#farming inspiration

[oldfarmhouse]

changes along the seasons🍁🌾

https://www.instagram.lifeonsweetlyfarm

[farmerstrend]

From High School Dropout to Thriving Pigeon Empire: Mahmoud Shaban’s Poultry Farming Success

“Learn how Kenyan farmer Mahmoud Shaban turned challenges into opportunities through innovative poultry and pigeon farming, attracting high-end clients and even earning a feature in an international film.” Mahmoud Shaban, a former high school dropout from Kenya, has transformed his life through poultry farming. His journey began in 2017 when he partnered with a local chicken farmer, initially…

[okartichoke]

she asked him if he spent any time with the light dragon

[tcustodisart]

It wouldn't be a Stardew Valley life without attending a festival.

[khozee-gorl]

[llamagoddessofficial]

LLAMAAAAAAAA

WRITE MORE ABT FARMER (when you get the chance ofc)

AND MY LIFE IS YOURS!!!!

Your life. Hand it over

---

It was the thickest rain you’d ever seen. It didn't fall like normal rain, it fell in layers, great arcs of water that thrashed the ground one after the other, stormy waves hitting a shoreline. The roar of it landing on the world around you was almost deafening - a problem, considering it was three in the morning, and you were walking in almost pitch black. Any other night you would’ve been guided through the seemingly-endless farmland by recognising the hedges and hearing the animals... right now, you were guided only by the weakened blueish light of your headlamp, and the best that your memory had to offer.

You spotted it, in the near distance. The tiny light of another lamp was flickering back and forth in the rain, moving with the speed and efficiency of a hard-at-work man who couldn’t wait to get out of the terrible weather and go back to bed. You quickened the pace, marching down the field, your waterproof pants were coated in cold mud up to the calves; you were glad you couldn’t feel it. The only wet part of you was your face, and hands - you needed the latter out to hold the big metal flask you were carrying.

You didn’t mind the wet and cold. You stomped on regardless. All you cared about was the sight of that head lamp, getting closer and closer in the relentless wind and rain. You could just about make out the things he was looking at, illuminated by his lamp... the part of the fence he was doing his best to repair.

Before you knew it, you were within shouting distance. But there was no point, he wouldn't hear you. A particularly strong gust rushed across the field, you felt a carpet of rain hit you in the back, and the wind shoved you ungracefully forward. You let out a little yelp but managed to stop yourself from falling over.

... You heard your name over the rain. He had noticed you. You looked up - his headlamp was angled slightly downward, rather than straight ahead, so it didn’t dazzle you like you expected it to. Sans was dressed in his usual farm gear, his heavy boots and thick waterproof pants, and the rain had washed his green jacket cleaner than you’d ever seen it before. His hood was pulled securely up over his skull and he had a fence post the size of you in one hand like it was nothing.

... And he was looking at like he’d seen a ghost. It was rather comical.

“There you are!” You picked up the pace for the last few steps, jogging over to him, before you finally came to a stop. Phew, you’d been walking for almost five minutes in the storm. It felt good to finally see him. Despite the cold, you were pretty flushed from the exercise, hot under the combination of your sweater and coat.

“what the hell are you doing out here?” His green eyelights glowed under his hood, like two soft fireflies, a much more pleasant colour than the cold lamplight both of you were bathed in. It was as if only the two of you existed in the whole world... two headlamps in an endless sea of dark and wind and water. “it’s two in the morning,”

“Three, actually,” you chirped. It was somewhat hard to hear him over the rain hitting your hood, but you just stood a little closer to him. Your hurried breaths formed clouds, you could see them in the combined lamp glow.

He put down the fence post. It dropped with an heavy thunk. “did papyrus send you?”

You just held the big metal flask out to him. It had a black strap attached to the side of it that was sodden by now. He accepted it, seemingly out of instinct, staring down at it before glancing back up to you.

“... uh... thanks. what is it?”

“Soup!”

He blinked. “soup?”

“Yeah. I woke up to the rain, and I figured you’d be out here, because you’d mentioned the fence needed fixing properly before the storm hit." You pulled your coat sleeves over your now-free hands. "Though I did ask Papyrus if you’d actually headed out before I left. I’m not that crazy.”

He was still staring. The rain continued to roar, you had really hoped it would've eased up by now. But it seemed to be only getting worse. Probably for the best Sans was repairing the fence now, before everything completely flooded come morning.

“I know, I know," you continued when he didn't reply. "I’m dumb for going out in the rain, I’ll get wet. But I’m fine, see? I put the waterproof pants on over my boots, like you said. It’s been raining like hell and the only part of me that’s wet is my hands!”

“you... came out all this way, to bring me soup?” he said, softly. You almost didn't hear him.

“Yeah. Pumpkin soup. Knowing you, you didn’t eat anything before you left.”

He had gone quiet. That wasn’t like him. He was looking at you very intently, with great big eylights. Another gust of wind sent a wall of rain into the two of you. You visibly swayed, but Sans didn't seem affected by it.

Was he upset that you might get cold? He didn't look upset, his eyelights were so round, almost sparkly.

“I promise I’m not cold," you pressed. "This is the coat you lent me. See? It’s - ” 

Sans moved forward a step. It was all he really needed to close the gap between you. He put an arm around you, despite the flask in hand, and swept you in against him; you were too startled by the sudden movement and proximity to move or do anything. His free hand came up, sliding between your coat hood and the side of your cheek, cupping your face.

He leant in and kissed you.

...

For a moment, you couldn’t hear the rain. You couldn’t hear anything at all. All you could think about was how smooth his hand was, how nice he smelled, how hard your heart was beating, and how warm he was. After so long walking around in the rain, being pulled in close to him felt incredible.

He felt so strong, too. All night, you'd been pushed around by any breath of wind, no matter the direction. In his arms? Nothing moved you. Nothing could shake you.

... Your eyes closed. Maybe it was the dark and gale and rain, maybe it was how early it was in the morning. But you just didn’t want him to let you go.

...

Sans pulled back. Your eyelids fluttered open again. There were raindrops on his skull, and the lamplight was dancing over his bones. His eyelights are such a pretty colour. He was looking at you like he wanted to pick you up and walk home with you.

...

Then, in an instant, the reality of what he just did appeared to hit him. So close to him, you could watch in real time as his eyelights shrank into pins in his sockets, and his smile twitched in what you could only describe as total internal panic.

... You, too, started to do the worst possible thing - think.

Sans just... kissed me. Sans just kissed me.

... You both just stared at each other, he was still holding you. You had no idea for how long. Sans’ eyelights kept flickering between your eyes and your nose, and you kept staring blankly at him, dazed and suddenly very confused.

...

“I-I should, head back,” you started, nervously.

“yeah. uh... yeah.” His hand came off your face, and he let go of your waist, stepping back again. You immediately missed the warmth. “thank you for the soup."

You nodded.

"i’ll..." He sounded shaky. He held onto the flask with both hands, maybe to stop himself from fidgeting. "see you later?”

"You too," you stammered.

... Wait. Shit.

No idea what else to say or do, you stood there like an idiot for a few seconds, trying to formulate something to say or some interesting witty way to turn that fuck-up into a joke and end the conversation - but you had absolutely nothing. Your head was spinning, your heart was still beating a mile a minute, you couldn’t believe that had really just happened. So you just turned right around and started walking.

...

Holy fuck, you thought, pulling your hood tight over your head. What the hell am I going to tell Papyrus?

[civetside]

okie here are the farmer doodles i started like last month and didnt bother finishing until now

[myrkulitescourge]

woah, look over there! *pixel sprites your elf*

[girlsdads]

Max shows up on the Monday following the worst week of Daniel’s life with two dirt bikes in the back of a truck like he’s Bella from fucking Twilight.

He’d said as much that Thursday, a text that read simply: I’m coming to Perth. Daniel’s phone has been on Do Not Disturb since Singapore, but Max’s message had flashed bright in his peripheral vision as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore the gnawing pit in his gut. Daniel had pictured Max tapping Notify Anyway with the tip of his index finger, T-rex style.

He hadn’t known how to say Please don’t make this harder, hadn’t had the courage to say I need you here, so he’d sent back: Ok.

And now he’s sat here on the porch in the same baggy t-shirt he’s been wearing for days—discolored sweat stains and all—watching Max back a pickup truck down the dirt driveway. He can’t remember the last time he saw Max behind the wheel of something like this, sturdy and substantial. It feels like a first, a brand new thing for only this version of himself—Max Verstappen driving a truck.

Max smoothly pulls into a full stop, the ignition rumbles then dies. Daniel’s bare feet hit the dirt before Max even opens the door, a feeling that can only be relief blooming inside his chest. He’d said he would come, and he did, steadfast through it all.

Max is wearing travel clothes, basketball shorts and a hoodie, ankle socks and a pair of slides that look more like shower shoes than sandals. He looks tired, like he’d texted Daniel on Thursday and hasn’t slept since. Daniel knows he’s looking pretty shit himself, knows he’s been wallowing a bit hard, sue him. Still Max smiles like Daniel’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

It chokes him up just the same as the first time, almost a decade ago. That clogged-up cotton-y feeling in his throat is love, probably always has been—he’s not too chickenshit to admit it to himself now, after everything. The realization feels precious.

“Hiya, Maxy.” Daniel feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. His voice wobbles, stupidly. He’s squinting against the sun and the hot sting of tears. Max reaches for him.

All of his metaphorical strings cut, he falls into the soft bulk of Max’s chest. The gasping breath he takes as he presses his whole face against the crook of Max’s neck and shoulder feels like his first in a long, long time. Underneath the smell of sweat is the familiar clean scent of Max’s jet cabin. Daniel inhales and inhales, letting it fill his lungs like life support.

Max’s arms around him is the only homecoming he ever needed.

[handmade-flower]

Tiny tiny farm •_•

[jammunin]

stardew valley inspired landscape :3

[pretty-boy-eddie]

Ghost who ends up working on the Mactavish farm and meeting Soap- the youngest son who cares more about pencils and animals than anyone else on the farm.

Ghost sticks to his work (collecting the harvest and feeding the animals) until one day he notices the buckets were moved around. He had given the donkeys a purple bucket of feed and the horses blue. Now they were flipped. This happens for awhile before finally the youngest Mactavish comes by and explains why he keeps changing them.

"Laurie there hates blue," the boy says, switching the feed around. "Usually don't mind but with 'er babies on the way she gets what she wants."

And from there Simon learns the quirks of the farm animals (pigs get vitamins in their food- but also they have restrictions on the meals. Horses prefer the vitamins mixed in while Cows get there's mixed in their water bottles) and one day when Ghost is working he's visited by a loose donkey who Soap introduced as Lucy.

"Other donkeys bullied 'er so she's a house pet-" he explains, petting the donkeys hair. The donkey nibbles at Ghosts fingers all the while, seemingly content

[wardinespurrit]

been thinking about this series again unfortunately

[coldwateronly]

[mahgnolias]

kysabashir

[mothiir]

what dog i think 40k boys would be

based entirely on non-scientific vibes and discussion with @lemon-russ. this started off kind of silly but very quickly became an excuse for me to get slightly deep with the characterisation. slight cw for referenced animal abuse i suppose?

the emperor - border collie

now, for those of you unfamiliar with dogs you may think that picking a medium-sized herding dog is a strange choice for the Master of Mankind. However, if you have ever met a border collie — specifically, a working border collie — you will know exactly where I am going with this. These dogs are ferociously intelligent, completely single-minded, and wedded to their purpose. They will not be distracted from their work by foolish things like ‘fun’ — they will herd those sheep, damn it, and they will herd them where they are meant to be. The Emperor, like a border collie, is distant with his affection, and does not allow room for negotiation: the sheep will go in the pasture, and there they shall stay. But, I hear you protest, the border collie obeys the shepherd, and the Emperor obeys no one but himself! to this I say that the Emperor is his own shepherd; his Plan for humanity is the metaphorical co-pilot here, and it is this plan that guides his fleet, furry feet.

2. malcador — poodle. specifically a miniature white one.

Look, it sounds ridiculous, but poodles are incredibly clever dogs and you’d be a fool to underestimate one — just as you would be a fool to imagine that the frail old man at the Emperor’s side is anything other than a world-destroying threat.

3. the lion — irish wolfhound

Getting into the Primarchs now. It has been said that the Lion has major cat energy — which is completely true. However, I would argue that he ultimately is a hunting hound; a knight at his father’s side, bidden to go where he must. Like a wolfhound, he is tireless, powerful — but also frail in his youth, frailer than you might think (wolfhound pups are notoriously prone to injury because of their longer legs and how clumsy they can be). It is only with age that he reaches his full potential. Also, like most hunting dogs, he likes his sleep.

4. leman russ - a wolf

Well, obviously. However, it’s a really key point that he is a wolf not a dog, because all too often those two things are seen as synonymous when they really aren’t. Wolves and dogs are separated by ten thousand years of evolution, and they rarely get on. Russ loves his family — his fellow wolves — but struggles to relate to his canid brothers, who all seem just a little distant from him. He is drawn to humans (the pull of domestication is strong, even for the wild beast he is), and clashes regularly with the Lion (hounds and wolves can work together, but never rest easy at the same fire).

5. Magnus - borzoi

I’ve said before that Magnus is definitely a borzoi, because they are such eldritch looking creatures — like they know all of the secrets of the universe and they are not planning to tell you. Borzoi are not always viewed as the most intelligent of dogs, but that’s misleading — they’re actually very cunning in their own way, just not necessarily the easiest to train (just like a certain headstrong red fool we know). Independent-minded, a little aloof, friendly to their family — Magnus is a sight hound through and through. And, of course, should he be given a reason to hunt down wolves, he will do so with the baying of his ancestors singing in his ears, and the scent of burning Prospero lodged in his nose.

6. Perturabo - Staffordshire terrier

Squat, grumpy-looking, and sometimes vicious — it’s easy to see the worst of Perturabo in the worst of the staffie. Bred to be pest-killers and dog-fighters, there’s a persistent, harmful idea that these dogs need ‘a firm hand’ when they’re being raised. However, ill-treatment only serves to make these dogs neurotic, nervy and prone to biting — raised correctly, they are soppy and sweet and just want to snuggle on the sofa with the people they love. Unfortunately, Peturabo was reared unappreciated and maltreated, and now it is everyone’s problem.

7. Angron - Old English Mastiff

Mastiffs may have a fearsome appearance, but they are actually some of the sweetest dogs around; happy, dopey drool-machines that only want to spend time glued to their family. But Angron was snatched from his mother’s teat too young, beaten and scourged and forced to bite, and the result is a warped, twisted image of what a mastiff should be: barely-champed down fury, and the sort of hatred that is born when love turns inside out and sour. Every shelter has had to make a horrible choice with certain dogs — seeing that they are too deeply damaged to ever recover, they have done the kindest thing and ended the creature’s suffering, hoping that the next world will be gentler than this one. But no one ever did that for Angron. He is locked outside his master’s house, because at least his anguished howls keep away intruders.

8. Vulkan - Great Pyrenees

Despite their fearsome appearance, livestock guardian breeds like the Great Pyrenees are actually gentle with their flock, living amongst the sheep (like the Salamanders with their human families) — grooming the lambs, cuddling up with the ewes, patrolling with the rams. They are utterly devoted to their task, willing to die for those they sleep alongside, but they love them, and are loved dearly in return. Vulkan is many times larger than his human companions, but they clamber all over him — young and old alike — and he holds them close, vowing to keep them safe from harm, even at the cost of his own life.

9. Sanguinius - Bedlington terrier

You might have to google this one, since it is a little obscure. And now that you have googled it, I probably have some work to do in order to convince you that this floofy terrier is the perfect representation of the Blood Angel Primarch. So, first of all — these terriers are strikingly beautiful. Eye-catchingly adorable — in a strange sort of way , a fey kind of cuteness that has you looking twice. They are sweet little family pets — however, the instant they catch scent of a rat their ancestry rears its head, and they turn into floofy little killers, breaking spines and crushing skulls with merry abandon. And if you need any more convincing think of this — doesn’t the terrier look like a lamb? A cutesy little lamb? A sacrificial lamb?