#antique water basket

[tanuki-kimono]

Juicy antique obi showing a mouth-watering fruit basket with momo (peach), zakuro (pomegranate), ichigo (strawberry), budô (grape), ringo (apple), and sakuranbo (cherry)

[sarahowritesostucky]

Happy Little Family

📖"A Clever, Tricky Little Kitty Cat: Just like her Mommy"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4407

Tags: dark!Bucky, mafia/mob au, dubcon/noncon, a/b/o, threats and coercion, rape, forced pregnancy, forced domestic "bliss", yandere, kid fic

Summary: You thought you'd left behind the man who turned out to be more dangerous than you'd ever imagined. But one day he walks back into your life and reminds you that, come hell or high water, you're all going to be one happy. little. family.

This chapter: Bucky shows up unannounced at your cottage, shattering the peaceful life you thought you'd reclaimed for yourself and your daughter. He's reclaiming what's his, and he isn't planning on accepting a "no."

Nickname Dictionary: vorishka = "little thief" mamochka = "mommy/little mother" kotenok= "kitty/kitten" omegya = (made up) Russian spelling of omega omegechka = (made up) "little omega" shlyukha = "slut" krasotka = "Pretty(n.)/pretty one"

1. A Clever, Tricky Little Kitty Cat, Just like her Mommy

"And then the knight took the princess away to his castle, and they lived happily ever after."

You're just outside the nursery when you hear his voice, and ice cold fear instantly floods your chest. You drop the laundry basket and run into the room, and there he is: seated in the chair you nurse from, reading one of the antique fairytale books that your mom gave at the shower, holding your baby. 

"James," you breathe, horrified. He's been smiling down at June, but now his face smooths out as he looks up at you. He isn't frowning or glaring, but you know him, and there's a storm behind those eyes that makes dread curl heavy in your stomach. "Hi Doll," he says quietly. "It's good to see you again."

Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel sick. One wrong move and who knows what he'll do. You take a cautious step forward, eyes searching James' body and anywhere nearby for a gun. You don't see one. You take another step. "James," you warn,

June makes a happy gurgle at seeing you, and James coos down at her, "Aw, yeah Sweetie. I'm happy to see Mommy too."

Mommy. Hearing that word come out of his mouth, in a setting like this, is a nightmare you've woken from more than once. You lick your lips and hold out your arms, pleading, "Please give her to me."

He acts like he hasn't even heard you, smiling and tapping June's body with one finger. "We were just reading a story. Little lady is gonna be a big reader one day, I bet. Gonna grow up to be real smart." His gaze slides back to you, with what you interpret as a world-of-hurt-coming-your-way look glimmering in his eyes. "A clever, tricky little kitty cat. Just like her Mommy."

A whimper escapes you, unbidden. 

June starts squirming in his lap, eager to get to you. When he doesn’t hand her over, she starts to fuss. He coos at her and bounces her in his arms to calm her, kisses the top of her head while keeping his somber, reproachful eyes on you. “You left your door unlocked,” he says. “She was alone.”

She’d been down for her nap when you went downstairs and popped across the street to visit with Hilde, your one friend in the world. It’s so common for mothers to do, in this tiny, Nordic village you’ve settled in. It’s the culture here. It’s supposed to be safe. You swallow thickly, eyes flitting around to try and think of what to do. You think of your gun, so far away. You’d talked yourself out of keeping it tucked behind your bed, so now the only weapon you own is down in the kitchen. But maybe … maybe if you can get him away from June … 

“You should be more careful, Little thief. You never know who might break in and take everything you love.”

“The only thing we had to guard against here was you,” you hiss. “And I’m not fool enough to think a locked door would keep you out.”

“You’re damned right it wouldn’t.” He tosses the storybook aside like trash and stands up with June in his arms. “But you are a fool if you thought there was anywhere in the world you could go where I wouldn’t find you.”

You flinch forward compulsively, unable to think of your own safety over your baby’s. “Please, James,” you beg. “Please. Just give her to me.” 

“Oh no, Dollface,” he purrs, voice deceptively soft. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, and you aren’t gonna want her in the room when it happens.” His hands tighten threateningly on June’s little body. “Whose baby is this?”

You blanch. “Don’t hurt her.” 

“Aw. You don’t want me to hurt her?” 

“No, please!” The sob that’s been working its way up in your throat finally breaks. It’s killing you not to rush forward and snatch her from his arms. “Please, I'll do anything.”

“Is that so?” He stares at you long and hard. The few seconds of silence are torturous as he holds your daughter away from you. 

James is one of the deadliest people you’ve ever met, and he’s capable of horrendous violence, but he wouldn’t hurt a baby, that much you do know. What you have to worry about most right now isn’t him physically hurting her; it’s him wanting her, whisking her away right alongside you, when he inevitably takes you from this place. There’s nothing you can do to prevent your own fate, but if there’s anything you can do to keep him from getting his hands on June, you’ll do it. Your eyes flit around the nursery frantically, its pale, dream-like decorations taunting you as you try to think of what to do. It feels surreal to have a man like James standing in this room, feels wrong.

Your heart leaps when he suddenly moves, but he’s only turning to walk over to the crib, bending and placing June in it with a surprising amount of care. Something painful lances in your chest at seeing him handle her so gently, but when he turns back around to you, all of that gentleness is gone. “Come on,” he snaps. “To the other bedroom.” 

You hesitate, not wanting to leave your daughter alone, but he stalks forward and grabs your upper arm, herding you out of the nursery and down the hallway. In your bedroom, he pushes you onto the bed. You land in a heap and scramble to prop back up on your hands, trying to swipe the hair out of your face.

“Whose baby is that?” he demands. “Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

His Voice. God. After almost a year and a half it should be lessened. The pull you feel when you hear it has no right to tug at you the way it does. You’re not even mated, which makes it all the more insulting. It gets in through your ears and spreads throughout your body, like an invasive plant, growing and sinking its roots into you and tug, tug tugging on your will: Whose baby is that.

You fight the awful urge to tell him, as you rapidly, fearfully weigh your options. It’s hard to think when you’re so frightened, so taken aback. Most people might think it wise to admit the truth, but you know this man, this alpha, and you know he’ll never let her go if he knows that she’s his. Anything, you think. You have to do anything you can to keep her from that life, that world. 

Heart in your throat, you insist, “Noone.”

“Noone?” His visage darkens. “Artificial insemination, then? I know they’re progressive and all up here, but don’t take me for a fool, mamochka.”

“It was just some guy! Just a one night stand, I swear!”

He surges in, gets one knee up on the bed and pushes you onto your back when you try to get up, leaning over you and holding you down by your shoulders. “So you did let another man fuck you,” he growls.

You jut your chin out and hiss, “Yes.” (Lying Rule #1: deliver your bullshit with confidence).

“Who? Was he alpha?”

“Why do you care? It was one night in Oslo.” (Rule #2: add in one or two unimportant details.)

“What’s. his. name?” 

A bitter sound escapes you (Rule #3: attach honest emotion to it, if you can). “I don’t know his name. I never did. I was just racking up a roster, just wanted to get laid after getting away from you.”

He bares his teeth at you in a snarl, furious, and shoves you harder against the mattress. You cry out and try to hit him, but he catches your wrists and holds them down to the bed easily, shoving you again, one of his powerful thighs pressed up between yours. “You’re mine,” he growls, getting in your face, lying on top of you. “Noone else’s. Not ever.”

You whimper and nod, shaken and keenly aware of his body on top of yours, his strength. James is a massive hulk of an alpha, capable of overpowering you in any situation, and even through your frantic thoughts, you know you’ll never be able to get away from him in close contact like this. He’s so angry, his scent gone thick and choking. You’re too panicked to plan out what it is you’re going to say next, you just wind up instinctively trying to placate him, blurting out, “What do you want?”

He leers down at you. “I want what’s mine. What’s always been mine.” On your wrists, his fingers tighten cruelly. “You’ve had your fun now, and gotten away with it for too damn long. You’re coming home with me, Little thief.”

You gasp as the pressure on your wrists increases painfully, mind flying to that cold, Siberian fortress and the life that awaits you there. You might be able to get away from him before then, but you might not, and you can’t risk June being trapped there as well. “Okay, okay! I’ll go with you, I will. Wherever you want. Just … Please let me give her to the neighbor. Please.”

He smiles nastily down at you. “Oh, you don’t want her to come along? Another man’s pup?”

Tears press at the backs of your eyes at the thought of leaving your daughter behind, but you shake your head. “Please. Just take her over to the woman across the street. She’ll look after her. Please James, she's my daughter. I won’t fight you if you leave her there. She’s nothing to you. Just let her stay where it’s safe.” 

Something in his expression shifts, but you don’t have time to figure out what the emotion might be, before he shutters again. He leans down and purrs, “Oh, I don’t know, vorishka [little thief]. You stole some very valuable things from me. And since I don’t see any fucking Picassos hanging in this hovel you call a house, I assume they’re in the wind.”

It wasn’t as though you’d simply been able to run away. Escaping had required finances, techniques, firms of dangerous men hired to plant false leads, erase tracks, ferret you away into oblivion, and then move halfway across the globe and buy yourself a new identity. The bribes alone had eaten up most of the money. You shudder in his grip, knowing that the paintings wouldn’t save you, even if you did have them. “They’re gone.” 

“I know they’re gone, Little thief.” He shoves his thigh down against you. “So how are you gonna make it up to me?”

You whimper. “I can’t,” you plead. “James. I don’t have anything.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I can think of a few ways you can start repaying your debt.” He runs one hand down your side, groping your waist as he breathes softly against your ear: “For instance, do you have any idea what she’d be worth on the black market?”

It takes you a split second to figure out what he means, and your heart seizes in terror as soon as you do. You know James is involved in every type of shady, illegal dealing there is in the world, but you’d never even considered the idea of human trafficking. Now that he’s said it, you panic that you’ve made a huge mistake by lying that the baby isn’t his. “James,” you whisper, horrified. “Alpha, please.”

“Oh, it’s Alpha, now, is it?” He chuckles meanly, the sound making your stomach churn. You’re about to say something else, beg in some other, pitiful way, tell him he’s June’s father, but instead you cry out as his hand fists in your hair and yanks your head to the side. His breath hits hot against your skin and he drags his nose up the side of your neck, scenting you. “Mmm,” he hums darkly, pleased. “You spread your legs for another man, but you didn’t let anyone in here.”

You squeak when his teeth scrape over your still-unmarked glands. “No!” you gasp, just as much an answer as it is a plea for nim not to bite you. “I didn’t, I didn’—”

“Shut up,” he snaps, closing his teeth down on the spot. You whine as he pulls your hair and slowly increases the pressure of his bite, threatening to break the skin. Horrified, you feel your body responding with arousal, heat blooming deep in your core. You squeeze your eyes shut, and sure enough few seconds later James is inhaling deeply and chuckling. “Oh, kotenok [kitten]. Still the same as ever, huh?” He shifts, hand slipping down between your legs and cupping you from over the fabric of your dress. “Ripe for your Alpha’s touch, even after all this time. How sweet.” Humiliated rage bubbles up inside of you and you glare up at him. He’s looking down fondly at you, eyes heated and lip drawn into his mouth. He lets it slide back out between his teeth and murmurs, “It’s okay, you know. It’s everything to me, omegechka [little omega], the way you respond. It’s only natural.” You growl angrily, but he just hums and tugs your hair again, other hand molding to your mound and rubbing. “Shh sh sh,” he hushes, when you cry out louder. “Don’t want to scare the whelp, do you?” 

You freeze, listening to try and hear June. She’s whining from over in her room,  not understanding why she’s been left alone when she can hear her mommy’s voice just down the hall. “Please,” you whisper, locking eyes with James again. “Please. Let me go to her.”

He grinds the heel of his hand against you. “I told you, Dollface. You don’t want her here for this.”

He kisses you on the mouth, chaste and lingering; so gentle that for a split second it makes you ache for what you once had with him. James always was very good at making love to you, at lavishing you with a softness and a tenderness even in the darkest of times. But now you can only shiver underneath his weight, because you know that’s not what’s about to happen. 

“Seventeen months, moya omegya,”  he rumbles quietly, lips brushing yours with the words. “My bed suddenly cold, not knowing if you were alive or dead. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

His tone of voice is so intimately familiar that it makes your heart clench, bringing back memories of a life you’ve fought so hard to put behind you. “Please,” you whisper. “Don’t do this.”

He tuts and shakes his head softly, as if he’s actually remorseful. “How this goes depends entirely on you. I want you to know that.” He hasn’t stopped working his hand against you, rubbing his palm against your clit and smiling at how you shudder beneath him and your body betrays you. You watch his nostrils flare as he smells the reaction he’s pulling from you against your will. “Sweet girl,” he coos. “You just can’t help it, can you?” You toss your head and screw your eyes shut, but he’s having none of it. He yanks your hair and hisses at you to open your eyes. “No,” he warns, once he’s got your attention. He moves back, getting up onto his knees and shrugging off his jacket. “You’re going to watch. The whole time.” His hands land on his belt, the buckle clinking as he opens it and undoes his pants. “I want to look right in your eyes while I take back what’s mine.” He shoves his pants down along with his underwear. His cock springs free, already hard and wet at the tip. A part of him that’s been inside you hundreds of times, probably. Something you’ve craved and debased yourself for. 

Seeing it reignites your shame, but it’s the way you feel your cunt pulse and release a fresh wave of slick, that really makes you start resisting again. “Nnh!”

“Ah ah ah, Dollface. That’s not gonna work.”

“Nugh! Lemmo go!”  

You fight, of course you do, but it’s almost worse that way, as it only points out how comically mismatched you are to him. He laughs at you and holds down your thrashing body, barely even grunting from the effort of subduing you. “Shh sh sh,” he hushes, chuckling breathily as he forces you down with one hand and strokes himself with the other. “I have to tell you, kotenok. I’ve been looking forward to this.” 

“I hate you!” You manage to get a hand free and you flail, hitting and clawing at him. He inhales sharply as your nails scratch his face. He knocks your hand away with a surprised hiss and, wide eyed, touches the spot where a tiny line of red is welling up on his cheek. The next thing you know, he’s backhanding you, sending spots into your vision and knocking you out of your senses for a few seconds. Your ears ring and you blink, stunned.

His hand appears at your throat, squeezing, pressing up against the arteries. You briefly grapple with him, grabbing his forearm and fighting, but then his thumb notches into place and digs into your glands. Your cries taper off and you go limp with a pathetic, mewling whimper. “Nnnh …”

He leers down at you, adjusting his grip, still jerking his cock as he subdues you with the Hold. “Weak,” he says. “But that’s just how I like you.”

His thumb rubs in circles, sending a rush of liquid gold through your veins. It worsens the situation between your legs, and you can’t hide that any more than you can hide the humiliated tears that prick to your eyes as he shoves your dress up and rips your underwear straight off of you. He coos when he looks down and sees how wet you are. “Oh, omegechka.” He knees your legs further apart and drags his cockhead through your folds. “And this is you hating me?”

You shake with a silent sob, despising him with your whole being, hating yourself for reacting this way. Before James, you’d never met a man who coveted your omega nature so much, hadn’t known what it was to need an alpha that way, to have your body need him. And to think: you used to like it.

He lines himself up and sinks inside of you in one, unyielding push, forcing you to open to him, carving out his space inside of you. You cry out at the force of it, body clamping down hard and the delicate skin at your entrance stinging from the stretch, but he doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated. “Fuck,” he groans, grinding in deep, his pubic bone pressing against your clit, laughing darkly when it makes you squeal. “Oh, you sensitive?” He does it again, and again, doesn’t stop until he gets a high pitched, warbling moan from you. “Theere she is.” He digs his thumb in harder against your glands and stares right in your eyes as he watches the effect it has on you, soaking up the flush in your face and the furious tears welling at the corners of your eyes. “I know, Sweetheart, I know,” he murmurs. “You really can’t help it, can you?” You whimper and he nods along in mock sympathy. “Poor little thing. I can’t imagine what it must be like, to need it that bad.” 

“James,”

He pulls out halfway and shoves back in, hard, rumbling in pleasure when it elicits another yelp from you. His other hand grabs at your waist, fingers digging into the soft give of your body. He hums dirtily. “I have to say, I’m pleasantly surprised. You look good for having just pushed out that pup. You look healthy.” You whine in protest and he fucks in hard again, baring his teeth in a mean smile. “Yeah, momma, you heard me.” He pulls out, thrusts back in. 

“Ss-stop.”

He laughs. “Don’t be like that, krasotka [Pretty(n.)]. I like it. You always were too skinny for my taste.” He runs his hand from your waist up to the top of your dress, yanking it down along with the cup of your bra, and groaning when your swollen breast spills out. You squeal in rage as he curses quietly, eyes going molten and unfocused. “Fuck, Honey, look at you.”

You start thrashing again hard, trying to hit him, but you only get a glancing blow to the side of his head before he refixes his hand on your throat and clamps down in another Hold. He gives you a firm shake. “Settle down. I told you: I like it..”

“Nnn, fuck you!” You spit on him, but he only laughs and wipes it away, leering down at you and continuing gleefully,

“Shouldn’t be skinny like some damn underwear model. Mm mn, naw. Now you’re nice and soft, just like you should be. Somethin’ for Alpha to grab onto. Bitty waist and a fat ass.” He grabs your waist again and pulls you down into the next roll of his hips, changing the angle and hitting that spot inside of you that makes stars burst in your vision.

“Ah!” 

“Mmhm. Right there baby? Yeah, thaat’s the spot. I remember.” He’s panting open-mouthed, breathless as he taunts you, “I remember everything. What you like. How you feel. The sounds you make. Fuck.”  He shoves into you hard and holds there, his licked-red lips curling up wickedly. “Your cunt’s fluttering around me, Sweetheart. Clamping down so fucking hard.” 

“Nnh!”

He laughs, but his smile slackens as his own pleasure continues to build. He angles back and looks down your body, stares at where his cock is disappearing inside of you with lewd, wet sounds. “Shit, momma. And this pussy snapped back real good, didn’t it?” 

You cry out angrily, but it’s what he wants: to see you aroused and humiliated and furious at him. He sets a punishing pace, his hips slamming against you hard on the end of each, brutal thrust; his open belt and the zip of his fly digging into your ass every time he grinds inside. “You haven't been fucking anybody,” he says smugly. “How long’s it really been, mamochka? Hm? How long since another man was in this cunt?”

You moan miserably, his cock driving hard against your walls, too rough but not painful enough to keep it from feeling good. James is big, has an alpha’s cock, and it’s never been a physical possibility for him to be inside of you and not rub against every spot that makes your body light up in pleasure. You shake your head and try to close your eyes, but he pushes his hand up harder underneath your jaw, shaking you. “Uh uh. Look at me.” 

You can’t fight off the command of his Voice, not when he’s already dominating you so completely. Your eyes open against your will, full of tears, and he rumbles in satisfaction. 

“Better.”

Every whimper and mewl you make drives him on, stoking the angry satisfaction that’s burning in his eyes—eyes that you can’t look away from as you cry out again and again, little “Ah, ah, ah's” that interrupt the cadence of your skin slapping together, all of his eager growls and satisfied grunts.

“That’s it, shlyukha,” he pants, hips snapping in hard, again and again. “You—ugh—you let Alpha know how good that feels. Don’t hold it back from me.” His breathing is getting heavier the closer he gets, his composure and even his anger losing some of their hold as he fucks you harder, sinks down on you farther, covers you with his body fully as he ruts into you in pursuit of his climax. “Shit,”  he hisses not far from your ear, face stuffed in your neck. 

You keen high in your throat at his proximity to your bonding glands—a plaintive sound that directly contradicts the panicked ‘no!’ that flashes in your brain. His hand leaves the front of your neck and scoops around behind instead, gripping you at the nape in a Scruff that feels just as toe-curlingly right as the Hold had. 

For a very split second, his breath hitches and his growling trips into a needy whimper. “O-oh …” And that’s when you feel it: his knot starting to catch on the end of each thrust.

“Ah!” You cry out sharply and grab onto him, helpless to keep your body from seeking out more, from clinging to him and clamping down hard as his knot grows and triggers you into orgasm. “Hhgnn …”

He goes feral when he feels your body locking down on him, growling and shoving in and grinding to ensure that he catches inside and ties you together. His hand abandons your neck entirely as he gives in to the instinct to rut, both arms wrapping around your waist, scooping under your back and holding you still for him to fuck furiously against. The tug of his knot inside your cunt makes you sob and come harder, losing sense of yourself as the pleasure cuts through you like a knife. 

“Fuck, fuck, ohhfuck …” The sound of his deep voice, so lost in the desperation and helplessness of his own pleasure, makes your belly flare hot with new arousal even as you’re coming down the other side of it. You gasp and pant, and eventually whimper as the bliss dissipates and you become more aware of him on top of you, grunting and groaning and fucking into your tie as he rides out the long, debilitating climax of an alpha.

You keep your eyes closed and cry, hating that it still feels good as he fucks into you, grinds down on your clit and gives your another orgasm, and another. You wait for him to finish as your brain fills with the high that comes after, that unavoidable pink cloud that you know is going to seal your fate and make you helpless to him for the next thirty minutes, at least. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head in the direction of the pillows. 

As the high starts to take you, you think about how, if you’d just kept your gun holstered behind by the headboard like you’d planned, you could be blowing his brains out right about now.

A.N.: Soooo ... This is the rape-iest thing I've ever ever written. I hope y'all are okay. Just wanted to drop a note to let you know that this fic WILL lighten up and not be quite so, well, rapey, in the future. Thanks for reading! 💖Sarah

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[opal-owl-flight]

Hey uh. Does that Inkling look weird to you?

Oh. Thats why.

Imagine. Youre a salmon running group. You see another group in the distance, running around some rocks and picking up golden eggs. They call to you, wanting to pass the eggs to your basket. So you come closer. The first of the group wades into the water, offering one of the eggs....

...with a smile thats reaching her eyes...

Too late. The "others" in her group have grabbed the rest of your team. Glass eyes and rubber tentacles. Dragged into open maws that surfaced from the deep.

---------

AND THE HEADS ALL TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHERS LIKE SISTERS :)

Youll see one of the heads braiding another heads' "hair", usually. While the middle head tinkers with one of the puppets.

Sometimes the middle head goes and picks beaks and ragged clothes/hardhats from her sisters' teeth. Like one of those cleaner fish

For a so called monster, shes well-groomed. Makes sure her scales are all shiny and clean and the middle head dressed all nice and neat :)

"Scylla" btw is what the Inkfish call her. Inspired from legends of antiquity. Her salmonid title is likely smth else.

--------

EPIC THE MUSICAL BRAINROT. I HAD TO DRAW SALMON SCYLLA. SHES MY FAVORITE SALMONID OC NOW. HOLY SHIT

[hiraeth-sonder]

Entangled Branches - Queqiao

Jingyuan x Reader

Courting is a matter that requires the utmost tact, though exceptions can be made when you're just that old

//I think this just turned into me dumping about ancient Chinese courting gifts. Poem is 秋夕 by 杜牧.

Holding a needle between your deft fingers, you embroider brilliant thread through the plain fabric, eyes focused on the prick of metal weaving in and out as the image of mandarin ducks slowly forms. One much more colourful than the other, thread of ochre and cerulean decorating the foremost bird’s feathers, the second adorned with milder shades of greys and sepias. Cyan lotus pads scattered around the two birds provide some sense of atmosphere, accompanied by scant petals, all that is left for you to do is to tidy up your ducks and add additional ripples of water.

A hand reaches to grab your scissors, snipping away the last remaining bits of orange thread that now finished the last duck. You mindlessly thread grey string through your needle, piercing through the white fabric to sew wavelets around your ducks. Your fingers ghost over each hill and ridge, feeling for imperfections that might snag. You are well aware that what you make does not have to be perfect, but your pride would not let you give someone anything less than your utmost. 

It is perfect, more than perfect. You cannot help the tightness in your chest and the soft smile that creeps up your lips, thoughts not quite racing but on the verge of. Still, you must calm your thudding heart as your hands meticulously free your fabric from its wooden confines, spreading it smooth against the wooden table. Sunlight peaks through the window by your side, verdant leaves just visible behind the elaborate frame, illuminating your work properly, you take a moment to merely let your thoughts wander. 

Spice sachets are by no means some modern gift to give your lover, perhaps more common in the days of your youth but surely not now. Back then, they were used as insect-repellent or air fresheners, some people also believed that they protected the wearer against evil spirits. Truthfully, he would have no need for it, but call you an old sentimental coot, you just could not help yourself from wanting to protect him, even in your own silly antiquated way. 

Before the thought of actually sewing the pouch comes to mind, your head immediately jumps to the basket weave of herbs long sun-dried for use. It had taken a bit of time to get them, seeing as the alchemy commission was being quite nosey about their use and you had not the heart to tell them. So you did the next best thing and lied, citing that you needed them for cooking. Of course, it was only then that they lightened up, but that did not mean that you could not feel their stares as you scurried away. 

The herbs, shrivelled and colours dulled, provide an ever so slightly scent that floated lightly through the air. A pleasant smell, one that relaxed without being excessively heady or strong. Though you had worried that such a gift would only worsen your lover’s sleeping habits, your concern for him won out in the end. 

Still, you turn away from them to work on sewing the satchel together, far easier work compared to the actual momentous task of embroidery. It goes by much faster than you expect it to, with your mind drifting to familiar faces and that even more familiar emotion. Before you know it, the satchel has taken on the shape of a lotus pouch, drawstrings and all. You attach the beads onto the strings and all that is left to do is to place your herbs in. With a delicate hand, you slowly stuff them in, layering them as if anyone would even open the pouch. 

Tugging on the drawstrings, you hold it to your chest for a moment, your eyes fluttering close and imbuing your prayers for him. To be safe and prosperous, able to do as he wishes without fear or shame, and most importantly for him, for his workload to decrease. A soft sigh escapes you, though it is not one of resignation or annoyance but rather fondness, horrid fondness.

You will find some way to slip this into his office, granted that would not be some hard act with how often he is not in. Still, there had to be some subtlety to your actions, you would ruin all the fun if you refrained from such. Of course, finishing one just means you will have to start the other. You could not possibly think of not making one for that disciple of his, especially when he just keeps getting himself in some kind of trouble. 

You shake your head as a soft smile tugs at your lips. Truly, you must have been some saviour to be granted such people. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

银烛秋光冷画屏，轻罗小扇扑流萤。

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He holds up the wooden comb up to the light, keen eyes pouring over every aspect of the humble item. Dark wood carved into elegant depictions of verdant bamboo and a crane, the tines were slender yet sturdy, spaced perfectly to glide through hair. Before him were many more options of such, each comb’s design more elaborate than the last. 

The thought of seeing any of them in your hand, fingers wrapped around the wood as you detangle your hair, works oils with that sweet scent that seems to always coax him closer, it sends a soft warmth to his limbs. He does not quite know how to explain it, a rather pitiful situation for someone known for his flattery and skillful words, but he finds that even when you are doing the most mundane things, he loves you just a little bit more. Perhaps others may call him love-addled in the head, but under soft moonlight, in nothing but your sleeping garments with your hair let down, he imagines that fond glint in your eyes and just cannot help himself but yearn to bear witness to such a sight for the rest of time. 

The idea of gifting you a comb has been borne out of spontaneity, something he is not the most familiar with but still welcome. It had been custom for combs to be gifted between lovers, a desire to grow ‘old’ with said person, and he supposes that such a sentiment is rather difficult to continue on when long-lives and mara are two very common phenomena. It is rather silly, but a comb is a practical gift and he has always believed that if given the chance, if the two of you were merely two mortals, you would be happy to watch the wrinkles appear on each other’s face and for your hair to turn grey. You would still be beautiful, aged with the years spent together and the joy evident upon your visage, crow’s feet, smile lines and all. 

When he returns to his senses, his hand has rested upon another comb. A lighter shade than the first, though the quality is still just as immaculate, the spaces between the tines are much larger, not as tightly packed as the last. Though arguably a lot less intricate than many of its predecessors, there seemed to be a certain charm to it, humble jasmine flowers carved onto the main body with a care that went far beyond ornate. The very engraving of each petal laden with care, ridge and valley of complete smoothness, the simple design far conveyed to him the vision of you than the rest.

He thumbs over the engraving, smiling to himself as he imagines you once more. Again that old image of you at your night-time routine, this time with this very comb in your hand as you call for him, your voice gentle along the night wind with the smell of sandalwood in the air. It really is foolish of him to keep musing, and yet no matter how many times he says it, he truly has been reduced to a languishing simpleton of a man when it comes to you. 

“I shall take this one,” He hums, cradling the comb in one hand as he hands it to the seller. 

The seller takes one look at it, a contemplative look appearing on their face before their brows furrow. Taking it into their own hands, they send him a complex look, not quite judgemental but surely urging, “Ah, this plain old thing? I’m certain that we have other combs you will certainly be much more interested in.”

A soft breath escapes him, mostly out of amusement than any negative sentiment. He only nods his head, reaffirming his desire for this specific comb out of the litany he was presented. 

“Apologies, but I’m quite certain.”

When the seller notes his conviction, they just accept it. They must surely still be confused at his choice but he does not see why he must explain himself, after all, when it comes to someone such as you, even he cannot explain the manner in which even the simplest things remind him of you. 

“I see, of course.”

The comb is promptly wrapped up in delicate paper and fastened with string, tied in a knot you will no doubt struggle with but will admire for all of five seconds. When it is brought back to his hands, he thanks the merchant and his chest grows warm. 

A comb for his beloved, jasmines adorning your head, surely he must have been some great saviour in his past life to be able to have such a sight. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

天街夜色凉如水，坐看牵牛织女星。

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“General, would you perchance have the time to accept this lowly one’s gift?” 

Your arrival to the seat of Divine Foresight has long been announced, a notion that Qingzu and the routine cloud knights were made aware of even before you could fathom planning your next visit. After all, when the general has come to expect your presence sliding in when everyone least expects it, you gain some perks. 

“You and your formalities,” He laughs, his voice dear to your ears. Jingyuan’s eyes, framed by those long lashes, focus upon you. Seated at his desk with mounds of scrolls to look upon, though he would usually be more than happy to be dozing off right this very moment, the energy at which he responds only boosts your excitement, “Of course I do, I’ll always have time if it's you.”

“Old sap.” Shaking your head, you can only let that fond smile appear across your face as you make your way to his desk. 

It is by no means an arduous journey, and it is not long before you are granted a full view of a certain someone’s rather smug face, almost feline-like if you will. Furthermore, you suppose you also should have expected that he would pull you closer towards him, his head all but resting on yours if not for the fact that you still needed to give him something. Still, you ignore the way your breath hitches for just a moment, the familiar scent of sandalwood and tea that clings to his form drifting to your nose and coaxing you to relax, instead you reach for the spice sachet and place it in his waiting hands. 

He accepts it readily, and it is by the slight widening of his eyes that you know he recognises exactly what you have made for him. After all, it is not like spice sachets are commonplace in this day and age. 

“See, I’ve made it so you can attach it to your belt,” Your voice is low, your head leaning against his shoulder as you fiddle with the strings. You can feel his breath fanning against you, his much larger frame a steady pillar“And it's not too long so it won’t get in your way.”

He is quiet for a moment, admiring the pouch as he turns it over and finds new details to marvel upon. Then, he speaks, voice low and teasing,“My dear, are you saying your beloved stinks?”

“No, I'm saying the air around you stinks.” Huffing, you nudge him with your elbow, a notion that he also clearly finds amusing, as he makes an over-exaggerated ‘oof’ to your light tap. 

Jingyuan only laughs at that comment, wrapping an arm around you so that you may be closer to one another. Still, he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, a doting smile on his lips. He whispers, “Thank you for the gift, I’m certain your blessings will keep me safe.”

“You better, if I have to find out from Qingzu that you got some grievous injury again I think I’ll be the one going mara-struck instead.”

“Oh then whatever shall I do? I suppose I can only trouble my dear wife to take care of me so that I won’t end up in the healers again.”

At that, you barely resist the urge to butt him with your head, another overfond sound escaping his lips, sounding more like sweet birdsong to your ears that you may hear his amusement and joy so clearly. Though, it is not long until you notice the weight in your lap, some object wrapped in paper and bound in string. When you meet his gaze, he only gestures for you to open it, golden eyes glinting with some indulgent sentiment. You do so, fussing with the knot but eventually unwrapping the paper to reveal a simple wooden comb, jasmines carved onto its body. 

The breath in your lungs seems to escape you, for your words get carded in your throat and all you can muster is a pathetic, “You…” 

“You old coot, getting me a comb,” You chuckle, an attempt to hide how choked up you were. “We’ve already spent so many years together and you….”

Jingyuan looks to you, and you are certain that if a mirror were to be brought to both of your faces right this very moment, what would be found would be merely two senior citizens playing at youth. Though, with the many hardships that the centuries have put you through, you cannot quite say that  you quite mind this kind of childish tomfoolery. Why else would you call upon childhood sentiments? Why else would he choose such a gift? 

Holding up a hand to cradle his face, he leans into your touch, those soulful eyes once again meeting yours. There is such a profound affection within them that for a while, it scared you. Yet now, being the one most privy to such a sight, those eyes who hold the sun and make you yearn to protect him, it comes to you as natural as breathing. 

“What do you say, my dear?” He offers, cocking his head to the side as those mellow words sink in. 

You can only shake your head, an overly indulgent quirk of your lips pulls your lover closer. It is not the first kiss you shared, and it is certainly not the last, for there will be a long, long time before one of you meets your ends.

[udretlnea]

The Divine City: Some Slices of Life

Part 1 (here) \ Part 2 \ Part 3 \ Part 4

“Amor Fati - ‘Love your fate’, which is in fact your life”

Friedrich Nietzsche

On the early morning of August 2nd, the grapes glistened like jewels as the rising sun reflected off of the morning dew. Their size and color was telling. It was time to harvest them.

The grapes of the Divine City were big and purple. Henry smiled to himself as he plucked several clusters of grapes with one hand. With Volksfest arriving this month, so too does the harvest. Naturally, this meant that the pumpkins were also ready; the wheat, ripened earlier in July, was in the middle of being gathered.

Sometimes, Henry imagined the farmlands to be as vast as half the continent. To him, this was his entire world (ignoring the bi-weekly trips into the city for the house). The farm boy thought about what it must look like to visitors; waking up at the crack of dawn, toiling in the fields, tending to the animals. It was all honest work that he deeply admired in his gut. 

A part of him thought it was romantic. There was just something about all of…that which made him feel warm and fuzzy. 

Suddenly, a sharp pain in his palm made him cry out. He pulled back his hand and clutched it close to his chest. Henry frowned at a particularly sharp branch, then slowly uncovered his palm.

He sighed in relief. It didn’t break the skin which means no blood. Good.

As he stared down at it, he saw he’d dropped a cluster of grapes. Tutting, he brushed it off and put it in the basket with the others before moving on. He looked around him.

In distant fields, neighbors were making quick progress judging by how far down they were on their grapevines. Meanwhile, he still had three quarters of his section to go. If he wanted to finish early, he’d have to go into overdrive.

 And so like all teenagers who wanted to finish early to play, Henry shut his mind off and went to work. That way, time would pass quicker. Before he realized it, Henry finished harvesting and placed his buckets of fruit in a cart with the rest. Then he jogged as quick as he could to the city.

Getting there took around ten minutes, but he made it to his destination. A boarded up hole in the wall leading to the inside. He recalled his dad calling it a service tunnel. For what, he wasn’t sure, but it sure did him a good service by allowing Henry to sneak past the entrance. 

The Divine City lacked a proper name because nothing could really describe it in one word. At least, that’s what Henry thought as the cart passed the gate after a brief stop. He could feel his excitement building up. It was almost difficult to contain, like trying to cover up an overflowing bucket of water.

He wandered around almost like a kid in the candy store.

Stores were already putting up signs advertising their wares. Henry noticed a man strongly hammering on a giant sign that proclaimed it sold the best high-quality wine. 

Not even several days in, and competition’s already started, huh? He quietly chuckled to himself. Resting a knuckle against his cheek the farm boy imagined himself of drinking age, entering one of the pubs. It was a pretty image that he entertained while the cart kept going. 

The taste of wine was something he had to fabricate from scratch. One of the downsides to being a teen was his lack of experience for everything; he was aware of his naivete to an extent. But he believed he made up for it with his good natured rascalism. He wasn’t going to apologize for being himself - unless it actually harmed an innocent.

Finally, the cart stopped. Henry hopped off and jogged away. There was something he needed to do here before the morning rush.

Henry ducked into an alley. He remembered the way - or more accurately he remembered what the store looked like and memorized the route for that singular place. And ONLY that place. 

It was a small antique shop sandwiched between a cafe and a hat store. The appearance was somewhat dull, but no less interesting.

Henry opened the door and was greeted with a pleasant chime. Almost immediately a rough voice yelled out, “Welcome to Timeless Treasures! How may I help you?”

A giant wall of muscle stepped into view. He wore a green plain apron over a white collared shirt and dark blue slacks. A nametag reading “Havel” was tagged on the apron’s left. In Henry’s opinion, his massive frame made for a funny image among the delicate looking and priceless antiques; he wisely kept that thought to himself.

“What is up, Havel my good man?” Henry asks casually as he saunters up to the counter. “I’m here for my super special thingy-mabob.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Aye. I’ll have your ‘thingy-mabob’ in a jiffy. Stay there and don’t touch anything.”

Henry does so. He waits for two minutes when Havel comes back holding a moderate sized wrapped box; the bright teal green and the golden ribbon made it pleasant looking. The teen excitedly reaches in his pocket to place a somewhat heft pouch. It lands on the counter with an audible thump. 

Havel picks it up and counts it off quickly. After he’s confirmed it’s the exact amount, he puts it under the counter. In that moment, Henry feels his chest glow warm with pride; all those months of saving his allowance combined with doing odd jobs paid off. He could almost imagine the look on his parents’ face when it was time to reveal his gift.

But that is in the future when Volksfest truly kicks off.

Henry gives the owner a brief thanks then heads back the way he came. To his amusement, he found the morning rush just starting to form; he turned to a cart parked in front of another cafe - seriously, how many cafes does a city need - and snuck back out the way he entered.

Henry ducks out of the service tunnel exit without a sound. The walk back home is silent. Around him, signs of life make itself known. Squirrels climb down to forge for food while the birds begin singing their songs. 

The breeze blows through hair and branches and the sunlight warms his skin. All of this reminds him that he is living in this moment.

He sees his house and vacantly wonders if they'd even love his gift. Doubt creeps in and weighs heavily in his gut, threatening to spill. Then, anxiety sweeps in and soothes his worries just as quickly. His parents and siblings will love it. In that he must have faith.

Before he even realizes where he is, he’s opening the door. His nostrils are assaulted by the sugary smell of cinnamon and dough.  So far, nobody seems to have noticed him gone.

He gives a silent thanks to Her Grace, though even now his guard is on high alert. Quietly closing the door, Henry sneakily climbed up the stairs. His room was empty.

He seized this opportunity by hiding the present underneath his bed. For added protection he covers it with some old white cloth.

Now satisfied, he dusts himself off. Henry turned around-

POMF

-to be hit harmlessly in the face with a pillow.

When Henry swats it away, a young boy with dirty blonde messy hair frowns at him.

The boy opens his mouth to reveal gaps in his teeth. “There you are! Where were you? I've wanted to play Upholders ever since we finished harvesting!” 

Before Henry can reply, his little brother grabs his wrist. He gives no resistance.

Thus in the morning of August 2nd, Henry was dragged away to play with his younger sibling. As the sun continued to rise over the horizon, its light managed to reflect off of a lone cloud in the otherwise clear sky. It observed the city almost like a hawk.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

A/N:

The Divine City by @yuriisclumsy

Volksfest: “╰[A Volksfest (pronounced [ˈf��lks. fɛst]; German for “people’s festival”) is a large event in German-speaking countries which usually combines a beer festival or wine festival and a traveling funfair.] 

Volksfest begins in Autumn – August to November – because it is harvest season.

Please let me know your comments, thoughts, and critiques? Literally, anything to help improve my writing. I need to see if I can consistently update on a project and build on something pre-existing pleasingly.

Speaking of, you’ll get to learn more of these characters after this work. As I said before, this is set-up; we’ll introduce them all first before getting into the real character exploration stuff.

(ALSO FIND IT ON AO3)

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////

???: Done and posted. That...wasn't so bad.

???: Hm. Now comes the tricky part. Consistency's always a muddle-fudging issue. Oh. I see we're censoring our words now. Lovely.

???: Sir, I must ask: is this... post-commentary just copying the original?

'Sir': P-34, the Greeks did this thing where they commented on the action of a play. They called it a Greek chorus; also, it's what I named the lab after. Besides, these four squirts are gonna need someone explaining their actions. Though, buying a gift at an antique shop for their parents? Novel.

P-34: Yeah...if I were him I'd buy his parents something practical. Or tasty. Mmm...like potatoes dipped in cheese.

'Sir': I...remind me: were you always this hyperfixated on potatoes?

P-34: You tell me. You made me.

'Sir': Hmm...eh. I guess my little brother was rubbing off of me that one time. Whatever. Who's next.

P-34: Uhh says here...some female youth from the core section?

'Sir': Upper class. Lovely. I need to practice writing those. I'll go pull up files for any examples we recorded. Tomorrow.

[digitalgirlguide]

KIMMY’S DIGITAL DIARY

July is here, and it’s like the summer just gave us a big, warm hug! The days are longer, the sunsets are more stunning, and every evening feels like a celebration of light and colour.

The roses and daisies are showing off their best selves, filling the air with sweet scents, and the sun is treating us to those golden-hour vibes that make everything look like a dream. 💭

June was a whirlwind of beach trips, ice cream dates, and unforgettable moments. New jobs, new opportunities, and new money are rolling in, which is super exciting! But if i'm being 100% honest —it also had its share of meltdowns, frantic deadlines, and new routines. I've learned that now more than ever, i need to get my sh*t together and stay on track with my goals.

Psalm 121:7-8

The Lord will keep you from all harm— he will watch over your life; the Lord will watch over your coming and going both now and forevermore.

what’s in?

summer picnics: Grabbing the besties and a basket full of goodies for some sunshine and laughter in the sun ☀️

fresh fruit smoothies: Blending up nature’s candy for a refreshing and healthy treat!!! my current fave is a mango, strawberry, pineapple and orange juice blend 🍓🥭🍍

spontaneous road trips: Hitting the road with no plans, just the open road and endless possibilities., i looooove driving by the water and exploring the cities nearby. i always find a cute antique shop or new food truck.

what’s out?

burnout: Pushing yourself to the limit and forgetting to relax. you need to promise yourself that you'll schedule at least 20 minutes for self care

overthinking: Letting worries steal the joy from your sunny days. if you stress about it before it happens you're putting yourself through it twice. and that doesn't make sense!

clutter: Holding onto things (and thoughts) that no longer serve you.

FOMO: Stressing about what everyone else is doing instead of enjoying your own journey.

until next time,

mwah!

XOXO

[husbandohunter]

YOOO hello!! first of all, I hope you are doing well Nya ^^ remember to take care of yourself, stay healthy, and drink lots of water, mkay? good good :) (ur writing is astounding btw i love it sm)

second, may i request a childe angsty (not much tho, just missing him- does that count as angst lmao) + fluffy scenario (or the uh dot hcs thing?? with lil scenario after it?? idk how to call it 💀 but yeah you can choose :D) with a timid, reserved s/o? like... you're feeling a bit down and miss him, waiting for him to return- and when he does, you just- dash into his arms, while he sits there paralyzed, since you don't generally initiate the affection. too shy to do so- however when u do he softens at ur cuteness,, (regretting your decision afterwards cause he makes you blush while praising you- way too easily- and he admires you more while u bashfully avoid his gaze-)

and while cuddling he asks as to why you did that, if something occurred... noticing you were sniffling instead of talking, he halted to take a look at your face, freezing once he saw your profile, crystal clear tears painting it. wiping them away, he cupped your cheeks with his greater hands and before he could utter another word, you answered him, his worried expression transforming into a surprised one unimaginably fast.

"I just... love you so much Ajax. I love you..."

repeating that over and over while delicately holding his hands close to you, a soft smile decorating your lips as you leaned into his palms. and he just. smiles too completely melting-

aand that's all i can think of-- i hope that gave you enough fuel to think of the scene hh- obv take your time with it pls don't feel rushed okay? ik you're busy and have many requests already hh ^^ take a break if you must! farewell!!

Sweetness [Childe x Reader]

Synopsis: Childe can expect all kinds of ambushes but not the one that attacks him in the heart!

Genre: gender neutral reader, mild angst to fluffy fluff

(A/n): First off you’re so sweet anon. I don’t mean to take this long but I do think about the blog and you guys every once in a while. I hope this was to your liking, though got self-indulgent with the last part xD Childe is either badass or an absolute clown🤡 there’s no in between

============================

• Childe had been sent away on a mission in Snezhnaya two months ago. He wrote letters to you in his absence. Until the weekly letters became nonexistent. It was due to the fact been busy over the course.

• But you didn't know that. Demands of being the 11th Harbinger had made things difficult for him to even sit down and relax.

• And when he finally got the chance to pick up his inkset, the man falters yet again over another crumpled sheet tossed into the waste basket.

• How on Teyvat should he begin after weeks going cold? Since when was the last time the two of you properly talked? Were you so furious that you didn't write back?

He felt as if he was being physically beaten by these incessant questions, plagued by scenarios that don't exist.

Childe blankly stares at the ceiling of his hotel suite. It was deathly quiet. The candle burns alight, confined in the glassjar designed by Snezhnayan antiques, and he swore he could even hear wax dripping down the sides.

The Harbinger slaps a hand over his face and groans, "Haaaa, I can't believe I'm actually losing my mind over this."

Hopefully no one sees him in his current state. Their Fatui leader fussing with love letters akin to a teenage boy's first crush. Earlier the evening Childe announced to his assistant that no one shall disturb him while he is issuing an important message to overseas, otherwise they meet a harsh punishment under his command. That was an excuse. A very silly excuse. There was no diplomacy to be made overseas, just one man missing his lover.

The picture of your most recent expression shows up and Childe meticulously carves it out of his imagination. While you were not the type to be vocal about your affections, reserved and somewhat aloof, somehow that itself was a charm of yours. Perhaps he likes a good challenge, perhaps the spark between you two ignited when he kissed you on a fluke. And when you couldn't form the words to your clouded thoughts, actions alone were more than enough for the man to be satisfied.

"Let's see where this goes, yeah?"

Then one meeting turns to another, three dates turn to four, and before he knew it, Childe has been looking forward to spending time with you ever since. A part of him waiting for answers yet to be said. Do you like him the way he likes you? Even though everything he does appears to be whimsical and reckless? This long distance makes him think they were almost not real drives him mad.

What if you were seeing someone else?

A pause, the information too great for him to process. Childe spasms in his seat and slaps both palms flat on the surface table, sounds resonating through the room, enough for his assistant outside to hear.

Nah, who am I kidding? The man waves off the idea like an impractical joke. There's just no way. Sure you were attractive and alluring with mystique, Childe is certain that he had no competition. After all he was a Fatui Harbinger for Archon's sake. Crafty, handsome, strong with a good sense of humor, he's your ideal man. No one's got a shot at this other than him.

Except all those statements existed only in his head.

How the hell should he know what you're thinking about?! The man rests his face on a propped up palm, tapping the desk with the other as he thought deeply. No, a love letter won't work anymore. He needs a new way, preferably something enough to encapsulate his charms as he sweeps you off your feet and makes your heart race at the idea of him. He needs a strategy.

Should I invite them for a fancy dinner?

Childe has already done that a few times, something fresh would be more preferable. Oh, he could pull off the classy tactic of buying a bouquet of flowers and surprising you with it. But that's so cliche. Ugh, he cringes, what if you think he's lame?!

The assistant guarding outside knocks on the door, "Sir, is everything alright?"

"Yes," Childe replies back, rather annoyed, "I thought I told you not to bother me."

"M-My apologies," he hears the assistant scurry away in quick steps.

Finally, some peace. The Harbinger checks the time. It was half past sunset. All the soldiers should be assigned to their pre-booked rooms since was going to be their last departure.

"Fuck...." Childe breathly mutters. This is taking longer than it should. He already had you guessing over his actions, for a month in fact. At this rate, he'd have to show up without a pre-warning explanation of why he wasn't answering your calls.

The snowstorm outside ceases to relent like a reflection of his own. What he feels right now, what he's doing, the Harbinger knows well enough this wasn't some fluke. Childe sinks into his arms and looks at the flickering candle, focusing on it's small flame, wondering, if you're thinking of him the same way.

• Sitting by the windowsill, watching the view that leads to your front yard, visualizing a cheerful man with ginger hair and waving from the trees.

• Ajax. You missed him but wasn't sure how to say it. Papers and envelopes were tucked away in a corner where you could easily reach, savored and impatient for his return.

• They were mostly filled with stories about his homeland, places that he wanted to take you, and sometimes mentioning how his work got the better of him. You figured his silence must be the fact he was busy. At least, that's what you convinced yourself to believe.

• What could he be doing right now?

Ajax's name hasn't appeared in your mailbox for quite a while.

The splash of water runs when you release the tap, absentmindedly scrubbing away remains of leftovers and takeout from last night's dish. Two months ago he appeared at your doorstep in his usual brazen entrance. And it was the same day he had to announce his departure.

"Borsche," you said with a smile. Ajax mentioned how he'd personally bring ingredients from Snezhnaya, bringing as in sneaking, so you could be his first ever foreign taste tester. Of course you'd like anything he'd cook regardless, but he was joyful talking about his family from home that you wanted to explore a little more of this new side of his.

You thought you wouldn't mind the long distance communication, however, it seems you've severely overestimated yourself. After the final meal at your house, Ajax walks towards the exit, the both of you knowing how agonizingly slow it was. You recall looking at him in that deep ocean gaze, trying to say what wanted to be said. Him waiting with anticipation.

"Good luck with your mission!"

• What a mistake, that was the perfect chance and you just couldn't muster up the courage to tell him. You know he was expecting something, you know he's been patient with you, and you're tired of guessing.

• There were days where a part of you doubts if he still feels the same. Days when you felt that all of this might be one sided and you were just another fling in his eyes. Days when you think he actually wouldn't return.

• Eventually, you couldn't help but truly believe he left you for someone else, finally fed up with you beating around the bush.

Despite all the obvious signs from Ajax's lack of communication, you wanted to try one last time.

Yesterday was the day he said he would be coming back to Liyue. The sky looked as if it were about to rain any moment. People crowded under the nearest roof they could find. Their bustling noise drowned out to mere background noise as you stayed, keeping an eye out for that cheerful man of yours all the way till the last ship parked beside the Harbor. 

It was empty. By the time the other families went home with their loved ones, you stood there alone, holding a single umbrella.

"Excuse me!"

No news or a forewarning. You had no idea what must have happened. Regardless, you wanted to try again.

Running across the pavement, you tried to catch up with the sailor keeping watch of the seas, "I want to ask if you've seen a tall man with orange hair leave just now?"

He takes out the cigarette chewed between his teeth and takes his time to answer, "Ah you're the person from yesterday," the sailor comments, "Sorry kiddo, but the merchant shipments will be the only ones dropping by this hour."

Your stomach makes an uncomfortable churn as your heart denies what must be accepted, "Ah, I guess that makes sense."

There was no point in being optimistic about it anymore. The seldom appearance of letters, the disappointment evident on his face when you didn't tell him what he wanted to hear, the chilliness of the rain when it hits your skin, hand trembling by the obvious cold. Everything was so much clearer.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you quickly added while wiping your eyes, unable to contain your sadness, "I'm just missing someone. That's all."

The sailor spares you a look of pity, assuming what story it went on with the clues you gave him. He mutters words of consolation but it felt deaf to your ears.

Why couldn't you just say it? Why did you have to be such a coward in the end when all he was trying to do was making this relationship work? Biting your lip, you kept your eyes casted down to not be blinded by the sun, otherwise you might actually cry. You should've known better to not hold back. And now, he's gone forever.

"Hey."

• Childe watches you turn over your shoulder, hesitant as ever and time seems to have halted in the small pocket of this instance.

• Damn.

• You were as beautiful as the day he last saw you. Though of course nothing about your appearance changed at all. Only his feelings, they grew and more apparent during the days he wasn't by your side.

• Yeah, I'm way over the crush phase, aren't I? He could only imagine what kind of expression he was making.

Tension fills the gap between the two of you as neither made an initiative to close it. Childe examines you, unreadable and without his default grin. Your eyes blown wide under the deep furrow of your eyebrows, mouth turned downward.

Welp he deserved the silent treatment. What nerve does the guy have when he shows up to his lover empty handed and a day behind his promised schedule? Minus all the Fatui fiasco he had to deal back in Snezhnaya and no explanation whatsoever.

"So uuuhhh," Childe glances at you tentatively. Ah shit they're mad probably. He was unsure how te begin. It was almost as if you were strangers and that pained him a little, "So how have you been?"

Slap. He mentally facepalms. That was so stupid.

Well fix it you idiot! A million suggestions run simultaneously that reduces his brain into a pile of mush. He had it all planned out earlier, the flowers, the dinner, the play to sweap you off your feet and make you fall for him again. Seems that his reliable swagger had betrayed him entirely. No fancy entrance. No funny remarks to distract the awkwardness. Right now he was just Childe the lovesick man.

"Look, I know I haven't replied to you," Childe rubs the back of his neck and avoids eye contact, "And I understand if you're pissed about it. We went through a lot back in Snezhnaya which is why don't have any ingredients I promised," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "Ah, I guess I should probably apologize for that too."

This isn't going well. He knew he was trying way too hard to play it cool and most likely makes him look as if here were creating excuses. Screw it, just go straight for the heart, "What I'm trying to say is-"

You threw yourself around him in an instant and buried your face in his chest. Childe nearly stumbles backward, completely off guard for once. He can instinctively expect and attack but not this kind of attack.

Almost gave him a heart attack.

"[Name]...?" He finally whispers out, his sleeve covered arms crawling to return your embrace. The man was trying to feel, to make sure if this was real. Did you just...hug him?

"Ajax."

Then it occured to him that your voice was breaking. The tightening of your hold and the point of your nose against him, he could sense the faint quivering of your shoulders. Childe surrenders all intentions to fulfill his previous agenda as the matters in front of him were much more important.

"Hey, what's on your mind?" he gently hushes, cradling your head with one hand and the other on your back, "I'm listening."

Yes, that's what you needed right now and he'll gladly give it to you, as much as you want. If you allow him that is. Childe knows he can be a bit selfish sometimes and maybe he's jumping to conclusions, but holding you like this is a moment he wants to indulge in. Just cherishing you like he should have.

"I just..." you began, breathly, "love you so much, Ajax. I love you..."

Damn.

Childe is sure he just felt what it's like to float on cloud nine. As cheesy as it sounded. He's somewhat glad your face is buried in his coat right now so you wouldn't be able to witness the goofy smile he's shamelessly wearing. Looks like he had nothing to worry about. Man, did it feel good to know you felt the same way all this time.

He releases you, though not enough to be fully apart because why would he? Your nose was tinged with red and eyes watery, the man swore his heart must have been hit with a pyro reaction. What a cutie pie.

"I've got you, don't worry," he reassures while cupping your face. He leans down to peck the corner of your lips before properly placing a chaste one. The action was so sudden that you weren't mentally prepared for it. He laughs, the same boyish charming manner, "Sorry, couldn't help it. You're too irresistable."

"Y-You're," shades of crimson layers across your cheeks that he's glad he has the privilege for a closeup, "Irresistable..."

Hooooooolddd up.

Childe pulls to a mental stop for a double take. Was that a compliment just now? No, it was a confession. He wasn't used to being praised like this. You may not be the type to vocally speak your true feelings but you were also the type to wear them on your sleeves. A smug smile makes it's way to his face and he tilts his body ever so slightly so you were dipped backwards in a mid-tango pose.

Childe's mouth was mere inches away from yours as he drinks up the image of your vulnerable look, underneath him and no one else to intrude.

"Ajax?!" You stuttered.

"I don't think I heard you clearly. Mind saying that again?" Yes he was being indulgent right now but the opportunity was hard to come by. Also those two months made it so agonizing to bear he needs a remedy to soothe all that drama.

You're pouting now and Childe tips down to kiss you on the cheek, "Don't tease me. Not here in public," you whisper-yelled well trying to push him away similar to a smothering puppy.

"Oh? Now you're going to reject me? I thought you said I was irresistable?" Childe's words muffles against your skin and the vibration spreads across like wildfire.

"Ajax!"

"Fine, fine," he chuckles heartedly, not letting you go. Instead, he repositions his arm until it was swung around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side, "By the way I wanted to say that I shouldn't have left you hanging. The mission got real messy last minute and I didn't wanna half-ass a letter to you."

You shook your head, "It's not your fault. I know you were busy. Just that..." you breathed out, somewhat relieved and anxious at the same time, "I thought you were angry that I wasn't being honest with you. I was afraid for some reason. But now, it's a lot easier than I thought."

"Huh? What do you mean?" He asks.

"I thought you left me for someone else."

A moment where his brain short circuits and Childe lets out a howling laugh. You looked at him with awe. What was so funny all of a sudden?

"Gotta say that I'm being tossed left and right with these surprises," he mused, "Guess that even if we're apart, we're still that close, eh?"

You quirked an eyebrow at him, "What do you mean?"

Childe slides his hand up your shoulder bone to pinch your cheek, "Nothing, sweetness."

• You chased after him demanding for answers but Childe doesn't budge. The only thing you could tell that he was in an extremely good mood after that.

• Oh well, all is well, ends well does it?

"Since I don't have anything to cook the Borsche I mentioned to you before, we'll have to settle for something else I'm afraid," Childe shrugs, "Anything in mind you wanna do?"

You sighed, fondly at least, "I already said I don't mind as long as you're cooking."

"S'that so? Well then," Childe moves renewed with energy, extending his hold in a beckoning manner and you laughed at his antics, "Shall we go, my snowflake?"

You take it and squeezed it, "I'd love to."

[circusclownproductions]

🖤hi🖤

🍊🖤ophelia, 19, she/her🖤🍊

🕊️🇵🇸PALESTINE AP GRATIS🇵🇸🕊️

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼

special interest :D -

mycology, please talk to me about it I love it so much

likes:

music-

will wood(and the tapeworms)

lemon demon

tally hall

miracle musical

siouxie and the banshees

against me!

icp

bad religion

the cramps

system of a down

the smiths

ethel cain

tv girl

rage against the machine

cage the elephant

cake

idkhbtfm

mitski

depeche mode

korn

cursive

slipknot

rod bernard

she/her/hers

dream nails

the front bottoms

thursday

thesaurus rex

movies/shows-

murder on the orient express

death on the nile

a haunting in venice

into and across the spiderverse

dhmis

big top burger

top gun 1+2

christine

coraline

all studio ghibli movies

rocky horror picture show

bee and puppycat

hilda

atla

ruby gloom

the amazing world of gumball

lisa frankenstein

phineas and ferb

but im a cheerleader

delicious in dungeon

frieren

books-

the metamorphosis

the trial

letters to milena

lanny

grief is the thing with feathers

house of leaves

the yellow wallpaper

the stranger

the diaries of franz kafka

i have no mouth and i must scream

games-

stardew valley

portal 1+2

minecraft

good pizza great pizza

potion craft alchemist

tukoni

animal crossing

harvest moon

fallout(almost all games)

rdr2

batim

bg3

little kitty big city

cult of the lamb

hollow knight

slime rancher

hobbies-

drawing

crocheting

sculpting

linocut printmaking

jewelry making

collecting things(bottles, rocks, beetle/cicada related items, mushroom related items, shells, soda tabs, bread tabs, clown things, fruit stickers, playing cards, buttons, antique spoons, etc.)

animation

tattooing

book binding

sewing

quilting

zine making

graffiti

baking/cooking

embroidery

gardening

bird watching

foraging

basket weaving

paper making

whittling

misc-

my friends

poetry

psychological horror

nature

bugs

animals

clowns

mardi gras

coryxkenshin

strawberry shortcake

my sweet piano

snoopy

miffy

mary oliver

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼

tagging system-

🍱- original posts

🎠- reblogs

🍂- art

🪐-music

📜- literature

☕️- things I wanna buy

💌- positive anecdotes about my life

🪽- asks

🍊- positive posts

🍜- my recipes

🃏- tag games

🪶- queued or scheduled posts

🎟️ - word of the day

🍄‍🟫 - mycology

🖤🖤🖤- saves n favs

‼️‼️‼️- important stuff

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼

I love you all make sure to eat and drink water today <3

everything is ok to rb unless explicitly stated otherwise !

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.  

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence. 

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory​​ for beta-ing 💞 

Part I | ao3 link

                              ~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick. 

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book. 

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task. 

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic. 

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer. 

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal. 

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames. 

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes. 

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice. 

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws. 

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face. 

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.” 

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else. 

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned. 

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble. 

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart. 

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again. 

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand. 

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.” 

“I would be delighted,” was his reply. 

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.  

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.” 

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?” 

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket. 

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth. 

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon. 

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs. 

“These onions are quaint,” he commented. 

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.” 

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it. 

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness. 

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.” 

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window. 

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.” 

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him. 

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display. 

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer. 

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?” 

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.” 

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel. 

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes. 

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.” 

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word. 

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.” 

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned. 

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.” 

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip. 

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out. 

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south. 

“What I had to.” 

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair. 

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action. 

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path. 

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs. 

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand. 

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.  

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim. 

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral. 

He was the man who hurt you most in the world. 

And he was no more. 

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace. 

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.  

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.  

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you. 

A pin-drop silence encased the air. 

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be. 

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily. 

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.    

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you. 

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.” 

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.  

“This isn’t what you think it is.” 

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.” 

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence. 

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.” 

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated. 

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.” 

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him. 

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse. 

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out. 

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards. 

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease. 

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after. 

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!” 

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches. 

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air. 

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.  

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger. 

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected. 

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming. 

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback. 

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life. 

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did. 

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you. 

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter?  In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you? 

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick. 

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current. 

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach. 

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold. 

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed. 

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!” 

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer. 

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.” 

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer. 

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter. 

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching. 

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”  

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.” 

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse. 

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt. 

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?” 

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.” 

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl. 

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–” 

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side. 

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.” 

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.” 

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then. 

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours. 

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot. 

 I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others? 

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.” 

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.” 

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?” 

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose. 

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–” 

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up. 

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything. 

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around. 

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt. 

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.                                

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above…until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

[fernthewhimsical]

Fern's Nehalennia Deep Dive: pt 2

Aspects

On the votive stones found dedicated to Nehalennia some symbols are repeated again and again. Through those, we are able to get a pretty clear image of the aspects that belong to Nehalennia.

the Sea and Water

It is no coincidence that her temples were at the coast, near the mouth of the river Rhine. She was the Goddess who protected voyage over Sea and possible over the river. On her votive stones Nehalennia often stands with one foot on the bow of a ship, holds a rudder, or there is a shipping wheel leaning against her throne. From this we know she was a Goddess of protection over sea. Traversing the sea has always been dangerous: the sea can be calm or tempestuous. Navigation was difficult, and the closer you came to shore, the more dangerous it became. Having a patroness guide and protect you would have been very important. But the sea is not the only water Nehalennia ruled over. In 2021 new findings were presented by Jasper de Bruin for the Museum of Antiquities, Leiden. Nehalennia's temple was probably a place where cargo was changed from small ships that could traverse the river, to big ships that could traverse the sea. Evidence was also found of four big water wells in the "garden" of the temple. Which is thought to be where the ships would load up on clean drinking-water for their journey.

Abundance and Harvest

On many of her stones Nehalennia is holding a basket or cornucopia filled with fruits, especially apples, and breads or grains on her lap or in her hands. There are also votive stones where there are apples displayed on top, as if it is an offering that is left there for her. On the sides some stones have wheat, trees of life, or vine ranks, all symbols of abundance and harvest. On one stone there is even a hunter holding a bow, showing that she was believed to provide for her people in many ways.

Commerce and Trade

By far most of the votive stones found have been offerings from traders who went overseas to wend their wares. It brings up the question if she even was a Goddess of the sea at all, and not one specifically of trade over sea. On the stones the traders would start their offering with Deae Nehalleniae, followed by their name, where they are from, and what they were trading. It always ends with V.S.L.M. from vōtum solvit libēns meritō (“has fulfilled his vow freely as merited”). Because the traders stated their own trade, as well as where they came from, we know quite a lot of the devotees of Nehalennia. Trades mentioned are those of salt, fish sauce, earthenware, terra-cotta statuettes, and wine. There are also stones offered of those who were seafarers by trade, moving cargo from one place to another.

Protection and Loyalty

On many of her votive stones, there is a dog patiently waiting at the Goddess' feet. In many cultures, dogs are used for protection and as patient guardians. They are loyal to their family, and will fight off threats when needed. The presence of a dog on many stones can mean that the devotees saw Nehalennia as a loyal protector. Something reflected as well in the shorthand V.S.L.M.: "as merited", so something she has proven to them, probably over and over again.

Psychopomp

But, that is not the only reason for the dog to be her loyal companion. In some of the tribes in her territory, the dog was seen as a guide to the underworld/Otherworld. The dog would take the souls of those departed, and bring them to their final resting place. There is also the bow of the ship, on which Nehalennia often rests her foot. This we often see on other votive stones of Gods connected with death and dying. This all points to Nehalennia also serving as a psychopomp: one who guides the souls of the deceased to the afterlife. There are more myths connecting travel over water to the journey of the soul after death. Ynys Afallach, or the Isle of Avalon is a mystical island shrouded in mist (also one of Nehalennia's attributes) where the dead are brought to rest. There are more islands scattered through European folklore like this, including one off of the coast of Zeeland. Legend has it that once a year the local fisherman were contacted by a mysterious figure to sail their boats in the dead of night. As they reached the boats it would lie so deep in the water, as if carrying a great burden. Once their destination, often an island, was reached, they would hear a voice call out the names of the dead. And the boat would rise and rise as if one by one the souls would depart the boat.

Motherhood

As a Goddess of abundance, harvest, and protection, the step to a Mothergoddess is a short one. However from Nehalennia there is also more evidence that she was seen as a mother. In the same area as where she was revered, a group of Goddesses called the Matronae, or "mothers" were also honoured. Most often depicted on votive stones in groups of three. On two stones with Matronae the Goddess Nehalennia has also been identified. One by name, and the other by her iconic pereline and dog.

Guiding light

As stated before travel by sea was dangerous. Navigation was essential and often happened by stars, the guiding lights in the sky. But that was not the only light important to seafarers; without a lighthouse to show where the shore is, and what is a safe place to land, the journey is that much more dangerous. The same for lanterns on the ships themselves, to make them visible in the dead of night. To other ships, and to those on shore waiting for their arrival. To me, those guiding lights are part of Nehalennia's guidance and protection.

[Link to the Masterpost]

[sims4t2bb]

weekly update

Hello everyone, and happy Sunday! We hope your week ahead is filled with sunshine and daisies ☀️🌼

This week's updates can be found under the cut — onwards and upwards! ✨

— Base Game

Buy Mode

Barely Cushy Tushy Chair, Domestic Satellite Barstool, The Staccato, Taxonomical Creation Dining Table, Martian Invader Dining Table, Grand Hall Dining Table, White All Night Table, The Cornucopia, Perfect Curve, My Yard Or Yours Patio Table, and more conversions by @confidentkiwisims have been added.

— Expansion Packs

Get Together

The page menu has been updated.

The coding has been cleaned up and standardised.

Some items were recategorised.

Discover University

There’s a Flag for that Flags conversion by @enjatoki has been added.

Growing Together

Timber! Treehouse Base conversion by @kestrelteens has been added.

Horse Ranch

Barrelwood Shorty Shelf, Bunkhouse Spindle Back Barstool, Chuck Wagon with Trailboss Gnome, Cormac Pine Bench, Cormac Pine Desk, Cormac Pine End Table, Cormac Pine Shorty Stool, Cormac Pine Single Bed, debug Broken Horse Cart, Fringed and Fabulous Curtains, and more conversions by @enjatoki have been added.

Floral Pitcher, Happy Wild Flowers, Utility Floral Receptacle, Put it on the Table Kitchen Clutter, The Mane Event Board, Pottery Bowl with Sacred Medicines, Rancher’s Water Feature, and Not a Care in the World Utensil Basket conversions by @cozy-sims have been added.

Conversions of all wall and floor coverings by @lordcrumps have been added.

Debug Grapevine, debug Nectar Bottle, Antique Nectar Press, Rancher's Stackable Nectar Storage Rack, Nectar Country Barrel, Nectar Country Barrel Stack, Nectar Country Cask, Nectar Country Crates, Nectar Country Crates, Stacked, Salvaged Barrel - Natural, and more conversions by @lafeeverte-sims have been added.

— Game Packs

Dine Out

Kitchenwurx Pot Set conversion by @enjatoki has been added.

Journey to Batuu

Full Metal Shelf, Loth-Cat Carving, and Porg Carving conversions by @kestrelteens have been added.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Happy Little Family" Prompt/Teaser Post:

Your heart ices over as you see him there - holding your baby. "No," you breathe.

"Look who it is!" he coos happily. He smiles at your terrified visage in the doorway and kisses June's head. "We missed you, Mommy."

"And then the knight took the princess away to his castle, and they lived happily ever after."

You're just outside the nursery when you hear his voice, and ice cold fear instantly floods your chest. You drop the laundry basket and run into the room, and there he is: seated in the chair you nurse from, reading one of the antique fairytale books that your mom gave at the shower, holding your baby.

"James," you breathe, horrified.

He's been smiling down at June, but now his face smooths out as he looks up at you. He isn't frowning or glaring, but you know him, and there's a storm behind those eyes that makes dread curl heavy in your stomach. "Hi Doll," he says quietly. "It's good to see you again."

Your heart pounds in your chest. You feel sick. One wrong move and who knows what he'll do. You take a cautious step forward, eyes searching James' body and anywhere nearby for a gun. You don't see one. You take another step. "James," you warn,

June makes a happy gurgle at seeing you, and James coos down at her, "Aw, yeah sweetie. I'm happy to see Mommy too."

Mommy. Hearing that word come out of his mouth, in a setting like this, is a nightmare you've woken from more than once. You lick your lips and hold out your arms, pleading, "James, please give her to me."

He acts like he hasn't even heard you, smiling and tapping June's body with one finger. "We were just reading a story. Little lady is gonna be a big reader one day, I bet. Gonna grow up to be real smart." His gaze slides back to you, with what you interpret as a world-of-hurt-coming-your-way look glimmering in his eyes. "A clever, tricky little kitty cat. Just like her Mommy."

📖"Daddy's Home"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Tags: dark!Bucky, mafia/mob au, evil baby daddy, evil-ex, dubcon/noncon, threats and coercion, forced pregnancy, forced domestic "bliss", yandere

Summary: You thought you'd left behind the man who turned out to be more dangerous than you'd ever imagined. But one day he walks back into your life and reminds you that, come hell or high water, you're all going to be one happy. little. family.

Story Masterlist

@cjand10, @violetwinterwidow01

[pbandjesse]

I am really tired. Today was a pretty excellent day. Which is really nice because I am wildly stressed about tomorrow.

I slept alright last night. I woke up a few times. But it was fine. I would wake up for real at 730. And stayed in bed scrolling on my phone until a little after 8. I made the bed. And took a shower. And tried to feel alright. I wasn't as introspective today but I was still tired.

I went downstairs and mom was on the couch. James was making breakfast. Mom was all excited that James she made breakfast for her. I'm glad that she was able to come and get taken care of a little. She deserves it.

James made me a hash for breakfast again and that was great. Me and mom chatted on the couch. She would go outside to sit on the porch swing and enjoy the brisk air with sweetp. It was a nice morning.

The plan was to go to the UPS store to get our indigogo backed campaign. Which was the cardboard router that I've been really looking forward to. And then we would go out to Ellicott City to go to the antique depot.

This mostly went fine. We got to UPS and when James went inside I realized I had stepped on dog poop and was beside myself. This is something that I am always so afraid of and was just so upset. We were really close to the museum so we would go over there to fix it. James would clean them with disinfectant and I would wash my hands a million times and changed into my Birkenstocks I keep in the car. I was trying very hard to not let this ruin my whole day but I was just so upset. This has happened only a few times ever and I remember every time so vividly because it is so upsetting to me. I was just trying so hard to breathe and not freak.

While James was working on cleaning my shoes me and Mom walked over to the water and took some pictures.

When we got back to the car James was trying to make me feel better but it was hard. They worry about my blood pressure and I was trying to just stop being upset but it was hard.

We got out to Ellicott city around 1045. And I was trying to be in a better mood.

I would have a lot of fun looking around. James was moving around the 4 stories with purpose. I wasn't sure what they were doing for a bit but they were going around finding the weirdest sports merch they could which was pretty funny. I would get in on to and sent them pictures as I was looking around.

I wasn't looking for anything in particular but I would have a lot of fun looking. Mom would even tell me what some things were that I didn't recognize. Like an ice shaver!

I would find some fun stuff. Some little gifts. A sandwich lizard, which is a toy I loved as a kid, great texture. I got a pill organize that's a little gold compact. And an amazing salad bowl that has frogs hanging off the side. It was just really fun searching.

Me and mom were down in the basement when I found this adorable dragon. It was from Avon and I could tell it had a container inside and I was trying to figure out what it was and I opened it, was startled because it was full of baby powder, got it all over me and the floor, and dropped the cap which fell under a shelf. I was laughing cause it was so stupid. But I found the cap and closed it and told my mom what happened because it was so silly.

We would finish all the floors. Found James again. And checked out.

When we got to the car we decided we would go back towards Catonsville for a snack. But as soon as we started driving I realized I didn't have my phone and panicked. I never lose my phone and I felt so stupid. I had been sitting on the floor in the basement looking through a basket. So we went straight there and it was in the middle of the floor. Felt so stupid. I was just glad it was in the first place we looked.

James tried to make me feel better. I hate how quickly upset I was getting today.

So we went to get a snack. Atwater's is a very nice cafe. James got a latte and a muffin. Mom got chicken salad, a cupcake, and a coffee. And I got avocado toast and a rootbeer. I did not want the nuts it comes with but it still came with them. Disappointed but I just took them off best I could. It would have been better with a fried egg rather then the folded egg it had. But I still enjoyed it and I enjoyed the conversations we had.

We discovered we all drink from a glass bottle differently. James said they thought the way I did was cute and I was like I truly don't understand how else you could drink this. Which lead to a whole debate about how to drink from a glass bottle. It was funny.

For our last stop we went a block away to a smaller antique store. I would find a cute little piggy bank and a pin for Jess. It was fun to look but mostly I loved when a woman came in to sell a set of Benoit balls. And her and the one shop owner didn't know what they were. But the other shop owner did and I was laughing when she was trying to explain. And I chimed in when they realized I was there and was like this is what they are. And it was hilarious. They are going to label them "massage bells".

We would head out of there and headed home. I was feeling really tired. It was a quiet ride back, with James podcast, and just a little chatting.

When we got home we brought everything inside. Unpacked and divided out the purchases. Me and Mom would lay on the couch and look at TikToks and talk. She was going to get ready to go soon. We opened my indigogo package. I was very impressed with how nicely built it was. I will probably try it out tomorrow.

But Mom had to go. She wanted to be home before the sun went down. Hugs all around. And then she was off.

The emotional let down after she went was tough. I was sad. And my body was just like. You gotta lay down. I didn't sleep. But I had to just lay down. And James hung out with me. But eventually I would go upstairs. I would work on moving some stuff from the guestroom to the baby room. I changed all of the knobs on the dresser with ones I had gotten today. But I was just exhausted. I went to lay in bed.

I felt very unsettled. I am still really stressed. About the election. About work. About everything. I am trying to think positive but man is it hard.

I would take a bath. And James made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. And eventually a half a quesadilla.

James and Sweetp have been mostly dozing for the last hour. And I am ready to follow along. I hope I can sleep easy tonight.

Tomorrow James will go to work. And eventually I will go vote. And go to the craft store to pick up some things. And try to fill the day with making stuff so I don't feel so stressed and focused on politics.

I really hope and pray that tomorrow goes well. I love you all no matter what. Goodnight my friends.

[batmanshole]

my favourite emojis

thumbs up. salute. bomb. tulip. strawberry. sobbing. two red exclamation marks. red exclamation mark and question mark. woozy. dizzy. hand cupping. hand pointing. eye. female firefighter. female farmer. female construction worker. pregnant man. woman in wheelchair. woman in power chair. woman with probing cane. puppy face. duck. duckling. snail. ant. bee. jellyfish. whale. seal. sheep. guide dog. wing. dove. clover. four leaf clover. sprout. mushroom. lotus. bouquet. hyacinth. hibiscus. cherry blossom. rock. sunflower. coral. sparkle. star. rain. rain and thunder. snowflake. gust of wind. onion. garlic. bagel. ginger. cherries. peach. green apple. red apple. pear. lemon. orange. mango. blueberry. carrot. corn. broccoli. bok choy. potato. bread. sweet potato. baguette. pretzel. pancakes. hotdog. hamburger. sandwich. fortune cookie. rice. dango. sorbet. flan. lolipop. tea. honey. bubble tea. hockey. roller skate. fishing. woman surfing. fencing. paint palette. woman juggling. trumpet. saxophone. violin. chess pawn. guitar. headphones. probing cane. wheelchair. power chair. crutch. suspended train car. tram. trolley. train. train at station. airplane. airplane taking off. airplane landing. different airplane. ship anchor. moai head. map. roller coaster. park fountain. pink hospital. keyboard. phone with arrow. CD. DVD. minidisc. floppy disk. VHS tape. camera with flash. dial. antique clock. hourglass. hourglass with falling sand. old tv. plug. candle. lightbulb. ID card. ladder. pickaxe. saw. nut and bolt. gear. hammer. box propped up by stick. magnet. water gun. knife. axe. sword. dynamite. cigarette. gravestone. hole. bandaid. telescope. pill. broom. plunger. picnic basket. bath with bubbles. razor. toothbrush. lotion. soap. person in bath. toilet paper. toilet. sponge. bucket. key. skeleton key. bed with person in it. bed. chair. door. teddy bear. present. balloon. box. tag. scroll. document. document bent. file folder. open file folder. clipboard. office trash can. rolled up newspaper. filing cabinet. newspaper. composition notebook. plain notebook. red volume 1 notebook. green volume 2 notebook. blue volume 3 notebook. orange volume 4 notebook. stack of books. open book. triangular ruler. pin. pen. fountain pen right. fountain pen left. pencil. crayon. closed lock. pink heart. red heart. orange heart. yellow heart. green heart. cyan heart. blue heart. purple heart. grey heart. white heart. brown heart. black heart. sparkling pink heart. pink heart with arrow. pink heart with bow. double pink hearts. swirling pink hearts. glowing pink heart. vibrating pink heart. broken heart. radiation warning. libra. big red X. big red O. crossed out circle. question mark. exclamation point. warning sign. trident. fleur de lis. accessibility sign. canadian flag. brazillian flag. pirate flag. ok sign. cool sign. music notes. on arrow. top arrow. TM sign. crossed out bell. thought bubble. yelling bubble. speech bubble. spade. club. heart. diamond. gay pride. trans pride.

[herartificialworld]

it seems like youve got a really strong sense of aesthetics! tell me about your dream home?

Aww I love this, thank you!! 😭🥹

My dream home is a combination of witchy moody victorian and forest cottage vibes! The kitchen would feel very comforting and airy, with soft natural lighting and various glass bottles of spices all over the place. I really want an herb drying rack hanging somewhere in there, too! A small informal table with mismatched chairs. I can see my garden from the window above the sink. Love and protection are put into everything I make. The kitchen is definitely the heart of every home (said with absolutely no bias from this kitchen which nope 😌)

My room would be a dark, rich green, and cream, and maybe a deep dusty rose color with some terracotta accents. Canopy above the bed. Gallery wall of so many random things. The opposite wall would have a dark floral wallpaper, I just think it would make such a cool accent wall effect! Any hardware in the room would be a brushed brass, very antique-y. I have zero solid ideas for the bathroom besides a giant tub lol

Any guest room I may have will be so soft and warm and welcoming and I’d put together a little basket of things for anyone that came to visit, like snacks and water bottles and toiletries and a little handwritten note telling them how grateful I am that they’re here.

But really most of all, I just want a home that all my friends feel safe and loved in, somewhere I can cook for them, and get them throw blankets if they’re cold. Somewhere they know they’ll always be welcome and wanted ♥️

[joy-haver]

My birthday is coming.

Gift Ideas; For the Woman Who is already In Everything

A real sword. Long, sharp.

More free slippers

A better shovel

machetes, no plastic on the handles

Tractional bows, long arrows

A hunting rifle, ammunition

A place to shoot them.

Every medicinal native plant

A baby

Chickens

Every edible native plant

More handmade pottery that has function

Religious texts

Books of anarchy, already broken in

A still

A spinning wheel

Wood. Always wood

Clay.

Tall sturdy baskets

All the many vinegars

Booze of any kind

Shoes. Real shoes. The kind that are supportive. That you can maintain and repair.

Wool.

Cordage of every kind of cording plant.

Willow wands.

Fiber spun from strings that pluck the song of the birds and the leaves.

Elderberry, dried.

Button down jean dress.

Pockets added on to many things.

A new corset.

A prayer to finally say how I feel about the sun.

A teacher.

Skirts that are long and flowing and cotton and fit me.

Warm wet pussy.

Sourdough bread.

Homemade cheese.

Stillness.

A mind that flows like water and a pen that writes on its own.

A pen that fits my hands.

Pillowcases, cotton.

Kumbucha, low sugar, ginger or cucumber preferred.

A key to the out building where god has locked away the font of grace.

Forgiveness, from within.

To know the means and the does-not-ends.

A ceramic tea kettle that’s strong and subtle.

Supple breasts.

Deer bones.

Animal hide.

A well fit dress.

A swimming hole to kiss you in.

A song that records itself.

A jam session.

A record player.

Records to put in it.

A new hat,

Or an old one.

A Mardi Gras outfit like those men who walk on horses.

An end to everything that the law calls justice.

Justice, the art of making things right.

Love.

Feeling alive.

Your homemade mosquito repellent.

Help pulling privet.

You to learn to sew.

Me to learn to listen.

Us to learn to stretch the day.

A night to sleep under the stars in Coden.

A trip to the country.

A kite to fly.

Stars, bright, peering out of the darkness.

To build a boat and sail the ocean.

Lao Tzu’s hand to hold,

A hug from Le Guin.

A moment at the grave of my Maw maw,

More kinship from my kin.

Found family to finally be more family than acquaintance.

A visit from all of my online friends.

An antique bed frame of solid wood, with four posts and a canopy to hide in.

Long handled pruners, stronger than bodark.

Something to make me sleepy after dark.

Internal temperance.

A tattoo.

Ideas for them.

The perfect stick for an atlatl.

A prefect stick to walk with.

The wisdom of the ages.

An anarchy inside of me that comes to be religion.

The ability to accept it.

The ability to stop talking, and just listen.