#farm equipment displays

[sohannabarberaesque]

Postcards from Snagglepuss (Minnesota State Fair edition)

And you thought Machinery Hill was fascinating ...

Ahhh, yes, Machinery Hill ... highlight of the northern part of the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, traditional home for farm tractor and farm equipment manufacturers' exhibits and displays, even if a good part of it had to be levelled to allow the 4-H Building to be constructed in the late 1930's. Only nowadays, only John Deere has any semblance of a tractor display at its facility, with the possibility of just sitting in the cockpit and posing like you were a farmer doing the fields.

Which our company no doubt took advantage of, and then some.

And it turns out that you also have Ford and Chevrolet with their pickups and SUV's on display and preview ... as well as the makers of lawn and garden tractors, riding lawnmowers (including some of the Zero Turning Radius sort), campers even! And boy, were the exhibitors somehow impressed by our having a motorhome, not to mention the 70's van style epitomised by Emmy Lou and Jenny Lee!

But it's just a couple blocks north of Machinery Hill that we want to focus the attention on: No less than the Old Iron Show, along Lee Avenue betwixt Underwood and Cooper Streets on the north side, visible off the SkyGlider even!

"So what exactly is this 'Old Iron Show' about?" asked Square Bear when yours truly and Huckleberry Hound explained our stopping by there as we got off a complimentary trolley shuttle along Underwood Street ... and to answer, such happens to show off some older farm tractors which have managed to be restored, and I mean painstakingly restored! Not just John Deere and Farmall ... brands now manufactured no more, brands like Oliver, Allis-Chalmers, Minneapolis-Moline, Case, Massey-Ferguson, Ford, Cockshutt, White, Co-Op ... and perhaps most impressive, a Mill City "farm engine" of 1906 vintage, of rather substantial size even, designed mainly for larger farms of the time. And who could have been more stunned than--

"Who else--Lippy the Lion?!"

And you could tell where this leonine Tora-san was impressed that a "farm engine" built in 1906 had much the same size as a larger farm tractor such as, say, those in John Deere's 9 Series, but with horsepower comparable to a small utility tractor ... not to mention such skill and care such as are fond of rebuilding farm machinery from the 1930's to the 1970's could take.

Which led us to a rather interesting ice cream stand in the area of the Old Iron Show. Interesting in that the ice cream--old-school, extra-rich vanilla ice cream even!--is made using a restored 1937-vintage John Deere gasoline engine of the sort which served to provide power on the farm, perhaps powering water pumps or serving as a modest light plant. And some say ice cream may not exactly be what it used to be ...

*************

@aquablock68 @ultrakeencollectionbreadfan @railguner34 @hanna-barbera-blog @themineralyoucrave @groovybribri @thebigdingle @archive-archives @stuffaboutminnesota @thylordshipofbutts @indigo-corvus @multi-fandom-girl-451 @funtasticworld @hanna-barbera-land @passionateclown

[eowynstwin]

Blackbird, Fly - Three

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time. content warning for marital rape after the second break previous masterlist ao3 next

“Come,” says Hans, tugging on your arm, “let’s get you ready for the ceremony.”

Your husband-to-be leads you up the porch steps and into the house, long legs carrying him ahead so fast you must practically jog to keep up with him. You stumble when you enter the house—the interior is fantastically well-appointed, with papered walls and carved wood furniture, framed photos hanging beside paintings, pressed flowers, hunting trophies, rifles and knives and old farm equipment. The floor beneath your feet is polished and smooth, spread over in places with thick, fringed rugs. You don’t see much more of it after your initial impression; Hans pulls you along at a clip.

Even such a brief glimpse, though, proves your long-held assumptions about Hans and his livelihood; his family has done well for itself, over the years. The kitchen, dining room, and sitting room are all separate from each other, and the manor’s first floor alone is larger than the small farmhouse you grew up in. Your family always made an effort to present a comfortable, clean home, but it seems downright drab in memory now in comparison to this.

There’s a bit of a bustle going on as Hans tugs you along—you hear movement in the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of dishes moving to and fro. A rough voice grinds out something short, and a couple of cowboys emerge with covered dishes that they set on the dining table before they return back into the fray. In the sitting room, an older woman with short, sandy brown hair sits at a desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She glances up at you, betrays no interest, and then ignores you.

“You’ll meet everyone at the ceremony,” Hans says. He directs you up the stairs. “Right now you need something nice to wear.”

“O-oh,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirt as you climb the steps. The fabric, purchased at a discount after you’d saved pennies and nickels for months, suddenly feels thin and insubstantial between your fingers.

Hans brings you into the main bedroom, equally well-designed with molded wood paneling and brass lanterns on the walls, where he goes to a chest at the foot of the massive bed four-poster bed. Everything you’ve seen so far in this house is much finer than what even the most well-to-do farmers back home could display; you used to imagine that wealth like this could only be within the reach of select few businessmen on the east coast. You never imagined you’d have the chance to marry into it.

“I think this should suit you,” says Hans, turning to you with a stack of clothing in one hand.

You take it from him when he proffers it—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, you find. The fabric is silky in your hands, glossy and cool to the touch and very fine. You shake out the skirt; yards of bustled fabric tumble open to reveal pleated gathers, elegant bows, and velvet trim. The paired jacket is much the same, with pearl buttons down the front, and the accompanying blouse is a weave of tight, delicate lace.

Your earlier fears are soundly confirmed; you are in no way dressed for a wedding to Hans König. Gaz had only been trying to be kind; being here, now, seeing the kind of splendor Hans lived with every day, no one could make the mistake that you could measure up on your own.

“Thank you, Hans,” you say, face warming with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” says Hans, looking you up and down expectantly. “Go on.”

You blink. “Ex—excuse me?”

Hans raises his brows as if it should be obvious. “Why, let’s see you in it, dear girl.”

You blanch. Surely he isn’t suggesting…“But—well, Hans, we aren’t—we haven’t—”

“My dear, I’ve already promised to marry you. Why would I go to such expense on a wedding merely to fool you into showing me your underthings?”

You drop your gaze to the floor, cheeks burning. “It’s not proper.”

“Bah,” says Hans. He takes the clothes back from you, tosses them onto the bed, and brings his hands to the buttons down your front. “It’s not like I won’t see this again in a few hours.”

You are rooted to the spot. He unbuttons your dress with an alacrity that startles you; in a few short moments, he makes an opening wide enough to slip over your shoulders, and unceremoniously he pushes the collar open and lets the dress drop to the floor.

You blink several times. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time; do they feel suddenly like they’ve been skinned? Does the air suddenly feel much closer, more real than it had before? You remember shearing season on a neighbor’s farm, the angular planes of shortened fleece cropped close to twitching flesh. The sheep had looked unfinished after the deed was done—like wooden figurines only partly whittled.

When you look to Hans’ face, you find him gazing at the tight space where your chemise tucks into the line of your corset. Then, as if in a dream, he reaches out with one huge hand and cups the mound of one breast.

The air vacates your lungs. It’s the first time a man has ever touched you this way.

When young ladies of a certain age gather to socialize, matters of discussion inevitably tend toward the prurient. Your peers delighted in sharing the wealth of erotic experience they’d accrued; trysts in larders, late graveyard meetings, dizzying accounts of hands and mouths in places that sent shame pumping hot and curious through your veins. You lived vicariously through their adventures; opportunities for your own, with three older brothers and a protective father, were nonexistent.

The embarrassing fact is that in matters of your marital duties, you received no practical education.

The one time your mother, a modest woman, saw fit to tutor you, she’d taken you out to the small enclosure in which the family goats were kept. The animals were useful for milk and occasionally meat, so there was always a breeding pair at hand. This occasion, they served the additional use of instruction; the male was rutting.

Your mother had made you watch as the billy mounted the nanny, and shoved its little goat prick into her hindquarters. The billy seemed mindless with want, ferocious, gyrating its hips uncomfortably, which the nanny took with what seemed like resigned patience, if it was paying attention at all. Once the billy finished, it dismounted, chewed its cud a little bit, and walked off. The nanny seemed unperturbed, rather detached from the whole thing, and similarly continued with whatever it had been doing before.

“It’s about like that,” said your mother, unable to look you in the eye.

So you have little knowledge of the matter.

And you have no idea what to do now, as your husband-to-be fondles you and stares down at you with what seems like only idle interest. Hans’ thumb brushes over the space where your nipple would be, hot even through layers of cotton and whalebone. The fine hairs on your arms raise, standing straight up.

What are you supposed to do now? Touch him back? Your stomach turns over at the thought. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how. Hans is touching you so casually, as if you’ve been his wife for years, but you are as poor in wifely instinct as you are in everything else.

“Lovely,” he says, eyes locked on the place where your chest is rapidly rising and falling.

You inhale shakily. This is fine. He wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t—of course it’s all right, you’re to be married within the hour. It’s only your breast, and only his hand, and it’s over your clothes. It’s fine.

“May—” your voice comes out dry. You clear your throat. “May I dress now, Hans?”

He smiles. You note that he has a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes do not crinkle at the corners. “Of course.”

-

When the guests have all arrived, when the world around you is bathed in the orange-gold light of the setting sun, and when the mandolin plays the bridal chorus, you join Hans König under an archway of lupine and Indian paintbrush. Evening gives way to night as the last day of your old life comes to a close, ending as you say the words that until now you’ve only whispered in the night at your bedside.

For better—for worse—as long as you both shall live. Over and over again, until your tongue recognized the shape of them like the Lord’s Prayer. As if practicing them enough would speed the hour to you all the sooner in which their vow became real.

Hans kisses you for the second time, and then together, arm in arm, you turn to face the congregation’s applause.

Stars begin peeking white faces through the dimming sky as the band strikes up a tune, and as the reception commences, you must shake hands with the whole county. The priest John MacTavish insists upon introducing himself first—a younger man, with vivid blue eyes and an unusual haircut, gives his congratulations in a husky Scottish brogue entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth. He’s followed by the sheriff, Simon Riley, who practically chases him off—another tall man, near to your husband’s height, and twice as broad. Curiously, he wears a bandanna across the lower half of his face. His greeting to you is gruff, short—polite in a way that seems unnatural for him.

Next is a slightly older woman, splendidly dressed in lace-trimmed taffeta. She comes over to kiss your cheeks in the French style. Hans ducks his head as she smiles at you; you can’t help but feel similar trepidation. She is terribly striking, with delicate creases on either side of her mouth and a mysterious twinkle in her eye.

“The hotel in town is my establishment,” she tells you. “The bath house, as well.”

“Oh,” you say, “how lovely.”

Her smile quirks at the corners; she looks at Hans, then back to you, and softly chucks your chin. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Madame, thank you,” your husband says quickly as your face sets to blazing. “I believe others would like to speak to us, as well, if you don’t mind.”

She gives you another enigmatic smile, tightens the light chiffon wrap around her shoulders, and leaves you to the banker and his wife, who both eagerly step up to talk your ear off.

Farmers, other ranchers, ramblers and gamblers and trappers; it seems everyone in the state has come to pay you their respects, and they all want to meet you at the exact same time. The rough voice you heard in the kitchen manifests itself in the form of a burly man with mutton chops, who introduces himself as John Price the saloon owner. A young woman with an unsmiling face named Ms. Boucher tells you your first purchase at her dry goods store will be discounted by five percent, as a welcome gift from her to you. She punctuates the statement with a narrow-eyed look at your husband, but you have no time to wonder at it before the next guests capture your attention.

A whole line of Hans’ cowboys, headed by the woman you saw working at the writing desk when you arrived, form up to tell you their names and pledge you their loyalty, still dressed in their wrangling leathers but bathed and combed and polished for the occasion nonetheless. The woman introduces herself as Kate Laswell, the foreman.

“I took care of the accounting after Anna passed,” Laswell says to you. “Tomorrow I’ll go through the books with you. It’ll be your job from now on.”

“Now, Kate, you shouldn’t discuss business at my wedding,” says Hans, politely, but somewhat terse. “And besides, that would be far too much for my new bride.”

“Hans, I told you,” you say earnestly, referencing a summer letter, “I want to be a part of things.”

He smiles genially at you—but the expression seems tight. “Of course, dear.”

“Tomorrow,” Kate says to you. Curiously, she looks you up and down. Then, “You’ll need to see the tailor, as well, I think.”

Her words are not said unkindly, but they shame you anyway, reminding you just how poorly matched as yet you are to this life. When you’d put the dress on earlier, it had been immediately clear to you that it was not made to your measurements, but you hadn’t thought it would be so obvious to anyone else. Only Hans’ cowboys proceeding to introduce themselves saves you from having to respond.

One is conspicuously absent.

Unexpectedly, it hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Gaz had only driven you here, after all. You’ve known him less than a day. It shouldn’t disappoint you, as you keep your eyes on the moving line, that he does not come forward, but it does.

In between meeting the county folk, you manage to get a few bites of the wedding feast—prime rib, lamb chowder, baked fish, seasoned potatoes, collard greens, fried tomatoes, sourdough biscuits, and three different fruit cobblers still somehow steaming from the oven. You and Hans cut the bride’s cake, an impressive sheet of angel food and ivory buttercream that he must have procured at outrageous cost; you are not embarrassed to wolf it down in front of Hans’ guests. It’s the sweetest, softest thing you’ve ever eaten, more delicate than you ever could have imagined any food could be.

As the sky darkens overhead, the faint cloud of the milky way coalesces in the light of the waxing moon, and the band takes up a lively jig as the wedding party sallies forth to the clearing to dance arm in arm. Your husband whirls you along with them, arm around your waist, and then you’re dancing, too, and the familiar two-step lifts your flagging spirits as the cool night air runs quick, soft fingers across your burning cheeks.

So what if some cowboy hadn’t made it to your wedding? You’re dancing with your husband, after months of longing for him; everything and everyone else is inconsequential laid up against this triumph.

Faces blur in the lamplight the night falls indigo around you, and as the music changes Hans twirls you into a new set of arms in a jaunt that has everyone exchanging partners. They hold you only briefly before the music changes again, and off you bounce to another, the world spinning around you faster and faster, jubilant and surreal, and then another—

Suddenly you are in Kyle Garrick’s arms.

He catches you like lassoing a runaway horse, taking your momentum into the pillar of his body as he winds you in close. One of his hands spreads warm across your back, fingers spanning what feels like the entire breadth of your waist. His other cradles your own in his palm, long fingers folded around it like an envelope. You fit against him easily, perfectly, like a couple illustrated in a storybook.

“Mr. Garrick,” you gasp.

“Mrs. König,” he says.

Suddenly you realize you’re out of breath. You take deep gulps of air, and Gaz’s scent permeates your lungs. Lavender soap and bay rum, polished leather, sweet hay. The soft, dense curls of his hair are combed and parted a little, and the short stubble he’d greeted you with on the train platform is tonsured down flush to his jaw.

He leans in closer to you, hovers his lips near to one ear. “You changed your dress.”

He doesn’t keep pace with the other dancers, or swing you around in time with the music; he lets the world slow around you both, the music falling away as he brings the pace of your heart down with soft line of his mouth and the steady, still look in his dark eyes. His hand on your back radiates so much warmth that it cuts through the evening chill just beginning to set in, as if his palm is directly against your naked skin.

You smile meekly. “It wasn’t appropriate for a wedding.”

His dark brows pull together; his hands tighten their purchase on you. You watch him avert his eyes from you, take a great breath in through flared nostrils.

“Mr. Garrick,” you say, feeling too honest, “do you disapprove of me?”

He snaps his gaze back to you. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow. “You don’t seem very pleased, whenever we talk, is all.”

Suddenly Gaz smiles—lets out a short, sharp laugh that bares his even teeth, shows the points of his canines. “That’s not your fault. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazes at you. Lamplight casts the angles of his face in shadow, deepens the darkness of his eyes. His shoulder is solid beneath where your hand rests, shaped hard by a life on the range; you could lay the entirety of your weight against him, you think, and he wouldn’t even sway with holding you up. There’s something very present about Kyle Garrick. Something real. It draws you in like the earth draws the moon into its orbit.

“Do you really want this?” he asks you.

You blink. “Of course I do.”

“You hardly know him.”

“I’ve known him for half a year, Mr. Garrick,” you say, somewhat unsure how much explanation you owe this cowboy. After all, you’d vowed to earn his trust, as his employer’s new wife. “I know you might have some reservations about me. I understand, really.”

“No,” says Gaz immediately, dark brows low and serious over his eyes. “Not about you.”

“Mrs. König!” an accented voice calls.

Immediately the world speeds up around you again, music crashing back into your ears, wedding guests spinning and leaping around you, and you turn to see your husband standing at the edge of the clearing.

The dancing comes to a halt at the sound of his voice; Hans outstretches one hand toward you.

“I believe it is time for us to retire,” he says.

Gaz’s hands tighten on you again. You feel the eyes of the other dancers on the two of you, tight lines of attention between you and them.

You have felt it all evening, really—the undercurrent lining every conversation, the askance looks tossed at you and your husband when no one thought you’d notice. The pervading sense of some drama playing out just outside of your comprehension.

You turn to look back at Gaz. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. The wells of his eyes are ink-dark, opaque, eclipsed by something of a shape beyond your knowing. He says nothing as he holds your gaze, only watches you with an expectation so stoic, so resigned, that you feel almost guilty for releasing him.

He lets you go as if his grasp wasn’t even tight in the first place. You turn away from him, from the stone-hard expression on his face, and go to slide your fingers into your husband’s waiting hand.

Wolf-whistles populate the night air as he smiles approvingly, nods, and leads you away. Short bursts of knowing applause behind you draw your shoulders tight together.

“Ignore them,” says Hans, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm. “They’re just fools.”

You look back over your shoulder. Gaz still stands amid the dancers, a wide berth around him. His eyes have not left you; they pierce you in the night, sharp even as the distance between you grows.

You have only one other point of reference, aside from your mother’s tutelage, for how the end of this evening might go. A topaz glimmering in the folds of your memory.

Years ago, before the shine had worn off as it usually does with older siblings, you’d worshiped your oldest brother like he was Jesus Christ returned. You’d trailed after him like a newborn pup, dogging his every step, hoping your devotion would earn you even the smallest scraps of his affection. You’d watched his comings and goings like you could divine the mysteries of God from the merest angle of his movements.

One night, far past the time when everyone should be asleep, he’d slipped out of the small three-room house your family shared. You knew, because you slept closest to the door, and by then could recognize him by the rhythm of his footsteps. Like any nosy little sibling, you’d followed him out once you were sure he couldn’t hear you behind him.

He’d made his creeping way toward the barn, his path and yours lit only by a waxing moon. You remember, sneaking along after him, noticing a dim glow emanating from the cracks in the hayloft door, and guessed that your brother had realized he’d forgotten to snuff a lantern before going to bed—and now he was going to put it out, rather than leave a hay fire to chance.

He went inside. You were about to follow (no sibling, however divine, was exempt from a good ribbing, and nearly burning down the barn was excellent blackmail fodder)—when you heard another voice.

A female voice. Soft, and sweet, and welcoming.

Very little preamble separated that revelation from the next, and what you heard in the following moments rooted you there in place; movement. Rustling. For the span of a few heartbeats, nothing except for the crickets in the fields—and then, like the moon rising on a cloudless night—a growing chorus, voices high and low, moaning together in staccato.

You’d stood there, frozen absolutely solid, as it went on. The high voice lifted higher, and higher, carried on frantic, rapid breaths, until it cut off with a shriek that muffled so fast you knew your brother had covered the girl’s mouth.

Then—quiet, shared laughter.

So you know a little more than what the goats taught you.

Hans leads you back inside the house, where the lanterns have been turned to low, orange specks of light. You fix your eyes on the nape of his neck ahead of you as the two of you climb the stairs, making your way back to the master bedroom. The cacophony of the wedding celebration is far away; he opens the door, draws you inside, and shuts it behind him.

You stand in the middle of the room, looking at him. This whole evening has felt like a dream, but as you gaze at your husband, you suddenly feel like you’re waking up. You have not been alone with Hans since you met him, not really, and you realize he hasn’t felt quite real to you because of it. You almost feel as if you can see him, for the first time, see the words that have made him up in your memory coalesce into the flesh-and-blood man standing before you.

This is him. This is Hans. This is the man you love.

Softly, you approach him. Reach up with two hands to take his face in them; press your lips, shyly, unpracticed, to his.

“Hans,” you say, more softly than you have ever said anyone’s name in your life, looking into the pale blue of his eyes.

He gazes down at you. “Let’s get undressed,” he says.

It’s the moment you expected, but it daunts you nonetheless. You nod, step away from your husband, and he sets to the task—he shucks his coat, dropping it on the floor, and unhooks his suspenders. Swiftly you turn away from him when he begins unbuttoning his shirt, face blazing—of course, you’ve seen men undress before, you have three brothers, but this—this—

The reality of what you are about to do douses you all at once, soaking you to the bone. When you bring your hands up to the buttons of your bodice, they are trembling; you can barely get the tiny pearls between your fingers to undo them. You hear more clothes land on the floor behind you as you struggle, and then nothing. Stillness.

His eyes are heavy on your back. He is silent as you finally get the jacket off, and the blouse along with it; he is silent as you push the skirt down over your hips, the garment piling on the floor.

Your whole body is shaking by the time you’re down only to your chemise, shivering like a foal on new legs as you bare your shoulders. You close your eyes. There’s no need to be afraid as you shuffle the garment down your back. It’s only your husband behind you, looking at you as you bare your buttocks, as you step out of the split shorts, as the cool night air caresses your naked belly.

“That’s enough,” Hans says behind you when your hands go to the ties on your stockings.

You go still.

“Get on the bed, now.”

-

You focus on your breathing. Long breaths, in and out, as you crawl belly-first onto the mattress, which sinks luxuriously under your weight, softer than any bed you’ve lain on in your life. Suddenly, before you have time to adjust, the mattress sinks even more under you, and an envelope of heat and weight looms over you, pressing hard onto you, bare skin and the smell of sweat and the sound of another person’s breathing over you invading your senses.

Then there’s something blunt nudging at the entrance of your sex. A hand on your hip, gripping tight. The blunt thing circles briefly, parting your folds, and then is pressing into you. Pressing in somewhere tight, somewhere that doesn’t want to open to let it in. You hold your breath. It presses harder, fighting the resistance, and then finally gets past it, just a half inch or so—and suddenly it hurts.

“Hans,” you whisper.

He hasn’t seem to have heard you. He pushes harder, just a bit further. There’s another wall of resistance, this one needling and far more solid. You gasp sharply at the dryness of it, the way his member seems to want to push your own folds up into you as it tries to get in, shoving, bludgeoning, and then, mercifully, Hans pulls away.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to suggest that maybe the two of you try this later. Clearly there is something about you that’s not ready for it—but then his hand is between your legs, smearing something slippery around, and just briefly he touches something that pulses with interest. You jolt as little sparks of pleasure dance through you but quickly burn out, and then, the blunt head of his cock is back, pushing in, much faster, much smoother, huge and hard—

Suddenly it is sharp inside you, razor sharp, paralyzing. You shriek in pain, tears welling acidic in your eyes, shocked, betrayed, and he keeps coming, an endless length of him forcing inside, making room where there is none, going somewhere it clearly must not belong—and then he groans, loud and guttural, and begins to pull out.

You don’t have enough time to mistake this for the end of it. He pulls out halfway and then rams back in, slamming against your body, punching what must be the very limit of the space he can make for himself in your body. Pain roars to life around his cock, radiating outward, a ripping and shredding that grows as he forces himself into you again, and then again, and then it’s happening for real, he’s begins thrusting so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs, slapping his hips against your backside as he grunts and groans behind you like a dumb animal. He batters some nexus of agony that sends you screaming, shrieking with every jerk of his hips, tears streaming down your face as you grip the blanket in clawed fingers.

“Please, Hans, stop, please!”you wail. “Stop, stop, stop—”

His hand grips back of your head, turning your face downward—pressing it against the bed, muffling your mouth and nose and eyes into the blanket—

He jerks against you as agony writes itself into your bone marrow. Your hands circle in on themselves so tightly you feel your fingernails bite into your palms. Any memory of laughter you ever had abandons you.

Then, suddenly, mercifully, he’s forcing himself into you as deeply as he can, groaning loud, and something warm blooms in you, squelches out warm and sticky as he pulls in and out a few more times. He stills then from his furious rutting, hanging over you, panting.

Then he pulls out. Your husband lets you go and rolls over, breathing hard on the bed. You lay absolutely dead still, shaking violently, every muscle in your body tensed up painfully tight.

“Hans,” you whimper, “Hans.”

“Mm-hm,” he hums.

“Hans.” Every nerve is vibrating with pain. “Hans, that hurt.”

There is a long silence after. So long, you start to believe that he won’t say anything; that perhaps, even, he’s fallen asleep, and your words have dropped like flies from the air between you before they reached him.

But he hasn’t fallen asleep. Your husband shuffles off the bed, lifts the linen, and shuffles back into it. The lantern light is dim in the bedroom, but light enough that you can see the nonplussed expression on his face.

“Anna got used to it,” he says finally, eyes closing. “You will too.”

And he turns on his side and says no more to you.

You lay there aching. When you drag your fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, streaks of red intermingle with the clear and the white.

Suddenly you want this day to be over. You want to close your eyes and dream that it never happened—or maybe, if you go to sleep, you’ll awaken to find that it was all a dream after all, and you’re still home, your mother cooking just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, you inch off the bed, finding the floor with your stockinged feet, and go to douse the lanterns.

The room is cold and silvery without their light. Darkness gathers in the corners, around the weak glow of moonlight failing to fully penetrate the curtains over the window. You gingerly swipe the cloth from a nearby washbasin between your legs, cleaning up the remnants of your husband’s pleasure, and then, with nowhere else to go, you return to the empty side of the bed and crawl stiffly under the covers.

He does not stir as you settle in beside him. You lay your head on the pillow next to his and fold your hands over your stomach.

Outside and far away, you think you can hear the band still merrily playing. The darkness deepens, and deepens, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin.

-

[wealmostaneckbeard]

Helldivers 2: Backstories implied by Armor Sets

Note: These are just the sets that I've unlocked, reblog with your own, also I may have gotten the names wrong

CEREMONIAL

You are here to inspire your fellow helldivers not through empty words but through deeds and actions! It really helps that your armor doesn't let you die easily, which is great for morale. Not great for your survivors guilt however.

LIGHT GUNNER

You are a survivor (SEAF or civilian colonist) that the helldivers picked up during a mission. They gave you some body armor they had in reserves and now you are a conscript. You weren't allowed to wear a helldiver uniform without having gone through training first. Everyone gives you shit for that even though you survived terminids or automatons.

SUPER EARTH LEGIONNAIRE

You're a popsicle political dissident who got unthawed to earn a pardon by fighting enemies of Super Earth. Or you are a history nerd whom democracy officers watch closely. This armor set should really be worn if super earth itself is threatened, as old equipment (and people) is drawn from museum displays.

BONECUTTER

You are a frontier doctor who got caught up in the war. Honestly, not much has changed. Back when terminids were being farmed, you were patching up mauled farmers, now it's soldiers. And the bots use conventional weapons so their victims look the same as someone who had an accident or an "accident."

TRENCH ENGINEER

You used to use explosives to excavate irrigation canals, now you're using explosives to destroy enemies. You always take a moment to appreciate a lovely landscape. Then you start to fantasize about flattening the landscape and replacing it with suburbs.

[c-e-d-dreamer]

Top Shelf Love: Chapter One

A/N: yeah, yeah, I know! This is super exposition-y, but we have to set it all up, besties! I promise Cassian and Nesta actually interact again in the next chapter 🫡 Also, for anyone who's nerdy like me, the Athletic has a really great article about just how complicated things get when a player gets traded. It's a fun read!

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Cassian

Cassian groans, tossing his phone on the coffee table, the device skittering across the wood without a care. He drops his head against the back of the sofa, digging his hands into his hair and dragging his fingers against the curly strands. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around it, and he half wonders if he’s imagining this entire phone call, but the tinny voice continues through the speaker even if he’s no longer listening.

Seattle.

He got traded to the Seattle Kraken.

The words continue to crash and echo in his mind, even as his agent goes through the usual spiel when trades happen. Expect a call from the coach, maybe even a few players will reach out once the news breaks. The Kraken’s director of team services will reach out with the finer details for a smooth transition. Reminders of the CBA mandates. Meetings with the trainers, the equipment team, and the coaching staff to look forward to. Practice schedule. It’s like information overload, a hurricane swirling through his head with hundred mile per hour winds.

It doesn’t help that his phone has already started to vibrate against the table, almost excessively. With a quiet huff that thankfully his agent doesn’t pick up on, already plowing forward into the exciting potential for re-signing with Seattle, Cassian snatches his phone back up. He minimizes the call screen and looks at his notifications. Of course. The news has already broken on Twitter. Damn ‘insiders.’

“Any questions for me, Cassian? Anything I can do for you?”

Cassian has to shake his head, clearing his still spiraling thoughts, before he finds his voice. “All good, Eris. That’s how the off season goes, right?”

Eris is quiet for a moment. “I’ll send a car to take you to the airport. A nicer one than the team would send.”

With that, the line clicks, and Cassian tosses his phone away again, this time face down. He doesn’t even want to look at what’s being said, at the speculation. Sure, the Rangers hadn’t had the best season, the ending more heartbreak than anything else. Sure, he only has one year left on his contract. Sure, the front office wants draft picks to help build up the farm system with young blood.

But still, Cassian never expected this. Never expected this was how his time with the team would end. Never expected this was how his time in New York City would end.

Sighing softly, he glances around his apartment. The high ceilings, the modern, open kitchen, the tall windows and the amazing skyline view that the thirty-first floor offers. He really did love this place, a far cry from the streets he’d grown up on, and a reminder of how far he'd come from those very streets. He supposes he’ll have to sell it now. Is it worth keeping just for the off season?

The sound of Cassian’s phone ringing is loud in his otherwise quiet apartment. It seems to echo off the walls as though taunting him. He’s half tempted to ignore it all together, but despite the unknown number displayed on the screen when he checks, the location is listed as Seattle. Not the best first impression to send his new team to voicemail. Another sigh and Cassian squares his shoulders, sliding his thumb across the screen to answer.

The man on the other end of the line introduces himself and exchanges a few pleasantries, but then he’s diving right in to more specifics. The nitty gritty of a trade. Flight details. Financials and reimbursements. Rental car when he lands. Taxes.

Cassian only half listens, making sure he makes the affirmative sounds at the appropriate breaks in conversation. This isn’t his first rodeo. Although, he had still been in the farm system when his last trade happened. This is certainly different, but Cassian knows he thankfully won’t have to deal with most of this. He’ll give the director of team services Eris’s number, and let him deal with all the numbers and everything. It’s why he pays him the big bucks after all.

As soon as the call ends, Cassian’s phone lights up and starts ringing again. He wants to pull his own hair out as that incessant sound fills his apartment. He knows how this goes, but he’d give anything for just a moment of peace, a moment to really sit with his thoughts and everything that’s just happened. He considers turning his phone off, letting all the calls go to voicemail, at least for a few hours, but then he sees the name displayed on the screen.

“I take it you saw the news?” Cassian says by way of greeting.

“Need a drink?” Rhysand’s voice carries down the line.

Cassian chuckles, already pushing up to his feet. “You have no idea. But you better be breaking out the good shit from your fancy cellar.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just get your ass over here.”

Just the short conversation, the teasing tone of his chosen brother, has Cassian feeling lighter already. He grabs his wallet and shoves it into his pocket, tugging a ball cap down over his curls. Summer still clings to the city despite the first day of fall barely a few days away, but the breeze that dances between the buildings promises cooler temperatures to come. Cassian takes the subway up toward Central Park, the rocking of the car over the tracks strangely a lulling balm over his nerves.

The doorman offers Cassian a nod and a friendly hello in greeting when he arrives at the building, holding the door open for him to stroll inside. The receptionist at the front desk does the same, barely casting Cassian a cursory glance as he heads for the elevators. He quickly punches in the code and steps inside, riding up and up and up, all the way to the penthouse.

Feyre is waiting for Cassian as soon as the elevator doors open, stepping forward and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. “I’m so sorry.”

Cassian chuckles but he wraps his own arms around Feyre’s shoulders nonetheless. “I’m not dying, Fey. I just got traded.”

“I know, but traded across the country,” Feyre continues, pulling back enough that she can peer up at Cassian with an overdramatic pout. “I’m losing my partner in crime. Who will join me in bullying Rhys now?”

“You’re right,” Cassian tells her, nodding his head with faux solemness. “I’m so sorry you’ll be stuck on the east coast all alone with Rhys’s stupid face.”

“Stupid face? And here I broke out the good wine for your sorry ass.”

Cassian tosses his head back and laughs. He steps away from Feyre and walks over to Rhys, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I expect nothing less.”

Rhys rolls his eyes, but he leads the way into the kitchen, three wine glasses and a bottle already arranged on the large kitchen island. He pours the wine into each glass, but Cassian grabs the bottle, examining the label with an appreciative hum.

“I don’t know why you’re making that sound,” Rhys comments dryly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Who cares about that?” Feyre cuts in, waving a dismissive hand at her fiancé and leaning against the kitchen island, her attention solely on Cassian. “Are you excited for Seattle?”

Cassian hums, swirling his wine around the glass. “They’re definitely building a good team out there. Strong top line. And I’ve heard good things about playing under Miller.”

“But…?”

“There’s no but, it’s just…” Cassian sighs softly, pulling his cap off to run his fingers through his hair. “It just sucks because everyone’s here, out east. You guys are always here or in Montreal. Mor’s here in New York. Even Az isn’t that far in Nashville. I won’t know anyone out west.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have the guys on the team. You know they’ll have all the best spots in town to recommend,” Rhys reminds him.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“My sister lives out in Seattle!” Feyre jumps in to add, blue eyes bright.

Cassian frowns. “Doesn’t Elain live in Toronto with Lucien?”

“Not Elain. My other sister. Nesta. You’ve met her.”

Nesta.

Cassian is sure he’d remember if he met Nesta Archeron. He still remembers when Feyre had posted the photos from Elain’s wedding last month to her Instagram, the way his mouth had slackened at the sight of who he was sure was the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. With the purple, silky fabric of the bridesmaid dress clinging perfectly to her every curve, golden brown strands of hair swept away from her face in an intricate updo, she was breathtaking.

But it was her expression in the photos that had really drawn Cassian in. There was something about it. Something about her. Something about the way that even though she was smiling in the photo, there was still a challenge, a dare, burning in her stormy blue eyes and the pinch of her brow. And Cassian had never backed down from a dare. He was sure one look from her had sent many men to their knees, sent them fleeing for the hills before she could cut them down where they stood, but Cassian? Cassian wanted to drive head first into that fire.

“I don’t think I’ve met her,” Cassian offers, but he doesn’t tell Feyre just how much he wishes he had.

“But she was at our engagement party in May,” Feyre continues, but when Cassian only shrugs in response, she merely sighs. “Whatever. The point is that she lives in Seattle. I can give you her number if you want. Then, you’ll at least know someone out there when you get there. And I’m sure she’d be more than happy to show you around.”

Cassian thinks about it. He thinks back to those photos on Feyre’s Instagram, thinks about the photos he had seen when he stalked Nesta’s own Instagram after he clicked the tagged account. Thinks of those stormy blue eyes and the tilt of her lips in a smirk behind the rim of a wine glass. Thinks of the stories Feyre has told him, of the stubborn and fierce older sister who all but eviscerated Feyre’s ex, Tamlin.

“Yeah… yeah, that’d be good. Just so I know someone out there.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta

Nesta sighs softly, but she reaches down, fingers curling beneath cardboard. Her arms protest at the weight, but she hefts the box up, shuffling the few steps to add it to the organized chaos that’s their backroom. For a moment, her attention dances back toward her phone where she left it on another box, but she pointedly left it face down for a reason. She doesn’t need to look at the text messages waiting for her again.

Feyre 1:18pm Remember Cassian? Rhys’ brother that I told you all about? 😉 He’s coming to Seattle! I gave him your number. Show him around for me? Please?

Unknown number 4:43pm Hey, Nesta. This is Cassian. Feyre gave me your number. I’m moving out to Seattle soon. Maybe we can meet up?

“So, let me get this straight. The Cassian is moving to Seattle?”

Nesta snorts softly, peering toward where Gwyn is sprawled across the floor, iPad balanced against her knees. “We’re calling him the Cassian now?”

“I prefer to call him the douchey hockey player,” Emerie comments idly, placing the box in her own arms down. She swipes up the box cutter from the metal shelf to her left, making quick, efficient work of the tape keeping the box closed.

“And are you imagining douchey hockey player’s balls there?” Gwyn teases, looking meaningfully toward the box cutter in Emerie’s grip.

“So what if I am?” Emerie fires back, leaning forward to open Nesta’s box too. “He’d deserve it.”

“I never said he didn’t,” Gwyn laughs, turning her attention back to Nesta. “So, what are you going to do?”

Nesta sighs softly. “I don’t know. Feyre asked me to show him around the city.”

“Doesn’t he have teammates to do that?”

“Ignore him and the request,” Emerie suggests dryly.

Nesta snorts quietly but it quickly turns into a sigh, even as she keeps her hands busy pulling books out of her box. “I didn’t exactly tell Feyre what happened that night.”

She hadn’t told anyone about that night, save her two best friends. She still cringes sometimes when she thinks back to it, the embarrassment burning bright low in her gut, twisting and squeezing between her ribs uncomfortably. She’d sworn that night that she would never give a single thought about Cassian Valdarez ever again, and until today, she’d kept true to that.

She’d spent her remaining days in New York City solely with her sisters, even doing one of the touristy bus tours with Elain to see all the classic sights. And thankfully, Feyre had been more interested in excitedly talking about wedding plans and ideas than continuing her busybody meddling. If either of her sisters noticed anything different with Nesta, they didn’t say anything.

After Nesta had flown back home to Seattle, Emerie and Gwyn came over to her apartment. Drinking a bottle of wine between the three of them, it all had come spilling out of her. Her friends had allowed her to pace and rage, and then that was that. Nesta had washed her hands of the whole thing. Never again did she dare to check the sports news out of curiosity. Never again did she dare to stalk his Instagram. Never again did she think of the stupid face and the stupid smirk of a smile of that hockey player.

“What if you give him a tour of all the worst places in the city?” Emerie suggests, brown eyes practically lighting up at the idea. “Then, maybe he’ll want to leave the city.”

Gwyn’s laugh is bright, red hair tumbling down her back when she tosses her head back. “That is definitely not how sports teams operate.”

“Worth a shot,” Emerie mutters, tossing aside the box packaging in her hands and reaching back in for the books hiding beneath. “Holy shit. We got the new Sellyn Drake novel already?”

Emerie holds up the book in her hand excitedly, showing off the cover. Like so many romance novels these days, it features a faceless, cartoon style couple. The man is shirtless, though, rocking a kilt, while the woman is drawn with a yellow sundress. Looping script above the cartoon characters declares the title, The Scottish High Lord and Me.

“It’s official release date is…” Gwyn starts, squinting down at the iPad and scrolling through whatever is on the screen. “Tuesday, so we’ll want to put them out Monday night after we close.”

Gwyn reaches over toward the metal shelves, swiping up the sticky notes and sharpie sitting there. She scrawls out a note, a reminder of when they’ll need to stock the books, and peels the sticky note free. She slaps it right over the cover of the book in Emerie’s hands, but Emerie is quick to peel it right back off, placing it instead on one of the other copies still in the box.

“Hey!” Gwyn chastises, narrowing her eyes.

“What?” Emerie asks, her tone overly innocent. “This is my copy.”

“Gwyn just said the book doesn’t technically release until Tuesday,” Nesta points out, snorting softly.

“What’s the point of owning a bookstore if we don’t get to read all the best releases early? Besides, it’s not like I’m going to be posting all the spoilers online or anything.”

“Good point,” Nesta agrees, reaching forward as well to grab another of the Sellyn Drake books.

“You both are terrible.”

“Oh, come on,” Emerie teases with a roll of her eyes. “You know you want to read it too.”

“Seriously, Gwyn,” Nesta adds, not even bothering to bite back her smirk as she points to the cover. “It’s a Scottish love interest.”

Gwyn huffs, seemingly determined to hold her ground with her crossed arms and narrowed gaze, but it barely lasts a few seconds. Not quite meeting either of her friends' eyes, the barest hint of a blush beginning to pool in her cheeks, she reaches forward into the box, plucking out another of the books.

Nesta and Emerie glance toward each other, sharing a knowing look, before they both burst out laughing. It feels good to laugh, to have that lightness twining around her limbs and swelling through her chest. It feels good to be squeezed back in this tiny stockroom with her best friends, her chosen sisters. She doesn’t know what she’d do without them.

They were there for her when she hit the lowest point of her life, when she well and truly felt like she hit rock bottom. They were right there beside her in the trenches, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to rage and scream at, a voice of reason and comfort. They didn’t flinch when Nesta snapped and released that swirling storm of emotion within her. They didn’t balk from her every scar, every dark crevice of her soul.

And when Nesta was ready, they helped pull her out.

“And what books are in your box?” Gwyn asks Nesta, pulling her out of her thoughts and back into the present.

Nesta shakes her head before peering into the box at her feet, pushing aside the packaging. “It looks like it’s our restock of that baseball romance that went viral.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Gwyn comments, tapping away at the iPad screen. “We should definitely put those out tonight so they’re ready for tomorrow.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta slumps back against the blankets and pillows of her bed with a soft sigh. She sinks back into the mattress, letting her arm fall over her eyes. There’s definitely a soreness lingering in her biceps from lifting all those boxes, but it was worth it.

When they finished inventory of the latest deliveries, the three of them had moved back into the main shop. Emerie had taken to restocking the shelves while Gwyn took to rearranging the table displays at the front. Nesta had taken to the registers. Math had always been a strong point for her, even when she was back in school, so it was always her job to balance their books. They all worked in perfect tandem until everything was good to go, finally closing up the shop and heading their separate ways back to their respective apartments.

Nesta allows herself another moment to simply lay in bed before hauling herself back up. She grabs the newest Sellyn Drake novel, resituating her pillows and settling back comfortably against them. Her fingers skate along the cover, down over the spine. There’s always been something about holding a fresh book in her hands. The crisp pages, the scent of parchment and ink.

Sliding her palm down the cover once more, Nesta turns to the first page, but her gaze dances away from the words and over to her nightstand. To her phone sitting there. She knows she shouldn’t, but her fingers itch with the urge all the same. With an annoyed huff, Nesta snatches up the device, navigating to her message app and the unread texts there.

Unknown number 7:12pm Did I type in the wrong number? This is Nesta, right?

Unknown number 7:37pm Feyre says this is the right number. Did she tell you I’m moving to the Seattle area? It would be really great if we could meet up!

Unknown number 9:21pm I guess you’re just really busy. My flight gets in Saturday morning, but the team is picking me up to show me around the practice facilities and locker rooms and introduce me to everyone. Maybe we could meet up in the afternoon? I’d be more than happy to buy you dinner 😏

The last message has Nesta rolling her eyes hard. It’s exactly the sort of response she expects from someone like Cassian. All the arrogance and presumptuousness that comes from being a professional athlete. She half wonders how he even fits his ego inside the locker rooms.

Nesta tosses her phone aside and returns to her book. She hasn’t broken her promise yet, and she has no intention of breaking it now. Besides, who needs a hockey player when she has a fictional Scotsman, anyways?

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @lady-nestas @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy @superflurry @bri-loves-sunflowers @lady-winter-sunrise @witch-and-her-witcher @fieldofdaisiies

[gryffinwrites]

My Y/N (Female Farmer) x Harvey Fanfic Just Hit 20 Chapters, Here Are My Harvey/SDV Headcanons:

IB: @pierperian-leisure's post on dating harvey headcanons (some of them are so similar to what I pictured when I started this FF, I just love that we all have the same Harvey in our head and hearts 🥰)

For reference: The fanfic is called You Hate Harvey, a silly hate to love story full of banter and tension.

∙ Harvey's anxiety displays in different ways. Sometimes he is the stuttering/blushing version you see in SDV, sometimes he is grumpy and speaking condescendingly when you've put yourself in danger. When Harvey panics, it is freeze first, flight second, and lastly, occasionally, mostly with you, fight.

∙ Though he can maintain a solid bedside manner with all his other patients, Harvey doesn't hide his emotions very well from you. If he's irritated, he's pinching the bridge of his nose. If he's nervous, he's wiping his glasses on his shirt. If he's frustrated (sexually, more often than not) he his shoving a fist into the messy volume of his hair.

∙ Elliott is the best friend Harvey has ever had. They're very different on paper, but as a writer Elliott brings an empathetic energy that equips him to understand Harvey better than anyone ever has before. For that reason, Harvey can accept the bolder parts of Elliott's personality that draw more public attention than he's typically comfortable with.

∙ In the bedroom and the clinic alike, Harvey just wants to take care of you. He's very much a giver, and his favorite thing is to put his medical degree to good use and employ his anatomical knowledge for your pleasure. Before you even first got together, he secretly fantasized all the ways he could kiss and make it better.

∙ Harvey was terrified of you when he first met you, fearing how much he wanted to be with you. But his second, and most secret, fear was that he would never get what he wanted most and would someday have to watch you settle down with another eligible bachelor. Sometimes he convinces himself you would be better off in that instance. Even after you're together, seeing how much the other bachelors equally admire you will occasionally fuel the self-deprecating thoughts in his head.

∙ Harvey had his heart broken in college when, as she left him, his girlfriend insulted his mustache. Since then, he always wondered if he would ever find someone who accepts him for all he is.

∙ Harvey's parents died from a car accident when he was young. It's why he cares so deeply about your safety and has nightmares about losing you, another person he loves.

∙ Though it was initially traumatic, the hospital visit incited his interest in medicine.

∙After they passed, Harvey was raised by his grandparents. For that reason, Harvey has a soft spot for George (even when he's yelling at him in an appointment.)

∙ Harvey's grandfather was a pilot back in the day, and the reason why Harvey still loves planes so much and once contemplated following in his footsteps.

∙ When Harvey drinks too much at the saloon, he lets loose and all his inhibitions slide away and he's all about sneaky PDA. He'll undo his tie, unbutton his shirt a little, and try and get away with sliding a hand up your thigh. Or, he'll motion for you to follow him into the barrel room.

∙ Though Harvey tried to keep your budding romance a secret, Maru immediately suspected something had changed when he would throw his office door open the moment he heard a voice in the lobby to ask if it was you. He would also hum as he worked. A lot.

∙ Harvey and your grandfather were close, as he reminded him in a way of his own grandpa. He would often go over to the farm and play cards to keep him company. During these visits, your grandfather would talk about you often, showing him photos of you in university and at your big corporate job in Zuzu City. Even then, knowing so little about you and never imagining he'd ever meet you, Harvey started to develop a bit of a crush.

∙ Harvey secretly has a very impressive singing voice. It was strengthened over years of listening to jazz albums in medical school, subtly singing along and emulating the crooner's voices as he studied. The only person who has heard him sing is Elliott, and it was after so much wine the writer barely remembers it.

∙ When Harvey is feeling full-hearted, he gives off giddy golden retriever-energy. His smile becomes boyish, he freely jokes around and messes with you, and he is very physically affectionate.

∙ It may be Elliott's influence, but Harvey can be very articulate on his devotion to you... it's just a shame that for so long, those expressions of ardent admiration were simmering under the surface, cloaked completely by his nervously-blurted blunders.

Some of these have been covered in the story already, some of them are yet to be uncovered.

What do you think?

[garbinge]

When One Day Comes

Chibs Telford x F!Teller!Reader Tig Trager & F!Teller!Reader 30 Day Fic Challenge (26/30)

Summary: An unexpected visitor turns into a trip back to Charming.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Angsty. Mentions of violence and injury.

SOA Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @kmc1989

Part 1 // Part 2

“Some guy’s here.” Thomas walked inside the house and interrupted your paperwork. 

Quickly, you looked up from the scattered mess on the dining room table and stared at Thomas. 

“You tell him that the market is on the next path on the highway, just like the sign says.” 

It was common for people to mix up your dirt path for the one up the road where the large farmer’s market was. It had prompted you and Nero to place a sign at the top of the path to communicate that but occasionally some idiot wouldn’t read and would make their way to your home on the farm. 

“I did, but he told me he was looking for you.” Thomas didn’t seem concerned, he was currently searching through the fridge for something to spoil his dinner but that was the least of your concerns. 

As you stood up, you continued to ask your nephew more questions. “Did he say anything else? Give a name? Say why he was here?” While Thomas had his back turned to you, you were casually grabbing your gun from the lockbox that you kept hidden by the back sliding door. 

“Nah, just that he was looking for you, he looks weird, curly hair, sunglasses– looked stressed.” He had a mouthful of something in his mouth as he spoke, still staring into the fridge. 

“Alright, probably just someone trying to sell us something.” That wasn’t uncommon either, you’d get a lot of sales people to come try and sell you farming equipment, get you to join their local markets, all typical for the size of land you had. But it didn’t take away from your visceral reaction to move towards protecting yourself. That was a habit that was engraved in you from your days in Charming and you’d find that just because you got out of the toxic town, the Teller ways stayed close to you regardless. 

“Oh–he didn’t have a car, looks like he walked from up the path.” The kid still was half in the conversation as he spoke but that detail was one that alerted you that maybe this wasn’t someone trying to sell something, and maybe there was something more happening here. 

Not knowing what you were walking into, you tucked the gun in your waistband and draped your shirt over it before placing your hand on the sliding door handle. “Alright, do me a favor? If you see Nero, tell him to meet me outside.” It was your backup, you didn’t want to alert the young boy and scare him, you knew he had been coming in from his daily chores which meant there wasn’t going to be much that would pry him away from his playstation for the rest of the day. 

As you cautiously walked outside, practically scaling the side of your back porch to get a look at who was there. Your hand was behind you, ready to grab the gun as a threat and if needed force but when you saw the wrinkled button down shirt that was pacing up and down the dirt driveway, your shoulders dropped. As you exhaled out and closed your eyes to shift your mind from one issue that was now nonexistent to the current one you were facing, it was loud enough to grab your visitor’s attention. 

Now, the curly haired man was looking in your direction, taking his sunglasses off to get a better look and calling out your name in a questioning manner. 

“Yea, Thomas had me convinced you were a hitman.” You were now moving down the stairs of your porch and onto the dirt driveway to meet the man. “But I guess he wasn’t too far off.” 

“Your words, they hurt me.” He faked his heart breaking as he grabbed it and made an excruciating face. 

“Tig.” You nodded as you approached him and he immediately stood straight up from his display of acting and brought you in for a hug. 

“Hey, doll.” The squeeze was tighter than you expected but you chopped it up to being years since you last saw him. “Sorry for the surprise visit,” his voice was in your ear before he pulled back and then pointed over his shoulder, “I–uh, tried to be a little discrete, parked my bike at the beginning of the driveway, but he was driving in one one of those ATV’s when I walked up. Didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers.” He referred to Thomas. 

You laughed at that and waved your hand. “Thomas is at the age where if it doesn’t have a controller he doesn’t think twice about it.” 

Tig laughed at that but you could tell that it was a nervous laugh, that he was holding something back. It was then you realized he wasn’t wearing his kutte and figured that had something to do with his visit. 

“No kutte.” You reached out and patted his chest. 

He looked down with a frown and immediately looked up. “Oh, uh, yea, left it back on my bike,” he was pointing over his shoulder again, “he–Chibs, let me know about the rule, Hap too, just in case, you know.” 

The rule. You remembered the last thing you said to Chibs the last time he was standing in pretty much the same spot as Tig was right now. 

“Don’t come back here unless the ink is blacked out and the kutte is off.” 

It wasn’t exactly the rule you gave, you didn’t say next time you come by don’t wear your kutte and leave your bike at the driveway. You told Chibs, he needed to leave the club if he wanted to see you again. But you had to appreciate that he had told his right and left hand men that they had to be respectful of your home, in case. In case. That got you thinking, what did that mean, in case? 

“What do you mean in case?” You felt your heart starting to beat faster and faster as the thoughts danced in and out of your mind. 

Tig looked visibly upset, visibly stressed, and that made you even more on edge. 

“What happened?” You knew what happened but it didn’t stop you from asking the question.

“It’s bad, doll.” Tig inhaled. “He wiped out. He’s at St. Thomas in surgery right now, second one since he got there.” 

“How’d he wipe out?” Again, you had a ballpark idea of how it happened but you needed to hear it from him. 

“He got shot, Mayan retaliation.” 

A good five seconds passed before you responded but to both you and Tig those five seconds were likely feeling like 5 minutes. 

“I’ll get a bag, follow you there.” Your brain was starting to mush together, thoughts were melting into other ones, worry and panic were sparring back and forth in your gut. 

But before either of them could continue the conversation, someone was interrupting you by calling out your name but with Aunt before it. Turning around quickly you saw your eldest nephew on the porch, no weapon in hand but his demeanor was firm, ready to jump into action at any moment. 

“Thomas told me someone was here.” He said as he stepped quickly towards you too, Tig bringing his hand up to the bridge of his nose as he turned around. 

“You alright?” He was next to you, towering over you, similarly to how your brother– his father, did. 

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” You squeezed his shoulder. “An old friend of mine is sick at the hospital and Alexander was just coming by to let me know.” It was a calculated sentence, Abel didn’t know much about Jax, it was a constant struggle of what information you wanted to share with him and what you should. It was a lot easier when he was younger, the story of how his father passed was watered down similarly to his adoptive mother’s but as he grew older, he had more questions, more curiosity. “Why don’t you come help me pack, Abel. I’m going to go visit him for a couple days and I’ll run you through the things around the farm you can take over for me.” 

“Yea, alright.” He wouldn’t take his eyes off Tig who had only waved by lifting his hand slightly at the mention of his first name earlier. 

“C’mon.” You grabbed the young boy by the shoulders and turned him around. 

As you started to grab things and toss them into a duffel bag, you tried to mask your anxiety and spiral of thoughts. 

“So Nero can take care of the feed deliveries and stuff that happens while you’re at school, I’ll call him on my way out, but I’m gonna need you to finish the inventory on the table, I’d ask Thomas but, well, I don’t trust he’ll pull himself away from that TV before the submissions are due.” You chuckled, awkwardly. “But besides that, just feed the critters, morning and night, I’ll toss in some extra allowance for you since you’re gonna have to get up earlier to make it all happen. Also, I’ll leave money for food, don’t cook, I’ve seen what you and Thomas make and I’d rather you order from some shitty fast food restaurant than risk one of your concoctions sending your organs into a fit.” It was then you were pulling your wallet out and searching for bills. “Also ask Nero for anything, I haven’t talked to him yet, but he should be around.” 

You were rambling and Abel saw through it. 

“That guy knew Dad, didn’t he?” He was staring right at you, his eyes were searching for an answer on your face. 

You moved to close the door, you didn’t want Thomas to hear, but it was also a way to break Abel’s stare on you. 

“Yes.” You were still trying to search for what you were going to say but you knew he needed the truth, or at least a morsel of it. “My brother–Jax–your father, lived a complicated life, one that he never wanted you or Thomas to experience or honestly even know about. I’m not sure he really thought through what that looked like once you got older, but nonetheless, his life was not suited for you kids.” Abel was glued to you, taking in every word hoping the next ones would offer up more than this reiteration of what he’d sort of heard before. You plopped down on the bed in front of him and sighed. Abel wasn’t ready for Jax’s full story, his mind was young and impressionable, the chance he’d leave here and go to Charming for answers and end up back in the generation’s curse was too feasible, but he could hear yours. 

“Your dad had a group of friends, always around, honestly they became like family, my mom–your grandma, lived for it, we always had dinners, always hung out, we were all close.” You explained. “There was one friend in particular, that I got, well, close with.” 

Abel laughed at that and smirked. 

“Watch it.” You smirked back at him. 

“Was Dad mad?” He was intrigued by the story, you didn’t often talk about this stuff. 

“Annoyed at first.” You thought back and smirked before correcting yourself. “Yea, he was mad. But the guy–his friend was older and so was I, so he couldn’t really say much about it, just huff and puff.” 

“Was grandma mad?” 

You laughed at that. “The opposite, grandma loved it, the idea to make the family more of a family, she had been pushing it forever. Honestly, I tried to go against it but this really had nothing to do with her, this was…different.” It started to hurt talking about it but you continued. 

“This guy, he was super close to your dad, one of his closest friends, and he was kind, funny, caring, had this accent that just melted my heart.” The smile on your face was contagious and Abel was catching it as you spoke. “He’d take me on these trips, we’d explore all these national parks,” you thought back to every ride you’d taken on the back of Chibs’ bike where you’d have picnics, get caught in the rain, went quarry swimming, the memory of Chibs swimming still making you chuckle. That slowly turned into you remembering other memories, “we went to Ireleand together too.” As those words left your mouth, you felt your stomach drop as you looked up at Abel who was none the wiser of why you really went. 

“You loved him.” Abel was smiling. 

You wanted to agree, even tell him that you still did but that was a can of worms you didn’t need Abel to open, let alone yourself so all you did was nod. 

“What happened?” 

“Remember how I said your father had a complicated life? Well so did his friend, and his friend didn’t want to leave that complicated life and I did.” It broke your heart saying it, you had thought it all these years but never spoke it outloud let alone to your nephew.  

“You left because of us. Thomas and I.” Abel put the pieces together. 

“I left for you. I’d put you before anything, always.” You were leaning over and grabbing his hands and squeezed them. 

“It was that guy that was here last year. The one with the bike.” 

All you did was nod. “He apparently got hurt and I just–” You looked at Abel and weren’t sure if you wanted to say the words, they felt more like something you needed to say out loud for you than for him. 

“Need to know if he’s okay.” He cut you off. 

Another nod escaped you but you spoke up to say something different, something that broke you. “And say goodbye if he isn’t.” A tear fell from your face and you wiped it away immediately and smiled quickly standing up to finish packing your bag. 

Before you could stuff one more item of clothing into your bag, you felt an arm around your shoulder and bring you in for a half hug. “I’ll bribe Thomas with my new controller, we’ll both pick up the farm work while you’re gone.” 

“Thanks for understanding, kiddo.” 

______

The ride was long, longer than you remembered but it made sense that you moved this far away. As you entered the town line, everything came back to you, like a wave that washed over you. One full of memory, grief, and that one feeling that ultimately always wrecked everything. Hope. 

The sounds of more motorcycles joined the one that was already behind you, you recognized some of them but not all of them. They followed you to the hospital and as you stepped out of the car, Tig was walking back up to you, a group of more MC members standing a few feet behind. Despite this being the life you grew up in, it felt strange, it felt wrong, but you pushed that all aside, or at least tried.

“Party of 15 joining us inside?” You asked looking back at the group. 

“It’s a messy time, doll. Our president was gunned down, need all the protection we can spare.” 

“Yea, when isn’t it.” You turned and began your walk into the hospital where you eventually saw Happy. He looked visibly upset, the Sgt at Arms patch on his kutte felt heavier today than other days and you knew that. “Hap.” You whispered and slouched down to see his face before he was standing up quickly and very awkwardly. 

He didn’t move to come hug you at first, but when you dropped your shoulders and tilted your head with an accompanied “c’mere” he was moving to embrace you, an act Happy reserved for rare times in his life, but this qualified as that. 

“He’s out of surgery, they said he’s in serious but stable condition.” He was now looking back between you and Tig as he spoke. 

“Is he conscious? Can I see him?” 

“Only letting one at a time back there, Quinn’s back there now.” Rat spoke up, bringing himself into the conversation as he stood from the seat next to where Happy was. 

“We’ll tell him to jump out.” Tig’s hand was on your back and giving daggers to Rat. “Go, take all the time you need.” 

You stood at the door for a minute, staring at him, all broken and helpless. You felt your fight of flight kick in as you took a step back, followed by a step forward before inevitably the freeze tactic kicked in. Suddenly you were stepping in and at his side. 

His eyes moved to take in the figure next to him and they went wide before they closed. “Quinn, could you tell those lovely nurses to either cut this morphine or give me enough to knock me the fuck out, I’m bloody hallucinatin’.” 

“Not hallucinating.” Your hand moved to lightly push his hair out of his face. “I’m really here.” 

He stared at you for a good minute before smiling. “I must be really bad if they got you to come back here.” 

“You’re fine,” you continued to stroke his hair, “Tig has a way to make everything seem more dramatic than it really is.” It was a lie but you needed him to believe he was going to get better if there was any hope for it to be true. 

“If I knew escaping death was all I needed to do to get you back here, I’d have done this ages ago.” He laughed as he tried to sit up. 

“Hey, hey, hey, hey–relax.” You gripped his arms and assisted him as he scrunched up his face and groaned. 

“You know what happened?” He asked, moving over for you to sit but you didn’t. 

“I do. Tig told me. Retaliation.” You nodded, not letting go of his head despite not wanting to cuddle in next to him. 

“He tell you I’m done?” 

Those words came from him but felt like they were caught in your throat as you tried to answer. 

“You–You’re just saying that, scares like this, they stir up two things in you guys, either the motivation for severe retaliation–the kind that that starts a war, or it shakes up the desire to want to leave, go nomad, take the back seat.” You remembered the typical club ways. 

“I’m not just a member, love. I’m the president, going nomad, taking the backseat, ain’t really a choice for guys like me.” 

“Neither is leaving if I remember correctly.” You took a deep breath. 

Chibs closed his eyes and took a breath similar to yours. “I’m old. Too old for this. I’m not made to hand off the gavel and take the other head of the table. I’m done. After this hit, I’ll be lucky if I can ride again, they’ll offer me a spot out of courtesy but that’s not me.” 

“And what will you do with all this free time you’ll inevitably have?” 

“I have a friend, real looker this friend of mine, pretty as ever, owns a farm a few hours out from here, I’d probably see if she could use the extra farm hands, might take some convincing, but I’m hoping she’ll come ‘round.” 

There it was. That hope that Charming was always serving up. You had been here less than an hour and it was already happening, it wasted no time. 

“Focus on getting better, you can think about your next act when the bruises fade and the bullet hole is just a scar.” You plopped down next to him, your way of softening the blow of not giving him an answer of coming to the farm. You wrapped your arm around his and leaned your head on his shoulder, lightly as to not cause him more pain, but you had a funny feeling that he wouldn’t have told you if he was in pain from it, it was something both of you wanted, to absorb every second of this moment because the next ones were still so unsure. 

______

You sat on the back porch swing, coffee cup in your hand, birds chirping as the sun began to rise across the fields. You stared at the dirt path driveway, like you were waiting for someone to arrive but immediately your thoughts were interrupted by the complaints and arguments of two young boys. 

As your head twisted to look at them, you saw them bickering and slightly pushing each other before they stopped as they got in front of you. 

“See you tonight.” Thomas bent down and placed a kiss on your cheek before he got a head start down the porch. Abel was looking down at you and tilted his head. 

“You alright?” The concern was littered all over his face. 

“I’m fine. You have your keys?” You knew he did, Thomas was normally the forgetful one being the younger more daydreaming brother. 

“Yes, I’ll be home at 4 today, I’m picking up a part for my dirt bike downtown.” He dangled his keys. 

“Sounds good, drive safe.” 

He was leaning down to place a kiss on your cheek similarly to Thomas before he began walking away. But after taking one step, he paused and looked down at you before he followed his brother. “You happy?” 

Big question for two little words. 

“I am, kid.” You smiled and Abel accepted that and nodded before jogging after Thomas. 

You watched them pile into the used car that used to be yours that you gave Abel when he got his license. As the dirt kicked up on the driveway, you still stared down the lengthy path long after they left, only to be interrupted as the accented voice brought you back to the porch. 

“Lost in thought, love?” Chibs was shirtless, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he stood at the deck stairs. 

You couldn’t help the smile that grew on your face as you stared at him. He must’ve gotten up early to take care of the animals, he had dirt on him too which meant he probably did some work in the crop fields or the greenhouse. 

“Just waiting for the day someone comes down that driveway and steals you away from me.” 

“Not happening.” He was walking up to you and leaned down to press a deep kiss to your lips, one that you always melted into fear it’d be your last. “I told you 3 months ago, I tied up all the loose ends, no one knows I’m here. But if you’re not comfortable, you say the word and I’m out of here.” The words were spoken so close to your lips. 

You brought him down for another kiss. “I’m worried about losing you, not pushing you away. Just, hard to believe that dream you were sellin’ over a year ago was in stock is all.” You pecked his lips again. “Plus I like not having 5AM livestock duty anymore.” A laugh escaped you as one left his mouth as well. 

He was standing up now and shaking his head before he realized the porch light was disconnected. His hand reached up to grab the bulb and screw it in tighter. Your eyes stared at the black ink that was spread across his back. It was healing nicely. Maybe that was a sign that you could block out the past and move forward from it, or maybe it was all wishful thinking.

[stardewremixed]

What Each Townie Adds to the Community Center After Complete, Pt. 1

Farmer - a farm-to-table dinner once a month and everyone brings a side dish to share

Caroline - expands her fitness class and moves it to the Center (offers 3-4x's a week)

Evelyn - a baking class once a month (mostly cookies, some cakes too. Haley sometimes helps).

Gus - cooking class once a week (and he would be such a good teacher with a gentle, encouraging voice) AND a near daily breakfast for seniors and vets (because he's that kind of guy)

Sebastian - basic computer classes because these townsfolk need to get outta the dark ages. Jk... but seriously, he would open a computer lab. People could come work on resumes, kids could play games after school and on weekends (Sam included), and folks could pay bills online.

Penny would create a kids club for after school on Wednesdays. Vincent, Jas, and Leo all come for storytime, homework help, snacks, and playtime. Jas would donate some of her old dolls and toys. Vincent would create a bug display. Leo would fix up a treehouse out front with help from Robin.

Robin would offer woodworking classes, and she would co-lead an environmental science club with Demetrius (for the social and moral support).

Willy and Elliott would arrange beach clean-up days, and use the Center to create a place for recycling gathering. (And compost - Leah and the Farmer would add).

Gunther would partner with the Adventurer's Guild to host a series of guest lectures on the 2nd Saturday of the month. Archeologists, botanists, monster hunters, travelers, other experts.

Shane would open an AA chapter and suicide prevention support group (with some encouragement from Harvey). Bad coffee. Stale donuts. Everyone feels welcome though.

Band practice would move out of Sam's bedroom and into the Center. He would also organize an open mic night (Abigail would do most of the work, but his enthusiasm counts). He would support and cheer for everyone equally (no matter how off-key).

Elliott would do poetry readings. Once he was published, he would host his book reveal party at the Center. Over wine for the 21+.

Leah would host art classes - sculpting, painting, etc. She would also organize a tri-athlon with Alex.

Alex would fix up the backyard for a kids gridball team. He would have a sports mentorship program (and kids from surrounding towns would attend). Work hard. Play hard. And learn life skills. With a lot of help from other townies.

Haley would create a dark room for anyone wanting to develop their own photos. And she would gladly have many of her own photos on display.

I feel like George would host movie nights with help from Alex, Sebastian and Maru. Alex would hang the projector, Seb would set up the equipment, and Maru would decorate with lights in the yard for movies under the stars in summertime. And bring strawberries to share, of course. Old timey movies. Black and whites.

Harvey (and Maru) would host health clinics, offering free wellness checkups. Gus would provide healthy lunches. They would team up with Caroline for a fitness class. Emily would call her Swami friend for a yoga and meditation demonstration.

Emily would definitely start a sewing circle. Jodi would join. Maybe Marnie. And Caroline would enjoy cross-stitch.

Em would also do additional projects. The younger ladies like Abigail, Sophia, and Scarlett would definitely be into cosplay and costuming together. Abs would drag Sebastian in every once in awhile and Sam would tag along, just cuz. Seb would rock Puck from A Midsummer's Night Dream. And Elliott would make a fantastic Romeo. Haley would definitely be Juliet.

[the-dixon-effect]

Sticks and Stones

A/N: dear fic writers, consider this a public service announcement. DO NOT schedule a week of fic writing that coincides with a camping trip, it is hell!!!!

era: season 3-4, prison era

summary: Y/N suffers from chronic pain in her feet, but hates to feel vulnerable around others so constantly overworks herself. perhaps a certain archer could be the right kind of medicine... | requested from this ask by @justalexheree :) guys i really did my research for this one so i hope you enjoy ^.^

pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

words: 1.4k

warnings: mentions of chronic foot pain ig?? lil' time jump

It must be late by now, you thought. You were hesitant to look up to check the position of the sun for fear of getting distracted. You were crouched down, working out in the allotment around the front of the prison. The farm was a brilliant idea, you decided, despite the high amount of labour that was necessary to feed the residents of the prison-turned-camp. God knows you needed the food. Perhaps if the members of your community were aware of your condition, you wouldn't be forced to work out here all day, practically sweating your skin off in the Georgia sun. It didn't matter anyway, 'cause you couldn't let that happen.

So here you were, digging up soil and planting seeds 'til the sun disappeared behind the trees. It was somewhat enjoyable, you convinced yourself, of course you had your thoughts and daydreams to entertain yourself, and back in your old life you would have never found yourself spending so much time outdoors. Even so, a mundane office job might have arguably been a little better for your body. You constantly found yourself having to distract yourself from the persistent ache in your feet, maybe some company would do you good, you thought.

"Hey, we're all eatin' inside, ya can prolly finish up now," you heard the familiar voice of the crossbow-wielding man from several metres away. You knew you needed to stop, but there was still work to be done. If only there was enough food in the first place, then maybe you would let yourself resign to the dining area. Save it for those who needed it, you thought.

"Alright, I'll be inside in a second," That was a lie. It's not like the rest of the group would notice your absence, you figured. You better just stay out here a little longer, making sure the crops were tended to until it was dark. Then maybe you'd get some rest. For now, you didn't need to eat. Truthfully, your feet were killing you and it felt like you could keel over at any second. Get over yourself, you said, over and over in your mind, these people need feeding.

You remembered the look the archer gave you when he called you inside, observing how you were the only person left out in the field. You turned to check if he had left and, to your surprise, he was still stood watching, hands buried in his pockets as he looked straight ahead and met your eyes.

"C'mon," he shouted across the distance between the two of you. You couldn't really say no to him, except he left you wondering why he was so eager for you to join him. You put down your equipment and split from whatever idle job you had yourself occupied with. Something you did appreciate about the humble farmer's life was the reasonable tan you had acquired, which was on display in your little denim shorts as you jogged up to meet him. A part of you wished Daryl would notice.

"Ya' alrigh'? Yer limpin'," he asked, meanwhile you were contemplating on the fact that this might be the most words you'd ever heard the archer speak, to your face anyway. Your lack of association with the man didn't stop you from admiring from afar, though.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Been a long day."

"I bet," he replied, walking side-by-side with you up to the building entrance. You thought it was sweet how he paid attention to you and noticed something like that. Maybe one day you'd open up about your condition, when it felt right.

3 MONTHS LATER

You looked around the room, searching for Daryl's eyes. Today, more than ever, you needed to be with him. After months of breaking down his thick walls, it was safe to say that he'd become one of the most important people in your life. Your feet were hurting like hell today, and the only thing that would make you feel better right now was his presence.

He'd been out on a solo run, which you'd begged Rick to let you join him, ultimately to your disappointment. So you spent your day as you always did, out in the pasture, tending to the crops. After a while you headed back inside in hopes of finding Daryl, perched at one of the rusty tables, waiting for you. To your dismay, you couldn't find him anywhere.

You approached Rick with a worried look shaping your features, "Where's Daryl? Is he back yet?" you asked, your voice laced with concern. "Nah, he's not back yet," sensing your anxiety, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and spoke, "Y/N, he's gonna be fine. Anyway, he's scheduled to be back in... about an hour."

So you waited. And waited. It felt like the longest 60 minutes of your life, busying yourself in your cell by reading a book that Carol recommended, not absorbing a single word. By the time you decided that there was nothing else you could do to distract yourself, you headed downstairs and made idle chatter with one of the prison newcomers, Karen.

"I hear your boyfriend Daryl's coming back from a run today," she said.

"Oh, no, he's not my boyfriend," you said with a slight giggle.

"Oh, right! Gosh, it's just that you two are so close, I just figured- you know what, nevermind, ignore me," she said with a chuckle.

You smiled and looked at the floor, and tried to silence your anxious thoughts about whether something might have happened to him, if he's hurt, or anything. At this, the double-doors swung open and in walked the man you'd been waiting for for the last 48 hours. You approached him, suppressing the relief and excitement you felt just from seeing him walk through those doors. His eyes lit up at your welcoming smile, and maybe, just maybe, he would be inclined to embrace you right here if the prison foyer wasn't so crowded.

For now, he had other things on his mind that he needed to clear with you. Just like you, he spent the last 48 hours worrying more about your safety than he did his own. He regretted not being able to stay with you, or at least bring you along with him. He was the only person who knew about your condition and how badly you were affected by it, which meant he felt an immense responsibility to take care of you and offer you acts of service. Not to mention, you were also the only person who Daryl felt totally comfortable around, comfortable enough to share some of his childhood trauma and emotion with. You liked to think the two of you had a special bond, but despite your healthy friendship, you couldn't help wanting more. Either way, all he wanted right now was to be with you and to not have to deal with anyone else in this damn place.

Maggie shot you a mischievous look from across the room as you tugged on the archer's sleeve. You rolled you eyes at her following Daryl up the steel staircase and entered his cell. You sat down next to him on the mattress and he copied you by rolling his head back against the cool brick wall. You sighed in contentment, still in somewhat pain in your feet.

"So, how'd it go?" you asked, turning to face him.

"Was fine. Are ya' alrigh'?" you noticed how he changed the subject, sensing his concern.

"Yeah, I'm okay. It's just a little relentless, you know," you felt a little guilt for immediately beginning to talk about yourself, even when you knew you needed his comfort. His closeness was good enough for you.

"Mm, I know. Ya' gotta stop overworkin' yerself, ya know," he drawled. His pretty eyes were staring deeply at you now.

"Uh-huh. It's just, it's kind of relentless, you know. Like nothing I do makes it better. There's no distraction that works," it felt undeniably good to talk to someone about it, someone who understands. Someone who doesn't subject you to the same stereotypes or think that you're making it up. He wrapped an arm around you and you instinctively rested your head in the crook of his neck. He smelled delicious, like the outdoors, mixed with the distinct notes of Marlboro cigarettes and stormy weather. This was a pretty good distraction, you thought.

"Hey, I'll always make a run into some pharmacy to get ya yer meds, or anythin' like tha'," he spoke softly with his lips resting on the top of your head, occasionally brushing against your silky hair. "Jus' tell me what ya' need." It was this. You needed this.

“I just need you.”

[pandemichub]

If Tumblr prompts you to sign in use read mode/reader mode and it will display the post as text.

Please advocate for evacuation of incarcerated people, homeless people, disabled people, those in care settings, immigrants and animals (pets, wild life and farm animals). Don't leave people behind ❤️

ID: The Partnership for Inclusive Disaster Strategies @disasterstrat

Disability and Disaster Hotline 800-626-4959 linktr.ee/disasterstrat

Disability-Led Response Supporting @FightForRightUA

disasterstrategies.org

ID: New Disabled South@DisabledSouth

Working to achieve liberation and justice for disabled people in the U.S. South | 501c3 nonprofit | Check out our 501c4 arm @DisSouthRising newdisabledsouth.org

Also visit hcbssouth.org

Fight for prisoners to evacuate:

Insta caption screenshot

anthony.depice @arianajasmine__: Thank you @fighttoxicprisons for all of this information - please give them a follow.

Jails Not Evacuating-

Manatee County Central Jail- Mandatory Evac Zone A Ran by Manatee County Sheriff Rick Wells-

**Twitter- @ ManateeSheriff

**Instagram - @manateecountysheriff

Phone- **General Line- (941)-747-3011

****Extension 2222 - Office of the Sheriff ****Extension 2915 - Central Jail Information ****Extension 1549 - Public Safety Communications Center

Lee County Jail- Mandatory Evac Zone A

Lee County Sheriff Carmine Marceno-

**Twitter- @ SheriffLeeFL Llll

**Instagram- leesherif

Phone- **Main Headquarters - (239) 477-1350 **Main Jail - (239) 477-1500

Tweet elicia donze @eliciadonze. 28m

FREE SHUTTLES TO SHELTERS IN THE TAMPA EVAC ZONE.

CALL 800-729-3413 FOR ASSISTANCE. FL Division of Emergency M... • 18h

Tomorrow, 10/8, there will be free shuttles operating in Pinellas, Pasco & Hillsborough counties assisting with #Milton evacuations to shelters.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8 FREE EVACUATION SHUTTLES Free shelters and free transport assistance available

PINELLAS PASCO HILLSBOROUGH

Call 800-729-3413, 7 am - 7pm for Evacuation Assistance

Visit FloridaDisaster.org/Updates for times & locations

Tweet Art Candee @ArtCandee

It's sad how many people don't know that there are shuttles that will pick you up from your home and take you to a free shelter during Hurricane Milton. The fact that people still push the "poor people can't afford to evacuate" line is really sad.

Please help combat this and spread the phone number to request a shuttle, and let people know Uber and Lyft are also offering free or discounted rides to evacuate the storm and get to a shelter.

Also important to note that there are shelters who are specially equipped for people with special needs.

UBER AND LYFT TO PROMO CODE: miltonrelief

SHUTTLE #FOR EVERYONE EVACUATION ZONES: 1 (800) 729-3413

UBER AND LYFT TO EVACUATE CODE: miltonrelief SHUTTLE

#FOR EVERYONE EVACUATION ZONES 1 (800)729-3413

ID: Erin Regan Animal Sanctuary IF YOU ARE EVACUATING FROM FLORIDA AND HAVE NOWHERE TO GO OR CANNOT AFFORD A HOTEL...

We have 40 acres in Picayune, Mississippi where you, your horses, farm animals, and pets can ride out the storm. We are about 9 hours from Tampa.

Tents and RVs welcome.

Please email tracypaula@erinregananimalsanctuary.com for assistance.

Tweet elicia donze @eliciadonze

PET FRIENDLY SHELTERS IN HILLSBOROUGH COUNTY TELL YOUR FRIENDS Hillsborough County @HillsboroughFL.

Quoted tweet

Hillsborough County will open nine emergency storm shelters at 2:30 p.m., today, Oct. 7 for residents in evacuation Zones A and B, and those whose homes are vulnerable to storm surge, flooding, and wind damage....

Hillsborough County Florida EST. 1834 Hillsborough County to open the following emergency storm shelters at 2:30 p.m., today, Oct.7:

Hillsboro county Florida graphic.

Hillsborough county to open the following emergency storm at two therapy today, October 7

Burnett middle school 1010 N. Kingsway Rd., Seffner, FL 33584 pet friendly

Middleton high school 4801 N. 22nd St., Tampa, FL 33610 pet friendly.

Durant High school 4748 Cougar Path city, FL 33567 pet friendly.

Sickles high school 7950 Gunn Highway, Tampa, FL 33626, pet friendly

Shields middle school 15732 Shields Way, Tampa, FL 33626 pet friendly

Pizzo elementary school 11701 Bull Run Drive, Tampa, FL 33617 general population, not pet friendly

Erwin technical College 2010 Hillsborough Ave., Tampa, FL 33610 special needs only, pet friendly

Sumner high school 106050 County Rd. 672 Riverview, FL 33579 special meets only, pet friendly

Strawberry crest high school 4691 Gallagher Rd., Dover, FL 33527 special needs only, pet friendly

hcl.gov/stay safe

Dr. Serena Arnold

You don't necessarily need to leave the state or drive hundreds of miles. Sometimes 5 or 10 mile difference will make all the difference.

Deadliest part of a hurricane is the storm surge.

If you live 20 feet of elevation or lower these are the people who need to evacuate.

Find out your elevation if you don't know it at WhatIsMyElevation.com. Compare it with the storm surge forecast at NHC.NOAA.gov.

Summary

"Number 1, shelters cannot and should not ask for your ID in order to access them. You have a right to seek shelter regardless of your immigration status, regardless of your citizenship status and regardless of whether or not you have a government ID on you.

Number 2, well undocumented immigrants may not qualify for FEMA assistance, their children with citizenship do.

Number 3, ICE should not be operating at this time as it is a state of emergency.

Absolutely nobody should be deterred from being safe during a natural disaster."

[amenders93]

The Gang Go In

Molly didn't know that Ginger, all her chicken aunts and grandpa, and her two favorite rodent uncles were just outside the farm. And now the rescue gang had made an incredibly clever plan to blast their way inside and get her home safe and sound. After much discussion, a few arguments, a lot of equipment being packed and even the baking of a large, iced cake, the gang was finally ready. Our Wing Leader Ginger announces to her group that it's go time; dimwitted Wool Specialist Babs makes a comic reply that to relieve Ginger that she went before they left. Not that kind of 'go', Babs 🤣.

Phase 1 of the plan contained the element of surprise 😲. Ginger, Mac, Bunty and Babs hid behind the bushes and placed the iced cake on top of a clockwork trolley. The trolley was sent trundling up to the entrance gate. A patrolling guard noticed the trolley with the cake coming towards the gate and came up for a closer look. After the guard took one taste of the cake and blew out the candle, Ginger burst out the cake and handcuffed the guard to a bundle of fireworks. You heard of the Trojan Horse 🐴. Here's a Trojan Cake 🎂. The guard was dragged by the fireworks into the wooded area and slammed into a tree. Bunty cut the chain from the guard's wrist and the fireworks flew up into the air, exploding into a beautiful colorful display. The fireworks distracted another guard inside the facility who was in charge of the security cameras and screens.

Phase 2 of the operation was taking place overhead - the aerial invasion 🎈☁️. This was one of Fowler's specialties from his RAF days. After all, Fowler was the one who piloted the flying machine during the chickens' dramatic escape from Tweedy's Farm. Now he was flying something different - a balloon covered in cotton wool, disguised as a cloud. Fowler, Nick and Fetcher pedaled the balloon-cloud madly over the electric fence. As they floated along, they unwound a fishing line that they had attached to a tree outside. The crack team of cloud-pedallers landed on a security camera and Nick got out a Polaroid camera, taking a picture of the wooded area. It instantly printed out and Fetcher placed it in front of the camera lens. Now when the guard looked at the security screen, everything would look completely normal. The only problem was Fetcher had the photo the wrong way round. The guard stared at the screen in amazement and tapped it. Nick pointed out to Fetcher about the photo being upside down; Fetcher moved fast and turned it the right way up. The guard was happy again.

Ginger watched the whole thing down below. As soon as the picture was mounted, she signaled to the rest of the gang and they all rushed to the electric fence. Bunty pushed a rubber ring under the fence and pumped it up, opening up a chicken-sized gap. Ginger rushed them all through. She was the last one to dive under, then she punctured the ring to cover their tracks.

Next was Phase 3 - the underwater mission to cross the moat without being detected 🌊. The girls pulled on their scuba gear and did what the proper divers do - fall backwards into the water. Babs, however, didn't get it quite right. She fell backwards but in the wrong direction, landing on the bank instead 🤦‍♀️. A guard came past and almost spotted her, but the other chickens pulled Babs under the water in the nick of time. Together the girls swam underwater, avoiding the exploding robot ducks with laser eyes. Once out of the water on the other side of the moat, Mac and Bunty threw a grappling hook made from a coat hanger over a wall. Attached to the hook was a pair of elastic trouser braces. The chickens stretched the braces as far as they could and used them as a catapult to fling each of them over the wall. Everyone landed safely inside and hid behind a pillar. At the doorway, a guard was using the eye scanner to enter the building. Ginger watched him go inside, then led the way, skillfully parkouring to the doorway. The gang followed her, as stealthily as they could, across the courtyard.

Now Nick and Fetcher needed to take a photo for the eye scanner. They grabbed the camera and jumped out of the balloon, using an open umbrella as a parachute. They made a graceful landing right on the ground. Nick commented that it was a perfect landing, right on the button. On hearing the word "button", a confused Fetcher obediently pushed the umbrella button which snapped the umbrella shut on them both. The two blind rats stumbled around the courtyard, trying to get the closed umbrella off. Behind them a mechanical slot opened up and sucked the rats inside, just like what happened to Rocky the night before, leaving the camera on the ground in plain sight. Looks like the plan will have to be improvised.

Along came Mac and Ginger, their backs pressed against the wall. Mac saw the camera lying on the ground. Ginger dashed into the open courtyard and grabbed the camera just before a guard came around a corner. This was Ginger's chance! She hid in the shadows and whistled as the guard passed her. The guard stopped and peered into the darkness. Ginger took a flash picture of the guard's staring eyes, almost blinding him with the light and leaving him stumbling around. Ginger ran to the door and gave the photo to Mac. Mac fixed the photo to the end of an extendable tape measure and hoisted it up the reach the eye scanner.

Inside, the door guard looked at the eye picture through the scanner and checked it against her file labelled Staff Eye Pad. When she found the particular guard with the correct retina, she satisfyingly press a button to release the door and the chicken gang rushed in, too short for the camera to spot. The door guard looked puzzled; where was the guard? She went to the door and looked outside. Behind her, the gang sneaked through and hid behind as many cleaning supplies as they could carry. Finally, they had made it inside! 😄

Only Fowler was still outside. After Nick and Fetcher had floated down on the umbrella, the old sausage had continued to drift along in the cloud-balloon talking to himself. The balloon knocked against the mast where Fowler then attached it and landed. Our elderly rooster comments how this was a textbook landing. He steps onto the roof and spotting a nearby snail, settles down for a nice chat. Here we go again. More RAF stories from our favorite retired leading rooster 😒. What he doesn't see is that snail is trying to inch away from him while he goes on rambling 🐌.

[ahedderick]

Last weekend was the a Fall Festival not too far away in Pennsylvania. We went. It was nice. The crowds were so big, though, that it was almost difficult to see the vendors and craftspeople. If you stood at a comfortable distance to see their booth, you were blocking the moving mob of humanity, and if you stood close enough to be out of the way then you were crushed right up against the displays.

Part of it was in a big, sunny field with a spacious craft barn. Lots of really, really old farm equipment humming and chugging away, demonstrating the old engines of the early 1900s. There were folks making applebutter and various other old-timey foods in big cauldrons and kettles. There was a booth. I'm pausing to compose myself. A booth dedicated to. Selling sauerkraut. Large, large quantities of it. I like sauerkraut, but I never would have imagined it being sold at a booth in a fall festival. The air was redolent.

The rest of it was small huts and booths set up along a winding forest pathway. Cooperage, glassblowing, carving, tanning, hat-making, popcorn, metalwork of various types. All the skills of a prosperous 1800s society. The pathway also had a few small markers to identify the understory plants. Red elderberry, various ferns, blackberry brambles, solomon's seal. There they messed up; their solomon's seal (Polygonatun biflorum) was actually false solomon's seal (Maianthemum racemosum). Identical leaves, but the real s.s. has flowers and berries all along the stem while false s.s. has flowers/berries clustered at the end of the leaf. So I had to face the fact that I am that kind of person.

While we wandered through the forest Son and Roommate kept admiring the rocks. Lots of large boulders that were shaped and angled very well (in their opinion) for riding mountain bikes over. Everyone has their own things to focus on.

The maple products vendor won the 'best smell' competition, hands down. We bought a little tub of maple cream. Toast and maple cream, my beloved. I should maybe try to make some cinnamon rolls, and glaze them with maple cream once they're out of the oven. Hmm. Delicious thoughts.

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Kai Winn Adami

By Ames

So far, all of the subjects of our spotlight series have been people for whom we’ve had both good and bad character moments to discuss. But what do you do when you’re highlighting an antagonist character? For a villain, being bad is actually very good and that’s so perfectly the case for Kai Winn Adami. So this time A Star to Steer Her By will simply feature a bunch of our favorite moments overall.

Boy, do we love to hate this bitch. Somehow she’s only in 14 episodes even though it feels like she’s always looming somewhere with a passive-aggressive gaze and a “my child” on her lips. Louise Fletcher plays this power-hungry religious icon with such depth and nuance that it was easy for us to come up with a ton of favorite moments. So flip open the Book of the Pah-wraiths below to check them out, listen to our Bajoran chanting over on this week’s podcast (jump to 1:12:58), and walk with the prophets, my child.

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Favorite moments

The Bajoran Scopes Monkey Trial Winn makes a big impression in her very first appearance in “In the Hands of the Prophets” when she’s displaying big Karen energy while challenging why Keiko isn’t teaching Bajoran religious ideology in a public school. And she does it with a smile. And also with a can of gasoline since she surely got that school blown up in one smokin’ power move.

The sacrifices the Prophets call on us to make are great sometimes Somehow there are even more layers to “In the Hands of the Prophets” than teaching religion in classrooms and committing arson. Winn also puts Neela up to assassinate Bareil so that she can work on amassing power. And when Neela fails to secure a getaway plan, Winn straight up declares that’s fine with her. What does she care as long as her hands stay clean?

We’re a match made by the Prophets Winn continues to keep her hands clean in “The Circle.” Even while covertly supporting the Bajoran extremist faction, the Alliance for Global Unity, and bedding down with Minister Jarro Essa, Winn manages to direct blame away from herself when their plans have been exposed and gone thoroughly sideways. Jarro can only watch his downfall from under the bus.

You will never speak to me with such disrespect again!! Kai Winn’s “my child” may sound like a catchphrase, but it’s always delivered with such emotion which Fletcher was so good at. When Kira’s been sniffing around how Winn extracted information from Kubus Oak in an attempt to get Bareil out of the kai election in “The Collaborator,” the soon-to-be kai sends chills down your spine with her cold threats.

He’s more machine now than man When Bareil’s health keeps failing in “Life Support,” Winn pushes to keep him cognizant as long as is convenient for her. All she wants is the credit for his negotiations with the Cardassian Central Command while also keeping open the option to use him as a scapegoat should things fail. This woman plays her cards so strategically that she always comes out on top.

See ya later, reclamator To make a good political statement by getting some soil reclamators to Rakantha Province, Winn ends up sending in the Bajoran Militia after Shakaar’s resistance cell in “Shakaar.” And what’s more, she’s presumptuous enough to ask Sisko to send in Starfleet security or else she’ll pull out of Federation membership talks! All for farming equipment. Well that escalated quickly.

You think you’re the only ones who fought the Cardassians We learn just what Kai Winn was up to during the occupation, and it’s surprisingly humanizing. Winn throws in Kira’s face during “Rapture” how she was put in a Cardassian prison camp for five years, and never stopped preaching about the prophets despite the beatings. And per “‘Til Death Do Us Part,” she also sold gemstones from the tabernacle to bolster the resistance.

No. We are nothing alike. Nothing at all. What could be better than a Louise Fletcher–Jeffrey Combs scene? We get just that in “In the Cards” when Winn is trying to delay the decision between allying with the Federation or the Dominion because in either scenario her backwards little planet will get stomped on. But it’s her short scene with Weyoun that takes the cake when she reads his pagh and judges him hard!

Please leave your message for the Prophets at the beep There’s plenty for Winn to be judgmental about in “The Reckoning” when Sisko borrows an ancient tablet without asking and then destroys it utterly. But at the core of Winn’s motivation is desperation for the Prophets to communicate with her, which they’ve never done, so she puts an end to the Prophet–Pah-wraith battle because she isn’t the center of attention for once.

The Password Is: Restoration Winn’s whole arc in the final ten-parter of the series is a work of art, and so perfectly portrayed. Let’s break it down here, because it all starts with getting fully taken in with Anjohl Tennan in “‘Til Death Do Us Part.” All Dukat-in-disguise has to do is drop some buzzwords and the Kai is immediately enamored with the guy, and bedding down with him by the next episode, “Strange Bedfellows.”

Everything will change once you step down as Kai. You’ll see. When Winn is having a crisis of faith in “Strange Bedfellows” after receiving a vision from the Pah-wraiths, she wisely seeks out Kira. And the Corporal gives Winn the perfect advice to step down as kai so as not to be tempted by power anymore. And for a split second you think Winn will listen to reason. But she’s still Winn, after all, entirely blind to what she doesn’t want to see.

Catfished by the Prophets Stepping down as kai is not an option for Winn, who doesn’t believe she has too much power. In fact, she believes she doesn't have enough power! So by the end of “Strange Bedfellows,” she fully denounces the Prophets because they’ve never done anything for her. She admits to Anjohl that she’s never felt their presence and has been faking it for years, but blind faith will serve her no longer. Now she wants results!

Don’t you recognize the face of your enemy? May the Prophets bless Solbor for giving us such a great reveal scene in “The Changing Face of Evil.” He’s found out that Anjohl is actually Dukat, and Adami’s reaction to this news is so layered and cathartic that we love it. But that tippy top layer is a sense of self preservation that can only be maintained by murdering the hell out of Solbor, that gossip hound!

Hit it and quit it But that isn’t as cold as Winn can get, as is proven in the next episode in “When It Rains…” after Dukat has gone blind from reading the Book of the Pah-wraiths. Winn cruelly kicks the blind Cardassian out on his ass to beg on the streets of Bajor. “You may return when you’ve proven yourself worthy and your sight has been restored,” she mocks, and it’s stone cold!

The Pah-wraiths demand a sacrifice The whole series culminates in “What You Leave Behind” in the fire caves with Winn casting aside her devotion to the Prophets and summoning the Pah-wraiths. What she hadn’t told Dukat (with his sight returned for reasons) was that she lured him there to use him as the ceremonial sacrifice, and she righteously poisons his ass with absolutely no hesitation.

Too little, too late Finally, Winn comes this close to redemption in “What You Leave Behind” when she comes to see the error of her ways (or maybe she’s just bitter that the Kosst Amojen picked Dukat’s husk over her). For the hottest of seconds (cause it’s the fire caves, get it?), she tries to get the book to Sisko when at last she has an epiphany moment, but her fate is ultimately sealed when Pah-wraiths toast her in flames.

—

What a journey for a character that only appears a handful of times, and we were here for every second. Next week, we’re continuing to give in the Pah-wraiths as we recount our favorite Dukat moments, which will surely be a trip. So keep your eyes here for that, keep following us through the Delphic Expanse as we watch through Enterprise over on SoundCloud or your favorite podcast place, praise the Prophets with us on Facebook and Twitter, and practice your “my child”s in the mirror.

[beguines]

Scars of the forced settler-colonial modification of Gaza's peripheries through unannounced herbicidal spraying, the latest practice to accompany regular clearing and bulldozing of agricultural and residential lands, remain visible today. As bio-indicators of an engineered colonial landscape, changes in crop cultivation and farming practices occur regularly along the border to enable farmers to maintain their livelihoods with the expanding buffer zone and changing rules of agricultural development imposed by the Israeli occupation authorities. To understand the long-term changes to vegetative health in Gaza in the face of these forced transitions in cultivation, and to determine traces of environmental damage caused by the production and maintenance of the eastern border perimeter, we also conducted satellite imagery analysis from 1985 to 2018. Using an archive of 2,924 optical satellite images, we calculated the maximum greenness for each year across the Gaza Strip in over three decades of military occupation.

The findings revealed the severity of vegetative degradation in the area, indicating that the areas that completely lost vegetation were mostly in the Gaza Strip, while the areas that have become greener over time, with increased vegetation, occur mainly on the Israeli side of the perimeter. Further, when following the known path of target areas for herbicide spray along the border, we were able to observe that the areas closest to the border display vegetation degradation similar to that observed in Khan Younes.

Additionally, when collecting a sequence of satellite images of cloud-free imagery as close to March of each year, the height of the growing season, and from the start of herbicide spraying in 2014 up to 2018, we were able to produce a compelling true-color visual showing the growth of the border over time. Put differently, the past 30 years of satellite imagery makes the forced growth of the Israeli-imposed border onto Gazan territory literally visible. As a colonial construction, working according to a logic of racialized domination, the border grows only one way, encroaching onto Palestinian agricultural land, at each step becoming increasingly militarized and equipped with surveillance tools. The sequence of satellite maps shows Palestinian farms moving away from the border area, the border itself becoming increasingly defined, and the soil becoming increasingly bare and vegetation disappearing on the Gazan side—as a presumable result of herbicide spraying. The two-pronged colonial process apparent in these images, of the uprooting of formerly lush and rich indigenous Palestinian orange and olive trees taking place directly alongside the concerted planting and cultivation of farmlands led by Israeli-Jews during the same period fulfills the eco-colonial imagery of Israeli policymakers: a barren, neglected, and scorched indigenous landscape requiring domination and direction.

Shourideh C. Molavi, Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance

[rjzimmerman]

The Hidden Environmental Costs of Food. (New York Times)

Excerpt from this New York Times story:

As pricey as a run to the grocery store has become, our grocery bills would be considerably more expensive if environmental costs were included, researchers say. The loss of species as cropland takes over habitat. Groundwater depletion. Greenhouse gases from manure and farm equipment.

For years, economists have been developing a system of “true cost accounting” based on a growing body of evidence about the environmental damage caused by different types of agriculture. Now, emerging research aims to translate this damage to the planet into dollar figures.

By displaying these so-called true prices, sometimes next to retail prices, researchers hope to nudge consumers, businesses, farmers and regulators to factor in the environmental toll of food.

The proponents of true cost accounting don’t propose raising food prices across the board, but they say that increased awareness of the hidden environmental cost of food could change behavior.

We asked True Price, a Dutch nonprofit group that has pioneered true cost accounting alongside the United Nations and the Rockefeller Foundation, to provide a window into some of their research. They came up with a data set that compares the estimated environmental costs of common foods produced in the United States, divided into three categories: Climate change caused by greenhouse gas emissions, water usage, and ecosystem effects from land use, including loss of biodiversity.

“These costs are going to be paid,” said Claire van den Broek, managing director at True Price. “They’re paid in the healthcare system, in climate adaptation mechanisms, and those will come back in taxes. It’s not like these costs are fictional.”

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Triptolemus (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- God of Crops by the people of Olympius

Honey by his wife

Dad by his son

Trip by his brother & friends

Age- 37 (immortal)

Location- Achaea, Olympius

Personality- He's a dedicated hardworker with a general laidback temperament. He holds family, community, and wellness of the land to the utmost of importance. Despite being a grudge holder, he doesn't see the need for unnecessary drama in his life, opting for simplicity. He's married.

He has the standard abilities of a god except shapeshifting. As the god of farming his other powers/abilities include transfiguration (can turn beings into a plant, tree, or crop), being able to use ancient/modern farming and gardening tools proficiently as weapons, soil manipulation (edafoskinesis), as well as chlorokinesis (to a much lesser extent than Demeter).

A notable physical feature is his golden brown tan skin, due to him always being outdoors.

His natural scent is a mixture of fresh damp soil and sweet corn.

Triptolemus is a native of Eleusis. Mostly bad feelings and memories come up whenever he thinks about his homeland; never mind the constant death he was surrounded by in his early godhood.

He's married to Eunostos (goddess of the flour mill). They have a child- a son Deipneus (god of cooking & breadmaking). Other members of Triptolemus' extended family includes his younger brother Trochilus (god of the mill wheel), his father-in-law Cyamites (god of beans), his sister-in-law Promylaia, as well as his nephews Matton (god of meals) and Keraon (god of baking & wine mixing).

He lives on a thirty acre farm property with his wife in a french country style home. The house has natural wood flooring, a wraparound porch, antique furniture (like armoirs), wood beamed ceilings, simple yet elegant chandeliers, & nude and cream colored toile patterned wallpaper. On the same farm just a few minutes away, there's the house his brother and wife live in.

Triptolemus is a HUGE animal lover. On the farm there's cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, ducks, chickens, & horses. There are a few employees on the farm (like a leimonide named Maris), but he and his brother don't mind actively participating in the responsibilities of the farm like trimming the horses' hooves, bringing in/tagging the many crops, administering vaccines to the animals, or operating farming equipment.

He usually starts his day at the crack of dawn. Following a session of meditation, Triptolemus will ride through the farm on his horse- a quarter horse named Moxie then take a swim in the private pond. He'll then tend to his garden before breakfast.

Displayed in the living room is a farming pitchfork forged from adamantine by Hephaestus (god of the forge). It's taken the place of Triptolemus' former divine symbol.

He loves eating a steaming plate of gyeran bap for breakfast. He also really likes when his wife makes buttermilk biscuits alongside her cajun breakfast casserole (made with scrambled eggs, sliced andouille sausages, shredded hash browns, hot sauce, heavy cream, red peppers, various spices, & shredded cheddar cheese. He'll also enjoy a big bowl of Earthly Harvest cinnamon oat hearty nut medley cereal (which is cinnamon coated flakes, almonds, pumpkin seeds, pecans, and walnuts).

A go-to drink for him is bori-cha (barley tea) which he brews himself. He also likes his brother's homemade banana milk & sujeonggwa, mineral water, orange juice, his wife's homemade iced tea, beer, white wine, sparkling lemon cocktails, ginger ale, lemonade, mint juleps, good farmer cocktails, celery tonics, as well as hard cider cocktails. His usuals from The Roasted Bean include a cafe au lait and an olympian sized green tea.

There's a couple of secrets Triptolemus has kept close to him, only divulging in it with trusted beings in his social circle. In his early days of godhood, he was under the brief mentorship of Demeter (goddess of the harvest & agriculture). It's not a known fact in the pantheon or the public. His brother Trochilus was establishing his godhood in Corinth.

In the early days of the Titanomachy, Eleusis was the most fertile place in the entire country. Triptolemus and Demeter would be responsible for feeding many beings that were displaced due to the war. Every time the tax was raised, he would hand deliver a basket of crops to the needy and hungry families.

Triptolemus' earliest accomplishment in his godly career was when Demeter gifted him an Imperial Gold wheeled chariot, which was pulled by two majestic looking winged serpents. He traveled all throughout the country, feeding the hungry. Triptolemus was seen as a folk hero- first in Eleusis, then in Athens.

He had a quiet adversion to overseeing the Eleusinian Mysteries, being that he was never comfortable around suffering & death. He then spoke out against Demeter regarding her treatment of Celeus, the lord of Eleusis at the time as well as his family- particularly his son Demophon. Seemingly without warning, his chariot was revoked and Triptolemus has his mentorship transferred to Eubouleus (god of the swine & ploughing).

Even though he wasn't active in the war on the battlefield, Triptolemus supported Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning) and the rest of the Olympians.

After the war, he spent some time in Athens & reunited with his brother before settling in Achaea.

Triptolemus had no say in the matter when Demeter came back into his life by way of her newfound friendship with Eunostos and Promylaia. The family even relocated back to Eleusis while their sons were still little. At this point, he didn't tell anyone about his early godhood. Triptolemus always maintained a friendly disposition whenever Demeter came around and was surprised when his son & nephews developed a friendship with her daughter Persephone. When his wife and sister-in-law eventually had a falling out with Demeter, Triptolemus wasn't terribly surprised. When the family relocated back to Achaea, he finally revealed his past with the harvest goddess.

Despite his status as a minor deity, Triptolemus has two temples built in his honor- one in his native Eleusis and one in Athens.

He leads an active lifestyle through tai chi, riding horseback, jogging, working out, & even bullriding!

Triptolemus loves his younger brother and appreciates how protective they are for one another. Though their experiences in godhood was drastically different, they understand each other in a way that most can't, aside from their wives. They have a good working relationship as well, being that they're business partners.

He has a sandwhich inspired by him at his son's nationwide business The Bread Box. The farmer sandwhich is a toasted baguette with roasted chicken, sweet corn, melted brie cheese, tapenade, a thyme mayo spread, and romaine lettuce.

Triptolemus adores Eunostos. He finds his wife's supple soft skin & natural scent of flour and powdered sugar to be addictive. He also admires how she held her head high after the fallout Demeter. They enjoy spending time outside of their shared business- like taking a weekend trip to Athens to visit her father, traveling to New Olympus to see their son, or going on double dates with Trochilus and Promylaia.

He's heard whispers that the chariot (claimed by Demeter) was thrown into Tartarus following the end of the war, but he can't be too sure.

Triptolemus has a good relationship with his son and is proud of all of his accomplishments as a deity. He wishes that Deipneus would call him more often, but is understanding of his busy schedule. When he and his wife travel to New Olympus, Triptolemus (along with his brother) will play basketball at Eaglepoint Park with Deipneus, Keraon, and Matton.

Whenever he and Eunostos travels to New Olympus they'll either stay over at their son's brownstone in a guest room or they'll rent a room at The Hearthwood Inn.

His primary source of income comes from the business he co-owns alongside his brother, sister-in-law, & wife. The Achaean Flour Company is one of the largest manufacturers and distributors of flour & flour products. On his own Triptolemus is the head of the Farming Union of Olympius, an organization that works to improve the quality of life and economic well-being of family farmers, ranchers, and rural communities. He also owns a small farmer's market in the town's square, known to give away products for free sometimes!

In the pantheon Triptolemus is known for his finger licking yangnyeom chicken, fried chicken covered in a sweet & spicy sauce and garnished with sesame seeds.

His favorite sweet treats includes his wife's beignets, his brother's bingsu (sweet shaved ice), and his own baesuk and yaksik (sweet rice cakes added with nuts, dried fruit, & honey).

In the pantheon Triptolemus is good friends with Ktesios (god of the household), Karmanor (demi-god of the harvest), Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity), Apólafsi (god of enjoyment), Kópros (god of manure & excrement), Corymbus (Cory) (god of the ivy), Záchari (god of confectionery), Pan (god of the wild, satyrs, shepherds, & rustic music), and Hestia (goddess of the hearth).

Aside from Demeter, he also dislikes Limos (goddess of starvation & famine).

Triptolemus thinks that his son's girlfriend Pandaisia (goddess of banquets) is a sweetheart.

His favorite frozen treat is pear ice cream.

When he and Trochilus travels back to New Olympus soon, they plan on finally tackling the culinary behemoth known as the Mt. Olympus burger at Poté Tróei, the restaurant owned by Adephagia (goddess of gluttony).

For fun, Triptolemus hosts a gardening club every week, open to anyone. The members generally "meet" online on Fatestagram by use of video group chat, with an in-person meeting at his greenhouse. Maris is one of the members.

His favorite thing to get at Hollyhock's Bakery is the jumbo pancake cookie (topped with a buttermilk syrup glaze & a dollop of vanilla buttercream).

Triptolemus, Eunostos, Trochilus, and Promylaia always participates in the annual Achaean Beignet Festival.

Another trip he's planning is to Crete to see Karmanor compete in a bullriding competition.

His favorite meal is his wife's spicy sausage penne along with yangnyeom chicken, topping it off with a cold glass of hard apple cider.

In his free time Triptolemus enjoys gardening, cooking, baking, bike riding, swimming, basketball, sunbathing, golf, football (soccer), and sailing.

"The farmer has to be an optimist or he wouldn't still be a farmer."

[survivalist-anon]

Log 23: Changing Gears

Back at Pine Hills, me and Fjord were preparing for a quick trek around the mountain range.

I had become infamous in the local outdoorsmen shop in town over the past few years. With every visit, I would make a small bet on my own survival on the local bulletin board. The shop owners have had to state warnings to certain folks that betting on me is a losing bet.

Everytime I comeback, at least someone loses a few bucks.

But today I wasn't in the gambling mood. Neither was the store owners, who were close friends of my grandfather. As I was browsing for new equipment or anything else we needed in terms of gear, Fjord was exploring the store with me.

He stuck to me like a holster, it was a strange for me considering prior to my ex and afterwards I had been single for the longest time.

It was.... refreshing to have a companion to say the least.

We head towards the gun displays for some extra arrows for my bow. I used a standard lightweight hunting bow. It was a small thing but practical for long treks.

Doug, the owner was looking at the both of us curiously, "I see you moved on to bigger and better 'things' I assume, dear.". He was referring to Fjord.

His ears nearly visibly perked up. "Ugh?"

"Oh, he's a friend, he'll be staying with me for a while.", a while it seems could be until I'm on my death bed considering how old Fjord could actually get.

He looks down and smiles a little, "yes, my name is Fjord. Pleasure to meet you.", he shuffles his shoulders a little. Likely flexing his broad frame.

"Hm, pleasure to meet yah, Lorey my condolences by the way. He was an honored friend here ...", Doug let out a deep sigh. "I assume the usual?", he goes to a corner of the display case and brings out a box of specialized hunting arrows. "Honestly even if they discontinue these there'll still be enough for you to buy for the next years. Most folks use guns and ammo.", he showed a large wall of different hunting rifles, guns and replicas.

"Hmf, I've seen bigger. They're delicate pieces aren't they lass?", nudging my back a little.

I look to the wall, "yeah, at least I can find and reuse my arrows."

A gruff huff from Doug let's out like a frustrated hog, in spite of his friendship with my grandpa, he wasn't too keen on my preference of weapons. Just that good ol'merican love for the Smith & Wesson I suppose. "Bigger egh? You from the fort up north?".

Fjord, a little distracted at the wall, glances down at Doug. "Oh no, I am part of a squadron but I'm not from around here.", he than glances over to the target wall. Seeing targets of bears, deer, wolves and a masked man with a gun. ".... interesting selection."

I gather my arrows, but as I pick some of them up, I noticed a Wonder Mart logo on the box, just poorly stuck on. "... they bought this brand too?", pointed at the sticker.

Doug glared at it, "yeeeep. They've been here, they pay well too actually. The store owner actually did a partnership ship mostly because so many folks buy here. I get a few deductibles from purchasing at Wonder Mart for doing my part. So it's a win win for me. Hehe.".

"....you might want to see this than.", I take out my phone and show the picture of McGregor's property. "They're sabotaging the farms now, the egg box was smashed up.".

Doug's mouth drops agape, "well I'll be damned!? You've shown this to McGregor?".

I shake my head, "no not yet, I'm waiting to see if I hear some more complaints. I'm not sure if it was a disgruntled employee or something management directed, so I'm not saying anything yet."

"well now....I'll sure ask around than. I'll bet I can get a few tips too.", Doug pondered.

"well thanks for the help", I nod.

Me and Fjord look around the store a little more, collect a few more items for the trek and pay for the items.

Entering the car, the both of us try to figure out what to do next.

"hmmm, I say we head to the fort lass, than we set up the cameras the way Aldercon wants. Just to be safe.", Fjord suggested.

I can't argue with that logic, after all.

"Yeah, he may not like our joke plan too. Better stay on his good side.", I start the car and head back home where we can gear up.

After an hour or so, he head inside and get the gear ready. "You're going in your armor I assume?", I ask Fjord.

"Yes I believe so lass, remember that traitor marine from your facility's camera?", Fjord had just reminded me of that footage....this may actually be a better opportunity to place more eyes in the forest.

"actually.....you've just gave me an idea....we can use the cameras in more harder places to place them, seem of we find anything else and just tell Benedict the footage got lost.", it's closer to stealing and lying but it's the lesser of two evils in our case.

Fjord's chuffs a little, probably feeling very clever to have inspired me. Which is a fact. "Hehe, I see we have a mission, I'll go and put my armor on.", he headed to the garage where he had left his things.

It has passed maybe a few minutes and I have already finished getting on for the smaller essentials, it was now time to get the bigger stuff like a tarp and some rope. As I head to the garage and just as I was about to knock...

I hear Fjord... praying? It was in a language I couldn't recognize at all....I stood there listening to it, then the clicking of what I assumed is him equiping those big, metal plates for his armor. Than just him stomping a bit, likely taking a step or two.

*knock knock*, "Hey Fjord, you doing ok? May I come in? I just need to get some things.", he opens the door and see him in full armor again.

It had been a days or so that I have seen him without his armor, he looked massive in it. In fact I had completely forgotten that this was his norm.

"Ah hello lass, are we almost ready?", he glinted a smile.

I smile back, "yeah, just need to prep a few more things and than we're all set. Speaking of which, let's check that box the other guy gave to us.".

He nods at me, at first he had readied himself to come through the already small doorway, until he had realized he was a little too big to fit. "oh, hehe, right. I can grab the items here and we look at the supplies outside, no?".

"yeah, hold on then.", I press the garage button, as the door opens, it revealed someone was at the opening.

Waiting just outside the garage door.

It was Ronnie. Just standing on the little slope leading down the hill.

"Hey Lorey.......", he wasn't surprised or shocked. In fact was worried me the most is that he looked like as if his suspensions were confirmed.

As for the both of us, I could hardly imagine the look of shock on both our faces. Feeling like we've been caught in the act.

"ugh.....Ronnie....I ...ugh...I can explain....", I genuinely had no idea how to explain this situation nor how I was going to convince him not to ask anything more about this whole..... situation?

I could see Fjord's hair was standing on end, but I could feel he was conflicted about having to choose to attack Ronnie or risk having his cover blown so easily.

Ronnie walked up slowly, his face stoic as if he was putting a front of confidence, but his movements betrayed a level of caution often seen in the field: it's the stride of someone heading directly to danger without wanting anyone knowing they're scared shitless.

"so.....that explains a lot....", Ronnie casually pointed out. "So......which one are you?"

If I could see from a fourth perspective, I was sure both me and Fjord had tilted our heads in syncly. "I beg your pardon lad?", Fjord asked carefully.

"...which one...of those metal men....are you?", Ronnie's expression hadn't changed, but the assertion in his tone said otherwise. "Are you the one....who's been attacking people? Hmm? The one some of the families around town have spotted in the campgrounds?"

Ronnie was interrogating Fjord? Did he not recognize the armor from the videos, he should be smarter than that.

Or was he so afraid of Fjord that all he could think about is what he is capable of.

This wasn't like Ronnie at all, he was usually more laid back than this .....what happened recently?

Ronnie turned to me, "....well ....Lorey, which one is he?", the stoic expression on his face soften to seek reassurance from me.

"Ron, he is one of the trio that walked passed the cameras, he isn't the one that killed the campers.......", it was than I realized something, Fjord's armor was covered in teeth, patches of pelts and runes, could it be something had developed back at the station? "Ron....what happened?"

Ronnie gave a sadden huff, it's....one of the volunteers.........Carly...she....she was heading to the ridge with one of the new hire, Conner......she was attacked, Connor said it was one of them.", he pointed to Fjord, glaring at him. "Said it was greyish, with fur, and claws....just like Fjord's ...armor....she was sent to the hospital and....she didn't make it", he stared daggers at Fjord.

This was horrible, the fact that Carly was attacked had made my heart crash right down to my stomach. There was no way another Space wolf was here, even if there was, why would they attack Carly of all people?! She wouldn't hurt anyone, this had to have been attacked by one of the 'corrupted ones'.

"I assure you, Ronnie....I am the only one of my pack here for the moment.....I am sure there is a good explanation for this...", Fjord was doing a much better job at keeping his composure.

I shake my head in disbelief, "Ron, he's been with me the whole time. Tied to the hip practically, when did this happen?".

He looked at the both of us, "this morning.....". I could see his shoulders and chest moving up and down even faster. "...rrrrrrRRRAAHHH!", he suddenly jolted at Fjord his a closed fist and landed a blow on to Fjord's chest plate.

With an audible cracking of broken finger bones.

Tears rolled down his eyes, but I doubt it was from the throbbing pain of his now broken fist. He lifted his damaged hand off of the plate and it had left four little blood smears.

Fjord hadn't reacted at all, but he felt for Ronnie. "...lad....I'm sorry.....w-we...will investigate this murder......I swear it....also....I'm... certain you have have broken yo-"

"I FUCKING KNOW THAT MAN!", Ronnie yelled at him, cradling his hand.

I was getting too old for this level of bullshit, I calmly head to the first aid kit, take out some wood scraps from the tool drawer and go straight to tending to Ronnie's hand.

"Ronnie.....what do you always tell me when I loose my shit....and jump to conclusions.....no matter how terrible shit gets?", I ask putting a disinfectant on his now swelling knuckles.

He was shaking in frustration, honestly I commend him for that considering he just raw punched an Astartes in the chest without any hesitation....it's either bravery or something else....

"......n-never...lose y-your cool....w-when you know....t-theres two sides-AH-", he flinch as I had probably touched a tender area, "-of the same story....".

I nod my head, "yes... because the truth?", I look to him eye to eye.

He looks at me, his gaze soften at little, "...is just hiding under the surface....". He lets out a heavy sigh, looking at his wrapped up hand. "Lorey....what the hell is going on around here?", his question felt very vague....

I look to Fjord, "....I...think we may need to tell Aldercon about this.....".

His expression says it all, "....I believe so.... maybe he will be a little bit.... willing?".

Ronnie looked at Fjord, "what the hell are you talking about? Willing for what?".

I could feel he still didn't fully trust Fjord anymore, but I'm certain he didn't have much of a choice. "Willing to let you....know about ugh...well...all of this.", I point to Fjord, than some of my gear. "....we were going to place cameras around the parts of the mountain the team hadn't placed yet.....it's for that guy, Benedict."

The stern face loosen to a face of realization, "....that Gabe Newell looking guy?.... Lorey yah know he's fucking weird right?". It was as if all his anger had just evaporated, as if the tension broke with some shitty joke.

"yep.....he literally accused Fjord of being a space dogman.", he look at him....dead in the eyes with no change in tone.

He looked to Fjord, who had given an awkward smile, "if it will make you feel better, I did find the accusation very upsetting.", obviously he was lying.

Suddenly, Ronnie was chuckling to himself, "....man...I cannot be this dumb, there ain't no way it's the same guy.....but...what Jeff had said about you....is that shit true?", his seriousness came back but just barely.

The smile had shrunk a little, "...I threw his vehicle at him...yes....".

Ronnie was piecing things together, "aight...fine... Lorey just please tell me what the hell is going on?".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been an hour after that whole Punch incident, as the three of us trek down the same path as before.

"How are you doing there, Ronnie? You're hand still hurting?", he turned over his shoulder to see Ronnie still looking at him with a slight glare.

"ya...I'm fine....", he curtly answered.

I couldn't help but feel the tension between the two of them hadn't changed much, "ugh hey Ronnie, I have this ointment the other space marines had given me and Fjord, maybe it will fix your hand a little?", I take out the healing ointment, it was a heavy metal tin with wording I couldn't recognize. "....hmf, I wish I can read this...".

Fjord than stopped a little to look at the tin, "it says 'Lubricant', it think it's the other tin, lass.".

"oh, one second", I rummage through the bag again and find another tin.

"Ah that's the one.", Fjord cooed.

Ronnie was still emotionless, probably thinking the same thoughts as me earlier this week. "Man come on, they speak a different language too?".

"Yep, different cultures and everything.", I open the tin and the strong, musky, and shockingly bitter smell of the ointment hit out nostrils. "Holy shit what the hell is this?!"

"Ah fuck no! It smells fucking foul man I ain't putting that shit on m-AHOW FUK!", Fjord had gently grabbed Ronnie's arm, had already stuck one finger into the ointment and gently spread it under the tourniquet.

"there we go, it should be fine in a few hours, heals everything from most infections to broken bones.", he grinned a little at Ronnie.

However, Ronnie was skeptical, "are you telling me this is some miracle cream or something shit?". He looked at Fjord than at his arm.

As it turned out, it was healing rather quickly.

"yo...this is something freaky shit.", he could even move his fingers a little bit now.

"Let it rest, it should be better by the time we head to the Fort.", Fjord turned and began walking ahead.

Ronnie's head shot up, "Fort?! The fuck these are in a fort for?".

I shake my head, "well it's what they're use to. They're more comfortable in a military environment, so...they make do.", I motioned to him to hurry a long.

He stood there speechless, "....this better not be some secret underground government bullshit...we already work with that kind of shit.", he sounded upset but he was still willing to accept some of this new insanity.

"Well, let's just say, the government doesn't know about them....much.", it's all I could reasonably state.

End of log 23

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