because Steve rode him like he needed this. He frowned over plush lips, panting and rolling his hips and lifting Billy’s hands to touch his body...

It was dangerous, how much Steve craved him. How he put Billy’s hands everywhere, on his nipples, on his ass, on his face to suck on his fingers. Steve was shameless and rode two more orgasms out of Billy before he begged Billy to swallow him down.

“Please! Billy taste me...please.”

Steve toppled easily with a push on his chest. Billy followed him up to thrust between his legs and feel tingles through the arteries of his legs as if another orgasm were possible. But Steve, with his wine irises gazing up at him through hooded lids, gripped his erection and pumped it slow, giving Billy time to decide.

So, replacing his dick with his fingers, Billy mouthed at Steve’s cock, before taking it inside and sucking until he tasted salt. Steve didn’t ask him to swallow, but he did, and then toppled right on top of Steve, sound asleep.

He woke to the smell of cinnamon and sugar in his house.

The smell of apples.

[lover-of-skellies]

-chanting quietly- Farmtale boys farmtale boys farmtale boys!💋

Can we get some first time smooches for our lovely Farmer boys?

I actually,, don't know much about farmtale paps, so I'm probably just gonna do farmer sans for this :P if anyone feels like giving me some more info on this version of paps, go for it! ^^

Your first kiss with Farm was something that you hadn't been expecting at all. Despite being the one who initiated it, it had still managed to catch both of you completely off guard. You'd been dating him for a little bit, but you'd always been shy when it came to shows of affection. Farm was aware of this, and while teasing you could be fun sometimes, he never pushed the issue. He was patient and laidback, and he never made you feel under any kind of pressure whatsoever.

When your first kiss with him happened, it was an early afternoon, and you were outside, helping him with chores. It was pretty warm out, and you found that it was almost impossible to find any decent amount of shade to relax in. Even doing some of the simplest things was causing you to work up a bit of a sweat, and you grumbled to yourself about it as you worked, a bit unhappy at the prospect of having to take yet another shower.

Farm had decided to take a small break, and you'd been attempting to pull weeds from the garden in his backyard. You struggled and struggled, letting a few curses slip at how this one particular weed was giving you so many problems. The damn thing almost acted like it was cemented into the ground, and it wasn't budging at all. Farm quietly watched you, sipping from a glass of water and grinning to himself, finding all of your struggling a little amusing.

The weed began to loosen, and just before you were able to finally yank it out of the ground, one of it's leaves cut into your hand, and you cried out in surprise. Immediately releasing the plant, you inspected your hand, frowning as you noticed the small amount of blood that had begun to gather around the cut. Farm arched a brow bone, asking if you were alright, and you told him that you'd gone and accidentally hurt yourself (again). He let out a deep sigh and shook his head, gently chiding you for not wearing gloves like he'd advised.

Once you agreed to start wearing gloves while working, he set his glass down and made his way over to you. You let him delicately take your hand into his and inspect it for a moment, before he began to heal the cut. The healing took place in silence, and that was partly due to how focused he seemed, and also partly because you noticed his focus. The way he looked when he was really concentrating on something was... For lack of a better word, very, very attractive. Combining that with the way he looked whenever he used his magic, and boy, he was a looker.

He finished healing your hand and mumbled that he was going to find you a pair of gloves. You quietly accepted what he said, feeling a tiny bit of heat rush to your face as you glanced away from him. He wanted to ask what was going through your mind, but decided to leave it be, in case it was something you didn't feel like talking about. As he began to lead you back into the house, you remained quiet, glancing down at your now healed hand. He really did a lot for you, and he never complained.... Not once was he ever unhappy to help you, and he almost seemed to perk up whenever you came around.

It was as if your body went into autopilot; Your head was completely void of any coherent thoughts, and you couldn't stop yourself from reaching out and snagging his sleeve, gently tugging. Both of you stopped and he turned to face you, asking what you needed. You stared at him for a few seconds, feeling your face start to heat up further. He arched a brow bone again, cracking a small smile and preparing to make a joke. You silenced him though, acting on impulse without even a single second of thought, as you suddenly closed the distance between both of you.

Your lips pressed against his teeth, and he froze. At the lack of immediate response, you began to wonder if you'd just messed everything up, and you began to pull away, already preparing to apologize. His hands caught your hips and tugged you closer to him, and before you could ask what he was doing, his teeth were once again on your lips, his cheekbones flushed a soft shade of green now. You gradually melted into it, lifting a hand to gently touch his face.

This right here.... It made you wonder why you hadn't let yourself go into autopilot before. If you had, maybe you could've been kissing him sooner.

[questioningstressing]

Mr.Loverman part 1

Stardew valley bachlors x chubby! trans! male reader. 

First story posted on tumblr. 1,537 words!

The faint chatter of false kind voices talking politely to customers over phones echoed through the cubicles, making Y/n feel empty, his chest felt hollow. His eyes stared at his computer screen, data and random memos flooded his head. 

This really wasn't how he expected his life to go, sitting in a soul-draining, dream-crushing, aspiration-ruining, cubical, run by an evil corporation that had by this point taken over the grocery industries and planning to basically take over the world. He felt miserable.

And he wasn't even given time off after top surgery. In fact, he was being forced to work, but by this point, he couldn't sue. JoJo was so rich, they worked hand in hand with the government.

His chest hurt, he had to get help to get his fucking employee shirt on, he couldn’t get paperwork because it was always on high shelves, and he was turned into a go-for because his productivity was so low. 

Y/n rubbed his hands over his face, trying to ignore the pain that was thrumming through his chest, the fresh stitches hurt so bad, he couldn’t focus, he sighed and stood up. Too quickly it seemed. 

Pain shot through his chest, it stung, he gasped, looking down at his chest, blood seeping out onto his dark blue shirt, leaving a stain that slowly started growing. His body screamed at him to sit back down.

He whimpered and cried softly, he needed to call someone, but they took away cell phones to keep up productivity, he shouted. “Please! I need help!” he shook softly as pain shot through him.

Thirty minutes passed of this, of constant begging for help, shouting, and yelling as his chest bled before his manager came to his cubicle, basically making small talk while y/n cried in pain.

That was fucking it, y/n could fucking deal with it, so, after three months of bed rest, he got on a bus and went to Stardew Valley, and to his grandfather's farm.

The bus passed under street lights as Y/n leaned his head against the window, staring longingly out the window and at the stars, music blaring through his headphones. His mind was racing and anxiety pooled in his stomach as he thought about the fact he was uprooting his life and moving 17 hours away to his grandfather's old farm.

It was too late to turn back now, the bus was driving and Y/n couldn’t stop it, he couldn’t turn and run like a scared animal. He couldn’t, his eyes filled with tears, he couldn’t cry right now, he did this for himself, he did this for his own mental health. 

Y/n let out a sigh as he closed his eyes and leaned against the window, soon falling into a blissful slumber. 

Y/n was awoken by the sudden jolt of the bus stopping, he realized this was his stop, Stardew valley. He picked up his bag and his small suitcase, dragging it sleepily off the bus, greeted by a young woman.

“Hello, you must be Y/n!” The woman said enthusiastically, a bright smile on her face “I’m robin the local carpenter, mayor Lewis sent me here to fetch you and show you the way to your new home. He’s there right now, tidying things up for your arrival, the farms right over there, if you’ll follow me.” Robin turned on her heel looking back quickly to make sure y/n was following.

Y/n seemed a bit frazzled, having just come from a 17-hour bus trip and then having info dumped upon him, he followed quickly after the woman as they followed a dirt road down to a decent-sized house “This is F/n (farm name) farm.” Robin gestured to the farm with her arm.

Weeds, rocks, trees, and branches scattered across the ground. It dawned on Y/n that he’d need to do more work than expected, and his sudden relaxation seemed to be present on his face as Robin asked “What’s the matter? Sure it's a bit overgrown but there's some good soil under that mess! With a little dedication, you’ll have it cleaned up in no time!”

Robin encouraged Y/n who turned to look at Robin, who once again turned on her heel to lead him up to the door. Once they got up to the steps Robin’s smile stretched a bit “...And here we are! Your new home!”  Y/n looked at the door and an older man walked out 

“Ah the new farmer!” he said “I’m mayor Lewis, mayor of pelican town! You know everybody’s been asking about you!” Mayor Lewis said “It's not every day someone new moves in! It’s quite a big deal!” The mayor says, before turning to look at the rickety old cottage “So… you’re moving into your grandfather's old cottage? It’s a good house…. Very… rustic...”  He seemed to be trying to make Y/n feel more comfortable, which was failing.

 “Rustic is one way to put it! Crusty might be a little more apt though!” Robin joked, and the mayor looked shocked “Rude!” he said quickly as robin laughed “Don’t listen to her Y/n she’s just trying to make you dissatisfied so that you buy one of her house upgrades.” Lewis said to y/n 

Robin crossed her arms as she made a noise that seemed a bit upset as the mayor continued “Anyway… you must be tired from the long journey you should get some rest. Tomorrow you ought to explore the town and introduce yourself, the townspeople would appreciate that!” Lewis said, a kind smile on his face, before he turned on his heel and began to leave before turning back around “Oh! And I almost forgot, if you have anything to sell just place it in this box here ill come during the night to collect it!” he paused for a moment “Well… good luck!” Before both he and Robin walked away. 

Y/n let out a breath walking into his grandfather's old house as soon as he could and dropping his bags down on the ground, kicking off his old beat-up shoes, taking off his shirt leaving him in his underwear, he looked down at himself, his face twisting in displeasure as he studied his body.

Y/n was not a thin man by any means, in fact, he was a large man, something he got teased for constantly, his soft tummy,  large thighs, and round face haunted him like a persistent ghost. He let out a sigh “Don’t think about it.” he muttered to himself, gently tracing the scars that rest just below his chest, the few things that made him happy about his body, his top surgery scars, inverted T scars sat beautifully under his chest, a reminder he was strong.

He let out a gentle sigh as he sat on the edge of the bed head in his hands, his body gently shaking as he began to cry, did he really uproot his life for this? He wanted to love it, the few times he visited his grandfather's farm he remembered loving it. 

Every time he would run around the fruit trees, climbing them to pick any ripe fruit he could, sometimes falling and scraping his knees on the tiny rocks beneath. Water the plants with his grandfather, play in the field with the cows even though his grandfather told him not to. 

The memories float into his head leaving this moment more somber, his heart heavy with sadness.

Y/n let out a  shaky breath before breathing in deep and letting out a little laugh, was he really crying about it not being up to his expectations? How much more of a ‘stuck up city boy’ could he get? 

He stared at the floor as he shook his head, no, he was gonna work hard on getting the farm to look nice, to be like his memories, to impress his grandfather, starting tomorrow he was gonna get this place tidied up.

Y/n laid in bed, pulling the warm duvet over him, causing him to soon fall asleep, and he dreamt.

He was in a field filled with F/c (favorite colored) flowers, that smelled familiar, he began to walk in a direction, the further out into the field he got he heard a group of male voices laughing and talking, he soon found the group. 

They were in a cuddle pile, a man with short purple hair and a torn-up Joja hoodie held someone with short brown wavy brown hair with glasses.

 leaning against the Joja hoodie guy’s shoulder was a man with long black hair that covered one of his eyes, and in his arms, a spikey blond-haired guy was curled up seeming to have fallen asleep.

 On the other shoulder, a long-haired gentleman rested, seeming to be smiling as he read something, a short-haired man wearing a green sweater was reading over the long-haired gentleman's shoulder.  Y/n smiled and he realized he knew them, they felt like home. 

He quickly joined the cuddle pile, all of them seeming excited to see him. He fell asleep on their laps, his hair gently being pat.

[notwiselybuttoowell]

We're Stewards of Our Land: The Rise of Female Farmers

'I was always fascinated by getting things out of the ground’

Sinead Fenton

Grows vegetables and edible flowers at Aweside Farm, East Sussex

Sinead Fenton is on an early lunch break, hiding from the sun. “It’s ridiculously intense, so I think we’re going to call it a day and crack back on in the evening,” she says. Fenton and her partner, Adam Smith, have been putting in beds and getting ahead on groundwork for next year. This year, there will be no commercial crops on the couple’s 4.5-acre plot.

They signed the papers on their farm last November and moved onto the land in March. Around the time they needed to make decisions about how they’d manage their first harvest, lockdown happened. With restaurants and florists – their main clients – out of action for the foreseeable future, they made the decision not to sow seeds but concentrate on opening up the land. “We were going to do it over three or four years, so we’re squeezing three years of work into this year, so we can focus on growing next year,” Fenton says.

She and Smith cut their scythes at Audacious Veg, a 0.1-acre plot in Hainault, at the end of the Central Line between Essex and London. Shortly after volunteering at the allotment in 2017, they heard the project was about to finish: “Naively, with about three weeks’ worth of growing experience, we decided that we’d take it on and get the produce to chefs.”

Smith worked in insurance accounting and while Fenton most recently worked in software and food policy, her background was in geology. “I came at farming from an activist point of view,” she says. “I was always fascinated by getting things out of the ground, but that is a destructive industry. Farming is nicer because I can do something for the system instead of taking everything from it.”

There was a lot of insecurity around the project. Land is contentious, especially in London, and land law is difficult and expensive to negotiate for those with no farming background. “Adam and I are both from cities – I’m from London, he’s from Essex. We’re from low-income families, and we had no access to farms growing up,” Fenton explains. “It’s basically impossible to get on the land, because it’s so expensive, or passed down through generations.”

They got the land for Aweside through the Ecological Land Co-op, which buys fields designated by Defra as only being good for arable crops, then splits them up to create smallholdings. Aweside is neighbours with a veg-box scheme, and waiting for others who’ll transform what once was a 20-acre maize field into a cluster of small farms rich with biodiversity. Now Fenton and Smith have a 150-year lease, and no worries that what they create will be taken away.

It’s not yet a permanent home. Fenton says they’ll be living in a caravan for a few years: “Another part of land law in the UK that makes land inaccessible is that if you want to live on your land you have to go through five years of proving your business is profitable, viable and that there is a functional need for you to live there.” Having livestock is an easy way to pass the test, but because Aweside is a vegan farm, Fenton and Smith need to cultivate and show they use every bit of plot.

It’s daunting but Fenton is excited about having a blank slate to work with. “There’s so much more to food than what supermarkets tell us to eat,” she says, explaining that they’ll grow varieties at risk of extinction, or that aren’t commonly grown in a mass market food system. “Seed diversity and plant genetics are serious issues.”

The three principles the couple work to are: more flowers, more trees, thriving soil. They’re working no-dig, putting compost directly on the ground and letting the soil life mix everything over time. They’re pesticide-free and are counting on the fact that the more diversity they have in the system, especially with a high proportion of flowers to pollinators and insects, the fewer problems they’ll face.

“Socially, economically and environmentally, something needs to change. Things have been done the same way by the same people for a long time,” says Fenton of the farming industry’s need for greater diversity. “I learned to grow on an allotment site where there are lots of different things growing at once. Bringing that approach into sites like this is needed – the industry needs it to keep itself relevant.”

'I'm hoping this will be seen as quite a cool career… even if it’s not’

Abi Aspen Glencross

Head of grains at Duchess Farms, Hertfordshire

It was, Abi Aspen Glencross was well aware, an odd, even inopportune time to launch a crowdfunding campaign. In June, with the country still locked down, Duchess Farms asked for support to buy dehulling, cleaning and milling equipment. The Hertfordshire farm needed about £16,000, and the money would go towards boosting the production of ancient and heritage grains for making flour.

“A lot of crowdfunders have been for charity or ‘please keep our restaurant open’,” says the 28-year-old Glencross, head of grains – or “senior flour nerd” – at Duchess Farms since 2019. “We felt a bit bad, but we lost a lot of our business overnight when all the restaurants closed and we were like: ‘God, we hope we don’t go under.’ It was quite a scary time for everyone.”

Still, if we have learned one thing from Covid-19, when times are hard, British people get baking. Perhaps inspired by countrywide shortages of flour, maybe invigorated by a new interest in left-field, older wheats such as einkorn and emmer, Duchess Farms sprinted to its target. “We’ve just done some ordering of equipment this morning,” says Aspen, when we speak in July. “It’s been a tough time for everyone but it has cascaded into some beautiful things and we’re just so thankful.”

Glencross’s path to farming was circuitous. She studied chemical engineering, but while her classmates were heading off for jobs at ExxonMobil and Procter & Gamble, she was more of “a hippy at heart”. She decided she wanted to learn more about soil and its role in food production. This led her to Blue Hill Stone Barns, Dan Barber’s pioneering farm-to-table restaurant in the Hudson Valley, north of New York. She spent four months working on the farm and in the bakery, receiving a crash course in ancient grains – an obsession of Barber’s. But the moment Glencross knew she herself wanted to farm came in 2016 in a field in Hertfordshire. She was with John Cherry, who was showing her around Weston Park Farms, 2,500 acres of land he maintains with minimal fertiliser use and zero tillage.

“We were walking around the fields of wheat and I just said: ‘Where does all this go? There’s so much of it,’” Glencross says. “And John goes: ‘Oh probably for animal feed. It’s a consistent market, they’ll take it, it’s easy, even if we don’t earn that much money from it.’ And I was like: ‘This is crazy.’ And that was the beginning of me getting on this grain bender because I was like: ‘Why can’t we grow these grains organically and not feed them to animals?’ So I realised I’d have to start a business, because there were not very many people doing that.”

Heritage grains can be harder to produce in vast quantities – einkorn, especially, is “a bitch to harvest” – but they do have advantages over conventional wheats. They typically have deep roots and grow tall, which means they shade out weeds and do not require chemical sprays. The end product is more nutritious and then there’s the taste. Since 2017, Glencross has run a roving supper club called the Sustainable Food Story with Sadhbh Moore, and Duchess Farms has worked closely with bakeries such as E5 Bakehouse in east London and Gail’s, and restaurants including Doug McMaster’s Silo. “Heritage grains are delicious: when you stop growing for yield and you start growing for quality the flavour is insane,” says Glencross.

Learning to farm from scratch has not been straightforward, but you sense that’s a big part of the appeal for Glencross. “There’s all these decisions the farmer makes throughout the year and why he sprays and why he doesn’t,” she says. “You realise that most people get up, sit at a computer all day and if they press the wrong button, they just delete it. When you’re a farmer, you plant at the wrong time of year and tomorrow it washes away your whole crop.”

Glencross acknowledges that it is almost unprecedented for women to run arable farms. She struggles to name a single other example in the UK. She also notes wryly that men dominate all the farming conferences, saying: “They have a wife but it’s always the men who have written the book and given the presentation.”

With more role models, Glencross hopes things will change. “I’m not cool in any way, but I’m a reasonably young lady,” she says, laughing. “And so when people say: ‘What do you do? Oh, you’re a farmer. Maybe I could do that …’ So I’m hoping that it might become seen as quite a desirable, almost cool career.” A pause: “Even if it’s very much not cool.” 

[afroherbalism]

"Emma Dupree (1897-1992) was an influential black herbalist from Falkland and Fountain, in Pitt County in North Carolina. She was known locally as “granny woman.”

Because she prays, she brews herbs. Because she brews herbs, she heals. Because she heals, she is the undisputed sage of Pitt County. They say her home remedies can quiet a colicky baby, cure a mean cold and scare lice off a hog.

"All that we see, everything that is growin' in the earth," Emma says, "is healin' to the nation of any kind of disease."

She was the daughter of freed slaves and grew up on the Tar River. She was known for her work with native herbs: Sassafras, white mint, double tansy, rabbit tobacco, maypop, mullein, catnip, horseradish, and silkweed.

Here is an excerpt from an article published shortly after her death:

"From the time she could walk, Emma felt drawn to the land. She would roam the woods, plucking, sniffing, tasting weeds. She grew up that way, collecting the leaves, stems, roots and bark of sweet gum, white mint, mullen, sassafras in her coattail or a tin bucket. She'd tote them back to the farm, rinse them in well water and tie them in bunches to dry. In the backyard, she'd raise a fire under a kettle and boil her herbs to a bubbly froth, then pour it up in brown-necked stone jugs: A white-mint potion for poor circulation; catnip tea for babies with colic; tansy tea - hot or cold - for low blood sugar; mullein tea for a stomach ache. Mixed with molasses or peppermint candy to knock out the bitterness. Her kind of folk medicine dates back centuries. In the 1600s, African slaves brought root-doctor remedies to America. Indians and immigrants had cure-alls, too. In some rural areas, scattered herbalists still practice."

She was born on July 4, 1897, the seventh among 18 siblings, Emma Williams Dupree grew up on the Tar River and was known in her family as "that little medicine thing" because of her early understanding of herbs.

Her parents, Pennia and Noah Williams, were freed slaves farming in Falkland, NC.

She told an interviewer in 1979 that her mother remembered being "on the porch of the old Wooten's farm home when freedom came. She was 16 when Mr. and Mrs. Wooten walked out on that porch and told her she was 'as free as they were, but they loved her just the same.'"

She was married for one year to Ethan Cherry, a farmer. She divorced him and remarried another farmer, Austin Dupree, Jr., who was born in 1892. Emma and Austin moved to Fountain, NC in 1936 and had five children, whose ages in the 1930 U.S. Census are indicated in parentheses: Lucy (12), Herbert (9), John (5), Doris (3), and Mary (1).

They remained married until his death at age 90. She died at home, at 3313 N. Jefferson St, Fountain, on March 12, 1996. She is buried at Saint John's Missionary Baptist Church Cemetery, in Falkland,NC.

Emma Dupree's "garden-grown pharamacy" included sassafras, white mint, double tansy, rabbit tobacco, maypop, mullein, catnip, horseradish, silkweed and other plants from which she made tonics, teas, salves and dried preparations. These were cultivated in her yard and gathered from the banks of the Tar River. She told Karen Baldwin that she grew a special tree in her back yard, which she called her "healing berry tree."

She explained, "Now that tree, I don't know of another name for it, but it's in the old-fashioned Bible and the seed for it came from Rome." She also told Baldwin of being an especially alert baby: "They said I was just looking every which way. And I kept acting and moving and doing things a baby didn't do. And I walked early. I was walking at seven months old, just as good and strong. When I got so I got out doors, I went to work. I was pulling up weeds, biting them, smelling in them, and spitting them out. And folks in them days, they just watched me, watched what I was doing.

Awards and Recognition

In 1984, Dupree was awarded the Brown-Hudson Award by the North Carolina Folklore Society, recognizing her as an individual who contributed significantly to the transmission, appreciation and observance of traditional culture and folk life in North Carolina.

In 1992, Dupree received the North Carolina Heritage Award, lifetime achievement recognition for outstanding traditional artists in North Carolina

NOTE:

Here is a link to a video of Mrs Emma Dupree being interviewed by students of the ECU medical research department. This video is Produced by the office of Health Services Research and Development, School of Medicine, East Carolina University.

It is 40 minutes long.

Link: https://digital.lib.ecu.edu/58575?fbclid=IwAR1e22I8_vRfvzI0nZXDBT8XG7Z-4DgiNykjqsbPD8hoD2Aw8haC2uI8vvo#details

Source;https://digital.lib.ecu.edu/ncpi/view/5581

Source:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emma_Dupree

---

Herbalist, 94, Lets Nature Heal

by Paige Williams Feb 20, 1992

Before her came African root doctors and Indian medicine men. People believed their mystical potions could cure body and soul and sometimes they could. Some modern medicines still use herbal derivatives. Few old-time herbalists like Emma are left in North Carolina. Hospitals first forced her kind out of business. Death is finishing the job. Emma Dupree's hanging tough, though, pushing 10 decades. She takes the tonic, see. Drinks it like water. She jumps out of her chair, props fists on her waist and swivels her hips Hula-Hoop style. She holds both hands out flat and squirms her wrinkled fingers all around, crossing and uncrossing, like she's making a million wishes. No arthritis there.

"There's something to that stuff," said her granddaughter, Sandra White.

Joe Exum, town grocer, keeps a Crown Royal bourbon bottle under the front seat of his pickup truck. It holds the slimy remnants of Emma's tonic: oily brown syrup that looks like tobacco spit, stings the nose like paint thinner and tastes like pine tar smells.

"I'd pay $50 for a bottle right now," Exum said. "Two swallers and it'll knock the sore throat right out." He's waiting for Emma to brew another batch. She stewed her last at Christmas. She used to make the tonic right steady, every day almost, the way she learned 80 years ago, when the woods first called her.

Pitt County borders the Pamlico River 80 miles east of Raleigh. Its largest town is Greenville, the county seat, population

44,972. One of its smallest is Fountain, population 445, founded in 1900 on the western rim. Emma Dupree was Emma Williams then, a 3-year-old growing up the daughter of freed slaves on a farm 9 miles east in Falkland, where she was born the Fourth of July, 1897. Emma was the knee baby, second from the youngest of seven girls and four boys, and always hanging on her mama's knee. Early on, Pennia and Noah Williams knew she was nature's child. From the time she could walk, Emma felt drawn to the land.

She would roam the woods, plucking, sniffing, tasting weeds. She grew up that way, collecting the leaves, stems, roots and bark of sweet gum, white mint, mullen, sassafras in her coattail or a tin bucket. She'd tote them back to the farm, rinse them in well water and tie them in bunches to dry. In the backyard, she'd raise a fire under a kettle and boil her herbs to a bubbly froth, then pour it up in brown-necked stone jugs: A white-mint potion for poor circulation; catnip tea for babies with colic; tansy tea - hot or cold - for low blood sugar; mullen tea for a stomach ache. Mixed with molasses or peppermint candy to knock out the bitterness. Her kind of folk medicine dates back centuries. In the 1600s, African slaves brought root-doctor remedies to America. Indians and immigrants had cure-alls, too. In some rural areas, scattered herbalists still practice.

"It's dying out," says Charles Reagan Wilson of the Center for the Study of Southern Culture at the University of Mississippi. "People more and more rely on modern science." Pitt County's got both. Modern medicine and Emma Dupree. Her school was God's school; her classroom, the land. While the other children played, she picked herbs. Sometimes she caught the other children talking about her: "There comes that ol' rovin' gal. Reckon where she goin' now?" Yet they always followed her.

When Emma was about 20, she married Ethan Cherry, a farmer. It lasted about a year. The story goes that Cherry went one wisecrack too far about how many women it takes to satisfy a man. Emma whacked him with a chair. Knocked him out cold. Then she divorced him. "He wasn't no good husband." She married another farmer, Austin Dupree. They moved to Fountain in 1936. Old age killed him in the the early 1970s. He was nearly 90. Of Emma's five children, only Doris, 66, is left. She lives next door to Emma's little white-and-green house on Jefferson Street, a longtime magnet to the afflicted.

Herbs' earthy aroma herbs brewed day and night. Their warm earthy aroma filled the whole house. Emma poured her tonic up in glass vinegar jugs and canning jars and kept it in a pantry off the kitchen. Somebody was always knocking on the front door. Emma would fetch it: "Now you take this with faith because it's not me. I'm just the instrument." She never set a price. People paid what they could, sometimes $5, sometimes $30. "It was a common thing for people to literally be waiting in line," said White, 38, the granddaughter Emma raised. People sought advice, too. They'd bang on the door, pull her aside: "Can I talk to you?" Fountain's own Ann Landers. "You can tell her a problem and she can work it out so it don't seem so bad," White said.

Some, she couldn't help. Once, a young girl dying of leukemia and weary of doctors showed up at Emma's door. Emma suspected it was hopeless. Still, she couldn't say no. She gave her the tonic. "I don't want to make her sound like a saint," White said, "but she tried to help everybody." Emma won't take the credit. "Whatever your talent, whatever you is, you come with it," she said. "When you come into this world, God's done fixed you with what you got to do." To townspeople, she's "Aunt Emma."

In December, they made her grand marshal of the Fountain Christmas parade, all two blocks of it. She waved from the back of the long white limousine borrowed from the local funeral home. Only the best for the sage of Pitt County.

Source:https://www.tulsaworld.com/archives/herbalist-lets-nature-heal/article_3b0e06d1-4af9-5567-93ee-bc4b50d5867f.html

[apothecarinomicon]

Spring week 1 part 1

I’m not quite sure how to begin.

I’m not typically one for journaling but it would appear to be part of the gig, as it were. I found this book—the one I’m writing in, heavy and musty and leather-bound—sitting on the table when I arrived, open to a blank page. There are at least a thousand pages filled before it, and no matter how many blank pages I flip past this one I can’t reach the back cover without closing the book entirely.

Mòrag told me things that present themselves for investigation here tend to be worth exploring, and if my gut tells me what’s right not to stray from its guidance. But I’m getting ahead of myself—you don’t even know who I am.

My name is Fionn Gill, and I’m a witch. I know, I know, but I don’t get into all that “warlock” “wizard” shit. It’s just a way to separate and belittle the same practice based solely on the gender of the practitioner, in my opinion. My specialty lies in potion-making, though I’m not very experienced. I’ve really only just finished my training—I’m from Huntsmanland and they’re not nearly as magically-inclined there as they are in High Rannoc. This is the first part of the country I’ve visited other than my tutor’s homestead and I must say, it hasn’t made the most stellar impression.

My tutor Edith received a letter stating that services would be required in the town of Greenmoor, and since the letter didn’t specify her services, she sent me to take care of it. I don’t know if she expected it to be an indefinite position, but here we are.

I didn’t bring a lot with me—just enough for the journey. It was about all I could carry walking. I arrived in Greenmoor with just about the clothes on my back, hoping they had an apothecary of their own so I could get this over with.

I’ve never really been one for small towns, and nor do they have much love for me. I’ve always thought I was meant for adventure—movement, action, peril, all of it. Small town life just feels so… stagnant. Nothing changes, no one grows or changes or has anything interesting to talk about. It’s enough to drive you mad.

Not to mention the natural suspicion of outsiders. I could see it on Mòrag McKinney’s face, even as she greeted me at the edge of town in her official capacity as mayor. Her hair was done up in a huge bun of thick braids on top of her head—a hairstyle with a formality at odds with her armored clothing.

She seemed surprised when I told her I was the witch. That’s not uncommon—like most intellectual and healing work, witchcraft is traditionally the domain of women. Even in the relatively forward-thinking country of High Rannoc, I tend to get some variation on ‘oh, how progressive!’ when I tell people my vocation. Often if you get a man doing witchcraft, his neighbors will whisper certain things about him. My neighbors back home were whispering those things about me anyway, so that wasn’t much of a hurdle to me.

Mòrag (she insisted I call her by her first name once we’d been properly introduced) gave me a brief tour of Greenmoor. It is, to put it lightly, tiny. I’d estimate a population around fifty. Near everyone has a job that serves an internal function to the community, with maybe the exception of the innkeeper. There are blacksmiths, miners, a carpenter, a tanner… she didn’t indicate any artists or poets or anything of that sort to me, which was disheartening. Even when I thought I would only be here briefly, I was hoping to enjoy the finer things the locals had to offer. The closest this town comes is a library, but I sorely doubt they have any kind of collection of works by local authors.

Mòrag pointed out all the magical resources in town, and some of them impressed me—the lunar tower and ritual circle in particular looked useful. She did not show me any apothecary, and following her aforementioned advice, I took that to mean there wasn’t one. Can’t wait to go out and experience the joys of foraging in the wilderness myself.

Once we’d gone through the entire village, she showed me to the cottage where I’ll be staying. It’s a little ways away from the town proper, down a walking path through some trees. It’s little more than a one-room thing, with only the washroom closed off from the rest of the space. The walls and door are made of dark wood, and the outside still has bark attached in many places. The roof is sloped and overgrown with moss and ivy. Inside the main room there is a bed, a large set of shelves which ought to have reagents and potion-making materials on them but are mostly bare, and a table on which this book sits. The washroom has a tub and a latrine—no plumbing to be found. Out back sits the remains of a garden, only one plot of which looks salvageable. A ways back into the trees there’s a creek. Most of the rest of the clearing is in the early stages of becoming overgrown, with trees and bushes and flowers starting to stretch themselves out and remembering how to be wild.

Mòrag told me the witch who was here before me was a bit of a recluse. No one in town knew very much about her, and she seemed to prefer it that way. They came to her for her healing potions and never made it past small talk and kept inviting her to parties and festivals even though she never attended. And then one day nearly everyone in town woke up with a gift from her—the farmers received her animals, the barkeep her ferments, the innkeeper and bakers her crops. As the townspeople tallied their gifts they realized it amounted to nearly everything she owned. They went together to her cottage to ask her why she’d given it all away, and found her cottage—this cottage—empty. The ensuing search turned up no body, no note, not a shred of evidence to speak of. It was as if she’d disappeared into thin air. As the townsfolk talked and wondered what had happened, they quickly realized no one knew her well enough to provide any real insight. They couldn’t even come to a consensus on what her name was.

They had quickly moved on to discussing the more pressing issue: the town was lacking a healer. The general store owner had worked with my tutor Edith in years prior (Edith loved to tell stories of the time she spent pursuing the culinary arts). Thus, the letter and thus, my presence.

Mòrag told me she hoped I might be more engaged in the community than my predecessor. I decided to refrain from telling her not to get her hopes up, and instead expressed my confusion: I’d thought this was a single gig, that I was to heal someone of their illness and then leave.

She disabused me of that notion with rather more intensity than I think was warranted.

She told me that unless my predecessor reappeared, I was all they had. She said Edith had spoken highly of my abilities in her return letter (I doubted that—Edith never spoke highly of anyone). She told me I would receive a base pay of 20 silver per cure to start, and that if I did the townsfolk well and they grew to like me, they’d most certainly be willing to pay more. She told me that the folks of Greenmoor were good people, even if they were a bit disaster-prone and some of them could make good use of a little more common sense.

And, well, how do you say no to that?

When I asked where I would be getting my materials, she told me the areas surrounding Greenmoor were rich in natural resources. So it will be as I feared. I’m glad I brought my off-road boots.

Mòrag left me to get settled in and I immediately took stock. There are no reagents on the shelves (of course not! Why would there be?), but I did find a cauldron, mortar and pestle, and a copper alembic (which is used for distilling)—so at least once I have the reagents I’ll be able to do some basic cooking with them. I also found a small leather-bound book with vague descriptions of some of the areas surrounding the village. I should be able to cross-reference it with my notes on the environments where useful reagents can be found to make searching for materials a bit less painful.

I pulled a matted tangle of weeds out of the garden plot, but it looks like whatever was planted underneath already shriveled away to nothing. Well, at least the land’s clear now.

One thing that I knew I’d need if I was going to be able to handle this was a familiar. I’ve never been one for conjuration but in this case it’s an unfortunate necessity. I was supposed to be getting one within the next few weeks at Edith’s anyway, and I already knew the process. You’re supposed to have a more experienced witch observe your first time, but that’s just academic formality—there’s nothing actually dangerous about the process.

I found what looks to be a quarter cran basket (was my predecessor into fishing…?) under the bed, and set out around the property collecting small rocks and flowers and toadstools that had the right kinds of vibration. They were for use in the ritual, but also collecting them was a good start to cleaning the property up. Because if I’m going to be living here, it cannot stay looking like this.

I took the basket into the woods near the creek and laid its contents out in a circle as wide as I was tall. Before I placed each one down, I held it for a moment and asked it to help me with my task. Then, I sat in the center of my circle and closed my eyes and tried to meditate. Clearing my head has never been my strong suit, but I’m usually able to fudge the process enough to do what needs doing. This time took a bit longer than usual but eventually I managed. I felt my energy (spirit, consciousness, whatever) radiating out from me, pink and orange and bright and loud, first to the edges of the circle and then beyond. All of it asked a single question and listened for the answer.

The response came from much closer than anticipated, when I felt something small hop onto my knee.

I opened my eyes and looked down to see a frog staring back at me, blinking lazily and making small, guttural noises. Her back was green and rough and slimy. One of her eyes was milky, pointing vaguely off to the left, while the other gazed straight at me. The tips of her toes (three on each foot) edged closer to brown than the rest of her body.

Having clearly presented herself, she now asked if my gut said we would be good partners.

I’ve named her Ailean.

And now here I am, writing all of this down. I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage this every day. Whoever reads this may have to settle for a few times a week. With that said, I do think I’d like to go back and read what my predecessor wrote. Maybe it’ll give a clue as to where she’s gone, and help me escape this position sooner. She seems to have been quite the prolific writer—getting through her logs could take months, especially if the townsfolk keep me particularly busy with their various woes. I’ll have to start reading sooner rather than later.

Speak of the devil, there’s a knock on my door. It hasn’t even been a full day and I might already have my first customer. I’ll finish this later.

⇦●〇●⇨

[abluescarfonwaston]

Shapeshifter Au 6

Heads up at the top this one is our “Last Wish Special”. It’s extra long and what should be no surprise to anyone- Jaskier does not have a good time! Please take care of yourselves as we move into plot territory.

Part 1   Part 5 Inspired by @spielzeugkaiser art here And Also now on Ao3 cause that’s probably easier for everyone.

Sometimes, when Geralt got hurt, he’d use his shapes against him.

Help was the word he’d use. To help him. But if Geralt preferred to think of him using his shapes against him then so be it.

“Get off me Jaskier.”

He looked down his snout at Geralt and grumbled his reply before returning to his composing. They would at very least wait until the bleeding stopped to ride back. Since Geralt insisted the injuries were not so grievous as to require proper attention.

He might very well have been right about that. Which meant they could afford to wait for it to stop before returning for the reward.

If Geralt wanted to treat his wounds then he’d let him. But he wasn’t going to let him ride off and make everything worse because he was a stubborn ass. That was Jaskier’s job. Being a stubborn ass. Not that he made a habit of being farm animals. The risk it would sour him to the taste of their meat was far too great. He refused to be vegetarian. Grass just did not taste very good. No matter what Roach claimed.

“Jaskier get off me or I will throw you off.”

He shifted more of his near 400 pound weight onto Geralt’s torso to demonstrate exactly what he thought about that.

“I can.” He growled.

He puffed up his fur telling him exactly what would happen if he tried.

He had bigger forms yet. If that’s how he wanted to play- well. He wouldn’t bet on Geralt winning. Witcher enhancements be damned.

Geralt, seemingly having realized this, ceased his struggling and ventured a new tactic.

Insulting him.

Which got him grumbling and growling at Geralt. But didn’t get him off him. Geralt knew well enough what he was saying. He didn’t need to transform to express his displeasure.

Geralt, a versatile and clever man, switch tactics yet again.

Reciting history facts but slightly wrong- the year was 1123 and he was a duke not a prince Geralt- asking questions about agriculture – cereal crops deplete the soil of nitrogen. Legumes fix this. A fallow field is left for weeds and grazing. The three fields are rotated. Together this system allows farmers to plant more crops and increase production. – and finally just asking him to play for him.

He, personally, admitted that his bear vocals left something to be desired but he didn’t let that stop him from belting out a few heavily modified versions of his favorite tunes.

Geralt covered his ears and glared at him.

It was only after three verses of Fishmonger’s daughter that he finally popped down into his human shape to do the finale justice.

Geralt shoved him off breaking his sustained note.

“Rude.” He squawked from the dirt as Geralt stood.

“I stopped bleeding three songs ago!” He growled at him.

“I’m well aware.” He grinned. “But I do so enjoy a captive audience.”

Geralt threw the bedroll at his head. Which did hit him. But he managed to catch it on the rebound, which counted as a win in his books.

“I don’t need you mothering me bard.”

“Is that what you think this is? I’m trying to keep Nenneke from murdering me next time you need her services. The woman terrifies me Geralt.”

She did. A little. Not in the way he suspected she expected to be feared though.

It was because her eyes always held too many questions about why he’d arrived before Geralt, knowing exactly the condition of the man’s wounds, even though he lacked a horse while Geralt road in on Roach.

He’d fly ahead, unhampered by the twisting of the roads, and set them to prepare for Geralt’s arrival. Or, when the situation was far graver, have them send a cart to meet him. Transforming on the road just outside of the temples view.

His skin itched when she stared at him too long. Like she almost knew what he was and if she watched him closely enough she might figure it out.

Luckily, “I mean the woman already hates me Geralt.” She was easy to annoy into not looking closely. “No need to worsen her to me by damaging the one reason she even tolerates my presence at the temple.”

If all she wanted to see was an airheaded flop of a bard that was all he would show her. Staying within the confines of expectations worked well enough to keep people from digging.

“She does hate you.” Geralt agreed with a smirk. Pleased he’d befriended someone Jaskier had not.

“Naaaah deep down she likes me.”

Geralt bobbed his head, half conceding the point.

People were complicated like that. She hated Most of him. But she liked that he cared about Geralt. Even if she didn’t always agree with how he cared about Geralt.

With how they cared for each other.

So maybe he shouldn’t have poked the insomniatic bear that was Geralt as he dredged up the lake at Rinde. But he was a bear often enough and he didn’t mind being poked. Sometimes Geralt needed to buck up and face his problems head on!

Then his throat started closing.

Which was scary. Sure. But there were plenty of forms that didn’t need his throat to breath. He’d play catfish or pike or bream or – he was just listing fish again- something while Geralt sorted out the curse the djinn smacked him with.

Except.

Except none of them would come.

He tried to shift bigger and his skin pulled too tight like it was yanking away from the muscle and he tried to shift down and his organs compressed in his chest. And he was left folded over in pain from his throat and his lungs and from being trapped.

Trapped in one form. Perhaps forever.

“Can you shift?” Geralt asked him, looking between him and Roach. Debating.

He managed a ragged sob that Geralt translated as the ‘no’ it was.

There was the bumpy ride on Roach- poor girl they weighed far too much together- and the elf with the painkillers – which helped a little. But the world continued its painful descent into darkness.

Geralt was scruffing him by the doublet. Dragging his limp form. Somewhere. He liked being scruffed. It reminded him of the old mouser in the kitchen who’d claimed him as kin when he was barely a boy. Whenever he got in trouble, or was lonely, or scared he’d just run to the old tom and pop down into a kitten. Instantly be scruffed and pulled under the cabinet for a bath and cuddle.

Scruffing meant that soon everything would be okay. He was in pain and terrified but soon. Soon everything would be alright.

 Everything was not alright.

There was a very scary woman with an amphora on her belly and-

And she was a mage.

A powerful mage.

Something in him was singing. Singing at her notice. Her attention.

He didn’t much like that part of him.

His knees near buckled under him as she gripped his nethers and pressed a knife to his throat.

“If you want to keep all you have familiar,” She squeezed him tighter. The singing and terror crescendo-ing in his ears. What do you want me to be? It sung, heart racing in his chest. “Make a damn wish.”

He reached. Reached for. Something. Some shape that would get her away. Small or big or cute or monsterous or something.

Her magic threw him to the floor and it crackled over his skin- she wants you to be human so that is what you shall be – lighting up every nerve with delicious power – do as she says. So that the powerful one might keep you – and burning the tapestry of thread he didn’t know was woven underneath his skin.

“Make your damn wish! Do it now!”

This one is better. Powerful. Be what she wants. “I don’t- I don’t know!” Lightning ran through his veins and fire blazed through his chest and- and- Be her’s. Wish to be hers. Exalted one.

He didn’t want that.

“I wish very much to leave this place forever!”

She turned from him, the burning fading. The singing loud in his ears. Scolding, screaming, begging him to go back to her as he scrambled from the building.

And Geralt was there.

Geralt was alive.

Geralt left him to that witch.

“Jaskier. You’re okay.”

“I’m glad to hear that you give a monkey’s about it.” He fumed.

The singing was quieter now. The smoldering in his chest easing next to Geralt-

Geralt was going back inside.

The building collapsing.

“She could not have survived it.” The elf from earlier- Chireadan- said.

There was coldness in the shape of the lightning flowing through his veins. Ashes in the stitching of his soul where Geralt once resided.

“Why did Geralt go in there? It doesn’t make any sense. What, to save a mad fucking witch?”

“Because she was magnificent.”

She was. The song wept.

His knees hit the ground, the pain of the gravel collision distant, over the shapeless void that pulled him to nothing.

“What am I supposed to do now, hm?” What would be left when this form collapsed into the emptiness in his chest? “It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

You should have died with him.

No.

“I’m gonna write you. The best song. So that everyone remembers who you were, what we did, everything we saw.” There was a lifetime there. In the spaces they shared. Not a human lifespan perhaps. But it wasn’t like he was human anyway. “And I will sing it. For the rest of my days.”

“He always said I had the most wonderful singing voice.”

A joke. Between him and a dead man.

If he wanted to correct him he should have stayed alive.

Chireadan knelt before him, laying a hand on his shoulder. A tiny beat of comfort in a symphony of pain.

“They’re alive.”

They were very alive.

He ran his fingers down Roach’s neck, unsure how he was supposed to feel.

Relief that Geralt was alive? Jealously that he’d gone to Yennefer? Jealously she choose him over you?

Anger?

Joy?

Hollow. He felt hollow.

Roach nudged him.

He was nearly draped over her.

He wanted that old tom cat to scruff him and pull him under the cabinet. To lick and squish and purr him back to whole.

What would he be if he shifted now?

Nothing. It called to him that nothing.

Nothing wasn’t a shape. Nothing wasn’t Jaskier. Jaskier wasn’t nothing.

Still it called to him.

Roach lipped at a saddlebag. The one he’d nested in as his wing healed.

He shoved his bloody shirt in as a makeshift nest and fluttered in.

If Geralt wanted his peace he could dump him on the side of the road.

Until then. He breathed in the way the leather bag blended Roach and Geralt into itself and fell asleep.

 He drifted back to the shores of sleep welcomed by the gentlest smoothing of his feathers.

He readjusted, further nesting into the callouses of Geralt’s hand.

“I thought.” The pain in Geralt’s hesitating voice forced his eyes open. “That the djinn took your voice and your shifting from you.”

Geralt was laying down on their bedroll watching him with those big sad eyes. Which hurt.

But not as much as the fact Geralt had stopped petting him. He shifted into Geralt’s petting hand demanding he get back to work with a sharp chirp.

Geralt resumed his gentle stroking, lips twitching slightly upward. “So bossy.” He complained.

They laid there as the sun went down; quiet and exhausted.

“We used to do this a lot. When your wing was broken. It was nice.”

He softly trilled an agreement.

“I could smell you on Roach when I got back you know? I thought you had left. I understand if you’d left. After what I did.”

He blinked tiredly at Geralt before standing to shift up. He didn’t want to have this conversation now but if Geralt did then. Well then they’d have it now.

“Don’t.” Geralt’s hands shifted slightly, like they were caging him in. They weren’t. He knew he could get out. Knew that if he wanted to leave Geralt would let him.

He settled back into Geralt’s fingers, more than happy not to.

“Tonight. Can we be that again? Just for tonight.”

Be simple. Be easy.

Nenneke always scolded Geralt for thinking he could deny destiny. Because she cared about him and knew destiny would have her way, willingly or not. It would he agreed. Geralt couldn’t run away from her forever.

But he did help him run away from it. Sometimes. Like tonight?

Tonight destiny could go fuck itself.

Tonight they were just a bird and a man sharing each other’s company.

Tonight they were easy.

[rae-g]

Dire Need of a Change: Spring 4 - You Owe Me One

You stare up at the ceiling, not really focusing on anything in particular. Your body resting on the bed beneath you. After letting out a heavy sigh, you finally manage to muster the strength to throw your legs over the side of the bed, and start your day. Shuffling into the kitchen, you open your fridge and remove a half eaten personal pizza. "Nothing says I've got my life together quite like left over frozen pizza..." You throw it into the microwave and start up a pot of coffee. I still don't get it. I thought we were getting along. Whatever. Your mind keeps dragging your thoughts back to Shane as you try very hard to do the exact opposite. Soon the beep beep beep of the microwave breaks your mental war. You retrieve the soggy slices and begin gnawing on them mindlessly as you flip through the channels on your TV.

Eventually you manage to pull yourself out of the chair and start on the day's list of chores. Water the plants, pull some weeds, clear out a few fallen branches, break up a couple small boulders. You are starting to get the hang of this whole "farmer" thing. Though it is much more physically intense than your old office job. You work tirelessly though the day, and before you realize it, the sun began setting. You wiped the sweat and dirt from your brow and headed into your house to tidy up. After scrubbing the layers of dirt from your skin, you throw on your best shirt, and favorite pair of jeans. After finishing your hair you look in the mirror. "Damn, I look good." But why? Why did you decide to get dressed up? You shrugged it off as needing a confidence boost, then headed down to the saloon.

You had just walked through the doors, and you couldn't stop yourself from looking over towards the fire place. There he was, blue jacket and all. Well that's fine, you weren't going to let some sourpuss ruin your night. You stroll over to what you have mentally decided to be "your" seat, and wave the bar-help over. A cute blue hair'd girl took your order and quickly poured you a small screw driver on ice. You sipped it casually, while trying really hard not to glance behind you. However, after your 3rd drink, your will was failing, and you looked. And just in time to see Shane quickly turn away, and take a long swig of his drink, his face slightly pink.

As you finished your drink, Shane walked up to the bar and ordered another beer... and a screw driver. You raised your eyebrow at him, but accepted the drink as he nudged it over to you. "I hate that place. I hate everything about it. It puts me in the worse mood." He said, not really to any one in particular.

"Yeah, Joja tends to have that effect on people." You started sipping on your drink, and could feel your body warming from the drinks.

"What did you do? Before you moved here?" Shane took a seat next to you, but still didn't look directly at you.

"I was customer service at one of the corporate offices. I got to listen to all the people who wanted to complain that they couldn't use their leftover coupons."

Shane let out a very small chuckle. "I've probably sent one or two people your way then."

You downed the rest of your drink and set the empty cup on the counter. "Well, then you owe me another if that's the case."

"Fair enough." Shane waved down the girl and ordered another round. You could feel your head becoming light and swishy, but you didn't mind. Shane was actually holding some semblance for a conversation with you, which was honestly the last thing you expected tonight. Not that you cared or anything. "So what brings you do this dull and boring town anyway? Becoming a farmer is quite a change from working in a call center."

"My life sucks, everything is shit, and I hate people."

Shane clinked your glass with the neck of his beer bottle. "I can drink to that. Still doesn't explain the farming."

"My grandfather left it to me. And farming seems to kind of be an isolated life. Just me and the plants. Maybe a few animals in the future. A couple chickens, maybe a cow or two. We'll see."

"Hmm." Shane simply nodded. You finished your drink, and placed some cash on the bar. But upon trying to stand, you found your legs feeling more like jello than you had realized. You stumbled a bit, catching yourself on the stool. Shane leapt up and grabbed your arm. You took a moment to get used to standing, then slowly made your way to the door. "Hey, are you going to be alright heading home like this? Do you need some help?"

"I'll be fiiine." You waved his hand off of your arm and (tried) to stand up tall. "I've been worse. I'll just take it slow."

Shane let go and put his hands up in defeat. "Well get home safe. I'd hate to hear something happened to my drinking buddy on the way home."

"Yes dad." You took two steps and stumbled onto the ground, your keys falling out of your pocket. Shane started to move towards you, but you waved him off once again, and grabbed your keys as you stood up. "Shoe laces untied. I'm good."

Slowly, and with a few near misses, you managed to find your way back home, and collapse onto your bed.

[iwantitiwriteit]

Love Lockdown - Part 2

Big Girl With a Brave Face

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Summary: You brace yourself for your FaceTime with Chris.

Warnings: Angst, Pandemic backdrop, Profanity

Notes: More heart strumming feels! Read the previous part! Gonna try and put these up on Monday’s starting next week 8/10, along with In My Feelings Monday™, when my asks will be open for all your romantic musings! Let’s get sweet and sappy y’all! I know you wanna 🥰 

The sun shines down, a crisp wind whisking by you every so often; applause for your hard work in the garden. You found a circadian rhythm. Grasp, pull, dump. Grasp, pull, dump. It afforded you an opportunity to get lost in thought… and memory. 

You just don’t get it, do you?

Baby, I want to!

Why didn’t you say anything?

Would it have mattered?

I think we can both agree we need the space…

We need to talk…

I love you.

I love you too.

“Are you okay Aunty?” Iris’ innocent voice drifts into your trance but doesn’t break it completely.

You absentmindedly respond. “Uh huh. Why do you ask?”

“Probably ‘cos you're pulling at those weeds so ferociously I think you might’ve got a few good plants,” Ines answers for her younger sister, the teenage ‘tude snapping you to reality.

You assess your handiwork and sure enough, in your pile of weeds, some good plants lie there with them, undeservedly plucked from the earth. “Oh, my bad,” you sheepishly apologize.

“It’s okay. The only difference between a weed and a flower is judgment. Here,” Ines shuffles over to your spot. 

“Ines, you’re wise beyond your years, you know that?” You stand up, placing your palms on your lower back, arching and stretching in a moment of respite. Looking over your nieces tending to the greenery you botched, their youthful vigor bring a genuine smile to your face. Those have been few and far in between these days. 

“I know, right? Could you tell my mom for me?” she kids, making you laugh. “It couldn’t have been that long since it was you and Mama doing this,” Ines smirks at you briefly before refocusing on rerooting.

You chuckle, “Ha! Feels like a lifetime ago. But, yeah, it really hasn’t been that long. Guess I just kinda lost touch.”

“Do you miss it? Do you miss being here?” Iris asks. 

“Umm… honestly?” The both of them look up at you, eyes wide and expectant. “I thought I didn’t. L.A. can be blinding in that way. But now that I’m here, I feel a little more… myself. Not to mention that I’ve missed you girls soo much! C’mere!”

A niece under each arm, hugging your middle tightly, you can feel how much they’ve missed you as well. You want to be a better aunt to them. Your love for your family is as expansive as the family farm you marvel at in front of you. Acres of green going beyond the quaint garden near the house, with the barn just behind the rustic office and rec building where the farmers are currently gathered for lunch just a few feet away. But your feelings were much like half your sister’s employees as of late; they didn’t show, especially in crisis.

Through one of the windows, you catch sight of a familiar profile; hand to his temple pressing deep into his smooth, mahogany skin, thick, dark brows knitted together in concentration, plump lips puckered as he writes furiously, occasionally taking a bite of his sandwich. He must feel your eyes because he looks up to meet them, breaking focus from his working lunch. The hand that was to his temple is now raised for a tentative wave, just as the corner of his mouth is raised for a beautiful, sweet smile. 

Your shoulders tense, your wave is curt, and your smile is barely there. You avert your eyes not wanting to see the effect of your abrupt actions. 

“I know Keith is glad you’re back, too.” You look down to see Iris looking up at you, her 10 year old face contorted into her best suggestive look. 

Ines rolls her eyes at her sister’s antics, “Oh, stop it! She’s already got the most perfect, dreamy boyfriend, remember?”

“Well, I’ve never met him. Have you? How do we know if he’s even real?”

“She’s got a point. Why haven’t we met him yet?”

“If he thinks he's too good to come down south, meet your family, let me tell you something Aunty, that’s not the kind of man you should be with.”

“I don’t think Aunty had ‘take dating advice from a child’ on her quarantine to-do list. Maybe he’s just busy; he is a movie star— correction— a superhero! Superhero equals stable income, stable income means husband material. Simple math.”

“Well, Keith has a stable and would never be too busy for her!”

“Keith runs a stable… a horse stable. Not exactly a selling point, right Aunty?”

“Aunty, tell her she’s wrong!”

The girls get to bickering and you wipe your forehead, not too sure if it’s from the heat or the interrogation you’re enduring. You check your watch. 1:39 pm.

“Shit!” Your exclamation silences your nieces as they whip their heads towards you. “Sorry ladies,” you offer an apologetic smile for the obscenity. “I, uh, gotta get ready for a call. Let’s turn it in early, yeah?” They race in the house without a second thought, and you trail behind them.

You remove your shoes in the mud room, then stalk down the hall toward the main part of the house. You wave to your sister as you pass her home office where she’s pacing, busy on the phone, swamped in paperwork. She waves you over with a confused face and shrugs as she sees her girls buzzing around.

You go to lean in the door jamb of her office as she asks, “What brings y’all inside so early? Wasn’t expecting you to be back in for another couple hours.”

“I have that FaceTime call at 2 I gotta get ready for, remember?”

“Right, right… remind me again. It’s for a writing gig?” she asks, sifting through her mountain of papers, as distracted as she was this morning when you told her your afternoon plans.

“Uh, no. It’s um, with… Chris,” your voice trails off with each word.

Your sister whips her head around, interest now piqued. “Really? That’s good, right?”

You shrug and sigh, indifference in your expression, “It’s, y'know… whatever, Mina.”

Wilhelmina furrows her brows, “What’s wrong?” Before you could contemplate an excuse, she puts a finger up to you, “Yes, thank you, I’m trying to get in touch with…” she answers to the person on the other line.

Your watch buzzes with your 15 minute reminder for your FaceTime with Chris. “I gotta go,” you tell your sister, before turning to head upstairs. The ascension to the second level feels like a death march, the impending doom of your relationship finally setting in. Each step feels increasingly weighted. Once at the top of the staircase, you pinch the bridge of your nose as if that will alleviate your anxieties. 

“Let’s get you ready,” Wilhelmina’s maternal voice drifts to you as she comes up the stairs, melting your nerves a little. She shoots you a pity smile before ushering you into your guest room, where you make a B-line for the bathroom.

You take your time and delicately wash away the grime and sweat from your face. It’s like a Neutrogena commercial, the way you come up from the sink, staring yourself in the mirror. You take note of the creases in your forehead caused by your tense brows, the pain in your eyes, your overall sullen expression. And this feeling. This feeling is like being suspended mid-air, knowing the dreadful drop was any minute now.

You know very well who is in control of the drop. You just don’t know when you gave up that control to him. The only thing you can do now is go with grace. In an effort to have some sense of control, you did what anyone in your situation would do: You turned to Google.

“what to do when your boyfriend is about to break up with you” is what you typed into the search engine this morning. You felt like a teenager. Young and dumb. Like you’d never been in a relationship before. Like you’d never been broken up with before. None of this is new. And yet, it is. You hadn’t been here before. You hadn’t known this feeling before.

The feeling of knowing the one to make the dreadful drop happen is the same one that you love more than you knew was even possible, and damn did it hurt like hell. But could it have hurt more than knowing you’re the one that brought him to this point? Especially when you know these deep feelings are requited? The love is requited.

Who knows. You just file these feelings away for later in the hopes that it’ll inspire your pen. Right now it’s time to put on a brave face. You’ve gotten so good at it.

“So, what brought this on?” Wilhelmina inquiries after a few minutes of you lollygagging in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Oh, umm… well, he called last night. It was the first time we talked since—”

“You got here.” 

“Yeah, but who’s counting,” your deadpan earns you a disapproving look from your sister. You’ve learned to ignore it. You check the time. 5 til. “Ugh, I don’t have time to pretty myself up. Breakups are ugly anyways; guess I’ll have to be, too,” you joke, leaving Whilelmina bewildered.

“Wait, what? You’re dumping him? I know it’s tough, trust me, I get it, but—”

“No... he’s gonna dump me,” you correct her.

“What would make you think that?”

“I don’t know, maybe cos he said ‘we need to talk… for real’,” you mock his deep voice; it’s how you read his text last night in your head, “and we all know what that means…”

“Hold up, it doesn’t necessarily mean that!”

“C’mon Mina! It’s textbook breakup prep!”

“Maybe for a teenager, but he’s a grown ass man. If he says he wants to talk, he probably just wants to talk.”

“Yeah, about dumping you…” Ines mumbles under her breath from the doorway. Wilhelmina stares daggers into her mouthy daughter, and she shrinks away to mind her business.

You continue to get ready, mainly focusing on laying your edges before finding a new shirt. “So, why would he suggest we quarantine separately knowing we had issues we were working on?” you debate your sister.

“Because like he said: you need some space. Totally normal for maintaining a healthy relationship.”

“Is it though? Cos when I say “I need space”, I’m thinking about making an exit. And that’s on a good, non-pandemic day. Hell, our issues alone would make me bow out. Now you add this stressful shit on top?”

“Then why haven’t you?”

Her simple question makes you stop in tracks, your brave face wavering for just a moment. “B-Because— it doesn’t matter. He’s ending things with me, in,” you check the time, “3 minutes. And I don’t blame him! I’ve been a mess lately! An emotional wreck lately! You should’ve heard me last night, it was gross!”

Wilhelmina starts to chuckle at your dramatics, but you can tell she’s laughing at you, not with you. “What’s so funny?”

“Sweetheart, you’d have to show emotions to be an emotional wreck. I think you skipped a few steps.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes as you peel off your sweaty shirt and toss it in the laundry basket. You take your wash cloth to dab your underarms before putting on a nicer top. A proper shower will have to wait til later.

“I’ll have you know that I do, in fact, have emotions. I just channel them into my writing, to avoid sapping them all over any- and everyone… like some people I know,” you quirk your brow and tilt your head in Wilhelmina‘s direction.

“Girl, whatever! From what you told me, Chris is as much a romantic as I am, maybe even more so. You don’t hate it as much as you let on. Just admit it.”

You slowly turn away from Wilhelmina to primp yourself in the full length mirror. She follows you, glaring at you in hopes she will break you down. You decide to throw her a bone.

“Last night, I told him how we should’ve been together right now. There was even a quiver in my voice because I do really, really miss him. It was all so, so...” Your sister’s hands are clutching her chest, eyes glazed like she was watching a romcom. She’d finally gotten through to you. “… so pathetic.” Or so she’d thought. The sound of frustration that came from her amused you greatly, your eyes now glazed from crying of laughter. 

“See, that’s what the hell I'm talking about! If he brings emotion— vulnerability— out of you, why do you resist? He’s worth keeping around, sis. I would think you: an artist, a writer for god’s sakes, would find some value in that.”

You stare straight ahead, fixing imaginary stray curls in your hair, and avoiding eye contact with Wilhelmina. She awaits your response, brows raised, neck craned toward you, hands below her chest with palms up, as if to say ‘Sooo...???’. You wondered how long she’d stay like that before you said something. “Are you done?”

Your sister sighs, and it’s quickly followed by ringing from your laptop. You both look in its direction, then at each other. The moment you’d been bracing for all day is here. You hesitantly move towards the chair at your desk where your laptop is sat. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Wilhelmina says before excusing herself. You almost didn’t want her to go. But you’ve got to be a big girl with a brave face.

“One last thing?” you twist in your chair to look at her in your doorway, “I know who made you believe that big girls don’t cry, but it’s bullshit. It’s good to feel. It’s okay to show it sometimes, too. Especially with the ones who showed and proved they won’t judge you for it,” she motions to your still ringing computer before closing your door.

You turn back to your desk, swallowing thickly. Here goes. You answer the call and Chris’ smiling face fills your screen. That beautiful face that’s worth doing right by.

“Hey baby! For a second there, I thought you wouldn’t answer,” he nervously chuckles. 

You smile at him but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He senses your apprehension. Even through a screen, he’s perceptive. Chris starts to small talk, rambling about work and the weather, intending to ease your guard down before getting to the tough stuff. But it’s absolutely painful pretending to be strangers. 

“Chris?”

“Yes honey?”

“I don’t wanna do this with you.”

Part 3