#farmtown

[camodielsart]

Hejdasz wants a beard :)

this was my entry for last weeks topic in sudomemo

🌈♣️ linktr.ee/Camodiel ♣️🌈

[pisboy]

No horror media has used the true potential of the PNW as a setting since everyone is fixated on mossy doug firs and not sagebrush. Go east of the cascades for a real sense of dread

[occasionaltouhou]

Technically Eiki playing League of Legends also makes a Shikigaming

eiki can't play league of legends because she's the one condemning the gamer webcomic guy to death or whatever

[drcrescentspade]

[isa-ah]

I think some of the more recent Pokemon series (especially twilight wings but to an extent horizons too) have been going for a more middle of the road storytelling approach instead of being like OVERTLY for little kids and it's nice! it's nothing deep but the designs are really nice and it's not so juvenile it's grating. perfect for playing while I work & half listen lol 🐮👍

[teamcavota]

I don't get when people act like Gladstone being an asshole foil whatever and him having "depth"/a complicated relationship to luck can't coexist

[modmad]

part 2 of the new gladstone comic was a mess btw 💔 idk why they changed the already fine structure of the comics

I was certain it would be after the first half I'm so sorry you went through but uh

I'm not touching that :)

[aiiaiiiyo]

[circusballoons]

Farmtown, the friendliest town on Roblox

[jesterducky]

Gladstone Gander fandom should remake Skies of Farmtown by making it actually be set in Farmtown and making Farmtown ocs that Gladstone and Co. interact with and help Gladdy become more familiarize with the town and it's people since bro was a shut in during most of his time there.

[camodielsart]

Con Man Gets Con'd

i honestly just wanted to make a comic what had little planning into it and just made a story as i went. also my microns died halfway through so i had to use an ink pen. that's what i get when i use random printer paper i found in my shed

🌈♣ my other socials :D ♣🌈

[justjudethoughts]

"yOu'Re nOt GeRmAn, yOu'rE AmErIcAn"

Okay, bestie, let me explain something to you that is very important to American culture — very, very few of us are ethnically American. When an American says they are "German" or "Irish" or "Italian" they aren't talking about citizenship. They are talking about ethnicity.

The U.S. is primarily a country of immigrants. Everyone says we "don't have a culture" or we have a "bastardized version of *insert culture*" but that's not true!!!! Our culture is made up of American Immigrant Culture!!!! American Italian food isn't "fake Italian food" — it's the innovation of Italian Immigrants who used traditional Italian food along with the ingredients that were more accessible to them in the States. It might not be the food "of Italy" but it is the food of proud sons and daughters of Italy who are also proud Americans. And you can be both.

When American culture is treated as a rip-off of every other culture, we are essentially dishonoring the memory of very brave men and women who chose to leave their homelands under unfortunate circumstances. Men and women who didn't have much money, but did what they could. Used the materials they had. And still managed to make something beautiful out of it. When you leave your home, it doesn't stop being part of your identity — it just looks a little different now. You pass on your old traditions to your children and your children's children, and along the way, new ones are created. Cultures mix and create subcultures. And it's beautiful. It's good. It's primally human.

If I'm not "German" care to explain to me my pasty white skin? Or my last name? Or all the post cards written to and from Germany that we have upstairs in a box? Or the name of my town? Or my grandparents' first language? Or the fact that my American Church, in the year 2024, still sings "Stille Nacht" at every Christmas Eve mass? Sure, I'm not fully German, but the awareness of where I have come from makes up a huge part of my understanding of myself and my place in this world. I was raised in a German Catholic farmtown, and it shows. It shows in the way we worship, and our work ethic, and our reverence for family life.

When an American calls themselves "German" or "Irish" or "Italian" they mean that's where their blood comes from. And it's okay for them to care about that. It's okay for them to care about their roots. It's a major part of American culture.

If you want to "respect" world cultures, you can't just pick and choose which ones are "real" according to you.

[tallyhocrow]

.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

The Jicama (The Surprise, Part 22)

Emily Prentiss x fem!reader Warnings: pregnancy times, health scares, hospital times, mentions of IVs and medication, explicit language, some sexual innuendo/conversation (let me know if I've missed anything!) Word count: 2.9k

Summary: You've had cramp-like pains all day, and they're growing more and more frequent and more and more intense. But it's too early for the baby to be born. And Emily is a thousand miles away on a case. Surely, it's Braxton-Hicks, right?! Right!?

Week 32: The Jicama

You gritted your teeth as another wave of pain rolled through your body. They were getting harder and harder to ignore and, much as you hated to admit it, you were growing increasingly worried that they weren’t just Braxton-Hicks.

You lay on the couch, trying to breathe steadily, hands running over your baby bump. It felt almost like period cramps, but worse. More intense and in shorter bursts than the long, dull ache of menstruation. And your lower back felt as if a small, furious fire were building and building inside of you, shooting up your spine every few minutes.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You wanted Emily. You wanted to ask her what to do, to have her here to help you make a decision. Emily would keep you safe, both of you. But she wasn’t here. She was over a thousand miles away, in some tiny Iowa farmtown, hunting a serial killer with her team.

You knew that the moment you called her, the moment you let on how scared you were, Emily would commandeer the BAU jet and fly back, leaving… what exactly? The teenage girls of Iowa to be murdered? Her team to scramble without her? You didn’t want to call her out of the field, not unless it was an emergency.

And, well, maybe you were in denial, but you were really trying to avoid thinking of this as an emergency. You chewed on your lip, watching the tiny seconds hand on your iPhone clock icon swirl around, counting the minutes between contractions. Because you were pretty sure that’s what they were–contractions.

A stray tear dripped down your cheek and you dashed it away. “It’s not time to come out yet, sweetheart,” you whispered, rubbing your stomach.

You clenched your fists against another contraction, checking the time. You were at a little under ten minutes between contractions. They’d started at about every twenty minutes, but had nearly doubled in length, frequency, and intensity over the last few hours.

You took another deep breath and stared at your phone, determined. Emily wasn’t here. Yes, she often took care of you. Yes, she made you feel safe. Yes, you would feel so much better if she were here. But she was doing her job, an important job. And you were an adult. You were an adult who had spent years of your life taking care of yourself, on your own, before Emily. You did it before, and you could do it again.

You called an Uber, then gathered a few things to take with you to the hospital: phone charger, Kindle, laptop, etc. When you got into the car, you set a dish towel down on the seat before maneuvering yourself in, belly in the way. You hoped to god your water wouldn’t break. You didn’t know when that was supposed to happen, but things were already happening that weren’t supposed to. You didn’t want to take any chances with a stranger’s car.

On the way, you composed yourself, putting on your best no feelings affect, and called Dr. Delgado. As expected, she confirmed that it was not normal to be experiencing regular, frequent contractions at 32 weeks, and that you needed to get yourself to a hospital as soon as possible so they could attempt to stop premature labor.

Okay, so you were already doing the right thing. That made you feel a little better. Probably, you could have done it sooner, but you were doing it now. Better than never. But now you needed to make the call you dreaded most. You hated to worry Emily. You hated to interrupt her at work. And Emily would almost certainly answer because she knew you didn’t call her when she was in the field unless it was an emergency. You waited for her to call you.

You let out a shaky breath as the phone rang, then felt your heart drop when you heard Emilly’s voice.

“Y/N!?”

“Hey, Em…” you started, trying to soften the blow. Trying your best to keep your voice calm and steady, to let Emily know that you were okay, that you could handle it, that you could take care of yourself and take care of the baby. That she didn’t need to worry.

“Are you alright?”

Another deep breath to compose yourself. “Um… I’m not sure exactly. I’m on the way to the hospital?”

You grimaced, holding the phone away from your ear as Emily’s voice screeched out of it.

“What do you mean!? Why!?”

“I, uh… I think I’m in… premature labor.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, and you could hear her voice shake. God, you hated to scare her.

“It’s okay, Em. I’m fine. The baby’s gonna be fine. I’ve got it taken care of.”

“Honey, it’s too early!”

And it was then and only then that you snapped.

“I fucking know that, Emily! Don’t you think I know that!? I’m taking care of her, okay!? I’m getting her to the hospital! I’m doing everything I can to make sure she stays safe and doesn’t get born today, alright?!”

The line was silent for a moment, and you immediately regretted lashing out at Emily. Emily who loved you so much, who was just worried about you, just wanted to keep you safe.

You bit back tears, trying to pull it together again, trying to bring back the no feelings facade.

“It’s gonna be okay, honey,” Emily said softly, as if she could see you, could see your eyes swimming, your teeth clenched with worry. “I’m on my way, alright? I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Honey, you don’t have to–”

“Yes, I do. Don’t even start with me, Y/N. You’re my wife. He’s my child. If I have to fucking fly a helicopter there myself, I’ll do it. Okay? I don't want to hear anything else about how I don’t need to be there. You’re my family, and I will get to you. Understood?”

You nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see you. “Okay,” you whispered, voice shaky.

The Uber driver pulled up in front of the hospital, and you hoisted yourself out of the backseat. “I gotta go, Em. I just got to the hospital.”

“Wait!” she called. “Which one!?”

“GW.

“Okay,” she said, her voice shaking now, too. “Keep me updated.”

“I will.” Now was your time. It was your turn to be strong. Your turn to fight for your child’s life, and you would fight tooth and nail for her. “I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too. Be safe.”

Dr. Delgado had called ahead, so they were ready for you when you arrived. You were poked, prodded, measured (but not pap-smeared!), and hooked up to various machines.

When the on-call OB-GYN came in and glanced at your charts, he nodded, as if confirming something for himself, then turned to you.

“How are we doing today, Ms. Y/L/N?” he asked, grinning at you. And his teeth were so unnaturally white that for a moment, you didn’t even respond, just stared.

“Uh… well. I’ve had better days.”

“Sounds like it.” He nodded sympathetically. “So based on the charts and your reports, I’d say that you are in preterm labor.”

You sucked in a shaky breath, trying not to cry. “It’s really early. Will she… you know… make it?”

“Chances are good that she’ll be perfectly fine. Babies born at 32 weeks have a 95% rate of survival, and usually only spend a week or so in the NICU.”

You didn’t love that 5% of non-survival, and your face likely gave it away.

“But we’re gonna do everything we can to keep her inside for a while longer, alright?”

You nodded as the doctor continued.

“We’re gonna start out by giving you fast-acting Nifedipine every fifteen minutes for an hour. That should hopefully start to slow things down. We’ll continue to Nifedipine as needed for the next 48 hours or so. Because your preterm labor progressed so quickly today, I’m gonna go ahead and prescribe a couple injections. One of those will be today, one will be tomorrow. They’ll help the baby’s lungs get stronger faster, just in case. And…”

He looked you over for a moment, and you looked back, trying not to appear as frightened as you were.

“I think I’ll go ahead and start you on intravenous magnesium, too. Just to be extra cautious. Alright?”

He clapped his hands together, as if we were breaking from a football huddle.

“Thank you,” you told him, running a hand over your baby bump, smirking as the baby kicked against it.

“You,” you continued, whispering toward the baby, “need to calm yourself. It’s not that exciting out here, I promise.”

You were on your third dose of Nifedipine, and the contractions were slowly tapering down, when you heard a familiar voice in the hallway.

“No, I’m standing in for family!” the voice protested, fluttery and determined. “I don’t care what your policy is! She’s family in spirit! And she doesn’t need to be all alone at the hospital!”

A few minutes later–the click of heels, an all-too-familiar whiff of cherry-vanilla perfume, and a whole lot of pink–and Penelope Garcia was grasping your hands in hers, looking more worried than you were.

“Oh my god, Y/N!” she squealed, looking you over. “Emily called me and told me what was going on, and, of course, I said yes I’d stay with you until she got here, but are you okay!? Is the baby okay!? What did the doctor say!? I mean it’s none of my business, I guess, but I just… really, really, really want you guys to be okay, you know!?”

You smiled at her, squeezing her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here,” you said, and you meant it. “They gave me a bunch of medicine to stop labor so… fingers crossed.” You shrugged.

Penelope physically crossed her fingers, grinning at you. “I thought maybe you could use a distraction, so I brought… this?!”

She pulled out her Nintendo Switch, and you grinned. “Mario Kart?”

“Mario Kart,” she confirmed, handing you a controller and propping the switch up on the end of your hospital bed.

You’d played nearly all the Grands Prix when you saw a very concerned, wide-eyed Emily stride past your door. You threw down the controller and called out, forgetting for a moment that you were connected to a machine and straining against the wires that held you in place.

“Em!” you yelled.

She doubled back and surged into the room, past Penelope, who watched you both as if she were watching the most adorable rom-com.

Emily grasped your face and kissed your forehead, pressing her lips together and looking worriedly at you as your eyes filled with tears.

You’d held it together all day. You’d done so well. But something about Emily being there, something about her presence–strong and sure and steady and just there–always made you fall apart, made you show your truest self at your most vulnerable moments. Because Emily saw you and knew you and loved you, and you knew that when she was here, there was no hiding. No pretending. No acting like you were okay when you weren’t. She knew. And she broke through all your walls, every time, just with those eyes–those eyes softly chastising you, softly telling you to let it go–until you were a teary mess, curled into her chest as she lowered herself into the chair that Penelope had quickly vacated. You were finally, finally safe enough to feel everything.

Penelope looked like she might cry herself, but instead stood, gathered her things, and blew you a kiss, squeezing Emily’s shoulder before creeping out of the room.

“Are you okay? Is the baby okay?” Emily whispered, trying not to interrupt your tears, alarm you.

You sniffed and nodded. “They gave me a bunch of medicine.” You raised your arms to show the IVs and monitors, as if in demonstration. “It’s working a little bit so far. They’re trying to get labor to stop entirely. I’ll probably be here for… a couple days at least.” You felt suddenly guilty again for uprooting Emily, not to mention leaving the rest of the BAU team stranded in Iowa without a jet. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Hey,” Emily said, tilting your chin up so you had to look her in the eye. Her hands never left you. It was as if she was afraid if she stopped touching you, you’d somehow end up far from her again. Far away and scared and in trouble, and she wouldn’t be able to be there. “No apologies. I’m just glad you’re both okay.” She rubbed a thumb absentmindedly over your baby bump. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

And it was only then that you noticed that she was worried, too, worried out of her mind, maybe more worried than you. You took her hand and placed her palm on the side of your face, holding it there, just feeling her and letting her feel you.

You nodded. “I’m okay, baby.”

You sat like that for a moment, just the two of you and the beeping monitors and the buzzing lights. Emily shifted her hand so that she cupped the back of your head in her palm, and you leaned into her touch. And it was as if the touch said everything you couldn’t quite say: I love you. I love you more than breathing. In fact, I don’t think I’d be able to breathe if you weren’t here.

“How’s the rest of the team getting home?” you asked, exhaling shakily, trying to move away from the heaviness of the moment.

“Oh, the jet’s already on its way back to them,” Emily reassured you.

You giggled. “My carbon footprint grew exponentially today.”

Emily grinned. “I may have killed a few trees to get to you…”

“That’s a lot of emissions,” you told her, waggling your eyebrows. “Like, a Taylor Swift level of emissions.”

“Oh, no. God forbid.” Emily’s voice was sarcastic and warm, and you were just so happy to have her there. It was incredible, really, how much better you felt just having her there. Just hearing her voice. Just feeling her skin, even just her wrist, pressed up against yours. The knowledge of her presence in the room with you.

“Listen, Em,” you started. “I really am okay if you need to go back.”

She placed a finger lightly over your lips, as if to shush you. “No more of that. Listen, you don’t need to worry about the BAU, okay? They’re perfectly capable of catching bad guys without me.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Alright, it might take them a little longer,” she conceded. “But they can do it without me. Besides, I’m not going back.”

“To Iowa?”

“To the BAU.”

Your heart dropped, and you threw a hospital pillow at her. “Emily Elizabeth Prentiss! You did not quit the BAU!”

“No!” she said, lightly smacking you in the face with the pillow you’d thrown, just hard enough to make you laugh. “I mean, I’m not going back into work until after the baby’s born. I told them I was starting parental leave.”

A concerned look crossed your face. “But, Em, it might still be weeks before the baby’s born. I don’t want–”

“Look,” she interrupted. “I read up on it on the plane, and even if they manage to stop labor and we can go home, you’ll likely need to be on some kind of bed rest until the baby comes.”

“But–”

“Ah!” she tutted, stopping you in your tracks yet again, this time with a quick but passionate kiss on your lips, one that left you flustered and red. “I like to take care of my wife. Let me take care of you. Got it?”

You nodded, your heart nearly exploding with love for this woman.

“I do have some bad news, though…”

You furrowed your eyebrows, taking her hand in yours as she looked sadly at you.

She sighed before continuing. “The articles I read said you almost certainly will need to be on pelvic rest.”

You scrunched up your face. “What the fuck is pelvic rest?!”

Emily pursed her lips and looked at you like she was about to personally murder a puppy. “No sex.”

Your jaw dropped. “NO SEX!?”

She shook her head. “Nope, nothing that would cause any kind of pelvic strain.”

Your brain scrambled. “Well… What about…? What about oral? I mean surely…”

Your voice faded as Emily shook her head.

You scoffed. “And you would follow through on it, too.”

She kissed you again, and you felt those familiar butterflies erupting in your stomach and pulled away.

“Don’t fucking start something you can’t finish, Prentiss,” you grumbled.

“Oh, I plan to finish it,” she said, staring at you so hard it made you blush. “As far as I’m concerned, the whole rest of the pregnancy and the weeks after while you’re healing– they’re just long, elaborate foreplay so that when I can finally fuck you again…” She lowered her voice now, so you could barely hear her. “...it is the best you’ve ever been fucked.”

You let out a deep breath, blowing out your cheeks. “Jesus, Emily.”

“I told you,” Emily grinned, brushing your hair lovingly behind your ear and winking at you. “I like to take care of my wife.”

[iamsweetcrow]

Duckvember Day 21: Craven Duck

As Aunt Olivia says, her nephew Gladstone is handsome and lucky but not very smart.

His fear of losing the new life he has found in Farmtown led him to commit a selfish and cowardly act. He ruined his friend Priscilla's dream of opening a bookstore in Duckburg and getting her to return to her hometown.

Priscilla is a character from Italian comics. You can meet her in the comic "Gladstone and the solitude of the four-leaf clover" and also in "The Skies of Farmtown".

[lettheladylead]

Gladstone & The Skies of Farmtown

(read the full comic here)

(read part two here!)

(read the prequel - Gladstone and the Solitude of the Four-Leaf Clover)

Hi everybody!! Here's a new Gladstone-centric comic featuring the Farmtown characters we met in Solitude of the Four-Leaf Clover. Part two will come out next week, so for now....enjoy part one! [no inducks link yet]