#freedom farmers

[matchamiko]

lol neuvillette just sucking ur nipples or smth is enough to have u going a bit insane right??? RIGHT????

Giggling so hard rn

Warnings: breast worship/play, dry humping, mentions of masturbation, mentions of penetrative sex; previously established relationship.

If there’s one thing Neuvillette is, it’s thorough. You ask him about one of his trials after he returns from the Opera Eclipse, and he’s talking for hours about every piece of evidence in the case; you shyly ask him to brush your hair and he’s producing several combs and brushes and an oil to massage your scalp; he decides to take you on what humans call a date, and you’re trekking through the purple fields in the countryside to the most darling little picnic spot and dining on pastries until dusk, and then returning to the city to stroll about the fountains and gardens arm in arm with the promise of a mightily thorough kiss at the end.

And he’s no different when playing your body like a fiddle. He's got you folded into his lap, office door locked, blinds only half drawn but there's no danger of anyone looking in, not when he's so wrapped around you that it's hard to seen even a glimpse of your bare skin. It started as a visit for tea, the leaves you brought from your village in the Vale fresh and still warm from being dried over a fire, chatting idly in the way you two did that Neuvillette found so refreshing and simple. Then it led to you shyly asking for a kiss, having missed him so dearly and so wantonly, shown in the way you gripped his lapels and leaned further into him with a questioning sigh and an answered grunt. And now, you're half dressed spread over his thick thighs, his coat strewn next to the two of you and his gloves somewhere with it.

"Let me taste you," he murmurs against the column of your throat, hands running up the length of your back and down again, squeezing your hips into a dizzying grind. Your breasts press deliciously against the cotton of his shirt, nipples slipping and rubbing over his chest and every time you shudder with pleasure, Neuvillette basks in the way you arch harder into him like a cat. You feel wonderful, writhing over his groin and trying not to let your darkest desires overtake you like you so often did. The precious little tea farmer he'd befriended and then courted and then decidedly and silently pledged himself to; you're full of dirty secrets and filthy wants that has him spiralling into territories he'd never even thought about before. And your tits were one of them, to put it frankly.

He's fucked you before, numerous times, to your hearts content and more often than not, to your dictation and command. It wasn't surprising that your precious Iudex wasn't particularly well versed in human seduction, and you bravely stood up to the task you had completely made up, of showing him everything you desired and introducing him to everything he desired. But today, in the secrecy of his office, the knowledge that just outside the doors, people mill about and wait for an appointment with him; Neuvillette steps away from his duties and demands the feel of your supple skin against his teeth.

"I admit," a hand grasps the fat of your breast, squeezing roughly with the whoreish rhythm you have going on with your hips, "I've been thinking often about having you like this, desperate and desiring me all from the touch I give you here," fingers pluck at your nipple before he dips his head and takes it into his mouth. He's done this before, too many times to count, but with him being fully dressed and you an absolute mess in his lap; it feels different, raw and unfiltered in the wavering sanctity of his office. You can feel Neuvillette's tongue flattening over your nipple, swirling and curling like he does between your legs and it sends you arching into him, further into his reclined figure and deeper into his lap. A dizzying moan leaves you chest when you feel the hot, hard press of his cock through his trousers, confined in such a way that it's mind numbing when you grind against it. He pulls back for a second, looking up at you with hair strewn about his face, cheeks red and ears redder, panting hot and wet against your skin.

"Don't stop, please," he doesn't care for your politeness, doesn't care for your request, doing as he pleases with your body; one hand gripping your bottom and urging you to grind against him, and the other grasping meanly at your tit. Neuvillette seems positively ravenous this afternoon, though it should have been obvious in the way he allowed you to push him over to the settee and mount him without asking.

"I'm plagued with thoughts of you during matters that I should be attending to, important matters that garner my fullest attention and yet -," he suckles a bruise into the swell of your breast, held firm by his hands, squishing them together and nuzzling into the crevice between, breathing deeply enough to shudder, "All I can think about is you, what I want to do to you the next time we are alone, the next time you allow me to have you in such undignified ways," you're shaking when he regains his focus and takes your nipple into his mouth, tugging and nipping and gnawing like he does on his bottom lip when he's concentrating, suckling hard before letting go with a pop - allowing you to take a gasping breath and to look down at how positively enthralled he is at he taste of your doughy flesh,

"You don't need to be so formal while you're playing with my tits Neuvillette," you've always been more straight forward, more brash and crude, than him; having grown up in the countryside, in another nation, a whole other life to the one he leads. He leaves a wet trail from his tongue over your nipple, catching it between his sharp teeth and tugging enough to make you whine lowly, "I - can't stop thinking about you too, 'specially when I'm on my own," the implication is implicit but Neuvillette surges up into you, hips strong and knocking into yours with a grunt. He's filled suddenly with images of you writhing in your bed, hand stuffed between your thighs, fingers wet and slick in your cunt - the same he can feel pulsing and purring over his lap.

"Tonight, I've cleared my last appointment so I can spend it with you," he gasps, lips swollen from their assault on your breasts, eyes unfocused and pupils blown wide with want "After supper, after I spoil you like I have promised; you are showing me everything you do when you are alone and desperate for me,"

[pureangel444]

From the dusty mesa, her looming shadow grows. Hidden in the branches of the poison creosote.

[thefreethoughtprojectcom]

A Pennsylvania court has ruled that Amos and Rebecca Miller can continue selling raw milk out of state while their lawsuit over Pennsylvania's Milk Sanitation Law proceeds.

Read More: https://thefreethoughtproject.com/good-news/big-win-for-amish-farmer-and-food-freedom-in-raw-milk-case

#TheFreeThoughtProject

[justskyla-art]

so I've gotten back into stardew valley hell (I literally have over 420 hours plugged into this game across all the saves I've played (3)) and..

yeah... i made a farmer oc when me and my friends were obsessed with co-op... there is no saving me...

...and i also realized how much i liked elliott.. and you know how things go...

yeah.... i'm not normal about them...

[quovadisamerica]

[shawnshawcowboy]

Oklahoma sunset

[xtruss]

What Happened When a Fearless Group of Mississippi Sharecroppers Founded Their Own City

Strike City was born after one small community left the plantation to live on their own terms

— September 11, 2023 | NOVA—BPS

A tin sign demarcated the boundary of Strike City just outside Leland, Mississippi. Photo by Charlie Steiner

In 1965 in the Mississippi Delta, things were not all that different than they had been 100 years earlier. Cotton was still King—and somebody needed to pick it. After the abolition of slavery, much of the labor for the region’s cotton economy was provided by Black sharecroppers, who were not technically enslaved, but operated in much the same way: working the fields of white plantation owners for essentially no profit. To make matters worse, by 1965, mechanized agriculture began to push sharecroppers out of what little employment they had. Many in the Delta had reached their breaking point.

In April of that year, following months of organizing, 45 local farm workers founded the Mississippi Freedom Labor Union. The MFLU’s platform included demands for a minimum wage, eight-hour workdays, medical coverage and an end to plantation work for children under the age of 16, whose educations were severely compromised by the sharecropping system. Within weeks of its founding, strikes under the MFLU banner began to spread across the Delta.

Five miles outside the small town of Leland, Mississippi, a group of Black Tenant Farmers led by John Henry Sylvester voted to go on strike. Sylvester, a tractor driver and mechanic at the A.L. Andrews Plantation, wanted fair treatment and prospects for a better future for his family. “I don’t want my children to grow up dumb like I did,” he told a reporter, with characteristic humility. In fact it was Sylvester’s organizational prowess and vision that gave the strikers direction and resolve. They would need both. The Andrews workers were immediately evicted from their homes. Undeterred, they moved their families to a local building owned by a Baptist Educational Association, but were eventually evicted there as well.

After two months of striking, and now facing homelessness for a second time, the strikers made a bold move. With just 13 donated tents, the strikers bought five acres of land from a local Black Farmer and decided that they would remain there, on strike, for as long as it took. Strike City was born. Frank Smith was a Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee worker when he went to live with the strikers just outside Leland. “They wanted to stay within eyesight of the plantation,” said Smith, now Executive Director of the African American Civil War Memorial and Museum in Washington, D.C. “They were not scared.”

Life in Strike City was difficult. Not only did the strikers have to deal with one of Missississippi’s coldest winters in history, they also had to endure the periodic gunshots fired by white agitators over their tents at night. Yet the strikers were determined. “We ain’t going out of the state of Mississippi. We gonna stay right here, fighting for what is ours,” one of them told a documentary film team, who captured the strikers’ daily experience in a short film called “Strike City.” “We decided we wouldn’t run,” another assented. “If we run now, we always will be running.”

But the strikers knew that if their city was going to survive, they would need more resources. In an effort to secure federal grants from the federal government’s Office of Economic Opportunity, the strikers, led by Sylvester and Smith, journeyed all the way to Washington D.C. “We’re here because Washington seems to run on a different schedule,” Smith told congressmen, stressing the urgency of the situation and the group’s needs for funds. “We have to get started right away. When you live in a tent and people shoot at you at night and your kids can’t take a bath and your wife has no privacy, a month can be a long time, even a day…Kids can’t grow up in Strike City and have any kind of a chance.” In a symbolic demonstration of their plight, the strikers set up a row of tents across the street from the White House.

John Henry Sylvester, left, stands outside one of the tents strikers erected in Washington, D.C. in April 1966. Photo by Rowland Sherman

“It was a good, dramatic, in-your-face presentation,” Smith told American Experience, nearly 60 years after the strikers camped out. “It didn’t do much to shake anything out of the Congress of the United States or the President and his Cabinet. But it gave us a feeling that we’d done something to help ourselves.” The protestors returned home empty-handed. Nevertheless, the residents of Strike City had secured enough funds from a Chicago-based organization to begin the construction of permanent brick homes; and to provide local Black children with a literacy program, which was held in a wood-and-cinder-block community center they erected.

The long-term sustainability of Strike City, however, depended on the creation of a self-sufficient economy. Early on, Strike City residents had earned money by handcrafting nativity scenes, but this proved inadequate. Soon, Strike City residents were planning on constructing a brick factory that would provide employment and building material for the settlement’s expansion. But the $25,000 price tag of the project proved to be too much, and with no employment, many strikers began to drift away. Strike City never recovered.

Still, its direct impact was apparent when, in 1965, Mississippi schools reluctantly complied with the 1964 Civil Rights Act by offering a freedom-of-choice period in which children were purportedly allowed to register at any school of their choice. In reality, however, most Black parents were too afraid to send their children to all-white schools—except for the parents living at Strike City who had already radically declared their independence . Once Leland’s public schools were legally open to them, Strike City kids were the first ones to register. Their parents’ determination to give them a better life had already begun to pay dividends.

Smith recalled driving Strike City’s children to their first day of school in the fall of 1970. “I remember when I dropped them off, they jumped out and ran in, and I said, ‘They don't have a clue what they were getting themselves into.’ But you know kids are innocent and they’re always braver than we think they are. And they went in there like it was their schoolhouse. Like they belonged there like everybody else.”

[manticore239]

In the first place, evolution was experimented.

Element Spell Jars

These spell jars are great for connecting your altar to the elements. I personally used larger jars than I usually would for a spell jar for these. That way they could be more of a statement piece on my altar

Earth

- Malachite, Smoky Quartz, Pyrite and/or Peridot

- Mugwort

- Cypress

- Sand or Dirt

- Sage

- Cedar

- Small twig or dried leaves

“I tend to my growth each day”

Water

- Moonstone, Aquamarine, Celestine and/or Lapis Lazuli

- Sea Salt

- Shells or Sand from the beach

- Thyme

- Jasmine

- Seaweed

- Ivy

- Lotus Flower

“I flow with the tides of the universe”

Fire

- Carnelian, Sunstone, Citrine and/or Red Jasper

- Sunflower

- Cinnamon

- Black Salt

- Calendula

- Nettle

- Poppy

“I ignite my passion and spark action”

Air

- Amethyst, Angeline, Flourite and/or Amber

- Lavender

- Peppermint

- White Sand

- Feather

- Lemongrass

- Incense Ash

- Pine

“I breathe in clarity and prosperity”

[cash4agri]

Soluții Financiare Pentru Agricultura Modernă !

📊 Cu analiza de risc detaliată , puteți identifica potențialele vulnerabilități financiare și contabile înainte ca acestea să devină probleme majore .

Aceasta înseamnă că vă puteți concentra pe ceea ce faceți cel mai bine – cultivarea !

[fandfnews]

Nigeria's Christian Communities Face Escalating Violence as Two More Farmers Killed in Benue State Attack

Latest deadly assault in Otabi-Alpa village continues pattern of targeted violence against Christian farming communities across Nigeria’s Middle Belt region By Michael D. Butler May 26, 2025 – The relentless cycle of violence against Nigeria’s Christian communities has claimed two more lives, as Fulani herdsmen killed two Christian farmers on May 7 in Otabi-Alpa village, Benue state, according…

[lighthousedann]

Slow Dancing In A Burning World Or A Solitary Moment Of Sadness

A moment of clarity regarding the state of the global society If I were a conspiracy or religious theorist, I would believe that these are the end of days for humanity as we know it to be. Currently, there are many conflicts and political unrest taking place globally. As of May 2024, according to the statistics at: https://blogs.icrc.org I quote: “Today, there are over 120 armed conflicts…

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Gladiator

A man can become a god in the arena. But all he fights for is you.

In his own country, he was nothing more than a soldier. But cities always fall to the might of Rome and Yandere! Gladiator learns the hard way that slavery is the reward for defying the Emperor.

Yandere! Gladiator who's thrown into the ring with criminals and slaves, with nothing but a dull sword to protect himself.

Yandere! Gladiator who uses every trick and instinct to win. Who stands covered in blood and sand as the crowds cheer, his chest heaving.

Yandere! Gladiator who must have a lucky star.

Yandere! Gladiator who wins by the skin of his teeth every time. Who goes from fighting criminals to fighting lions to fighting champions.

Yandere! Gladiator whose sword gets sharper with each victory.

Yandere! Gladiator who starts attracting sponsors - rich Patricians who lavish him in gifts.

Yandere! Gladiator who stands still in shock when one of his patrons gifts him a slave of his own - you.

Yandere! Gladiator who isn't sure what to do. Despite what people say, he can't see you as just a piece of property. And when you bow before him, the scars from his own slave collar itch.

Yandere! Gladiator who just nods helplessly when you offer to do things for him. Sharpen his sword. Clean the blood and grit off his armor. Oil and braid his hair before each fight.

Yandere! Gladiator who can only dip his head in thanks, always avoiding your eyes as though he isn't your master.

Yandere! Gladiator who watches you when your back is turned. The shape of your hips, the curve of your shoulder, the delicate skin on the side of your neck... He drinks in every part of you whenever he can.

Yandere! Gladiator whose eyes go sharp and dangerous when the other fighters talk about his "pretty little slave girl."

Yandere! Gladiator who slowly falls in love.

You aren't sweet or innocent or any of the other qualities he's been told to look for in a woman. You're blunt and deadpan, with a jaded view of the world.

But you're always there.

Rubbing his aching muscles after a week of brutal training. Carefully dressing his cuts after every tournament. Bringing him food cooked with all the herbs you know of that grant strength and speed.

Yandere! Gladiator who fights his battles not just to survive, but to return to you.

Yandere! Gladiator who admires your strength more than any opponent he's faced. A slave girl doesn't have an easy life - he shudders to think what other masters have demanded of you.

And despite the collar and the labour and the long nights spent treating him, you never complain.

Yandere! Gladiator who becomes known through Rome for his skill in the arena. Who looks like a child of Mars with his armour and crested helmet, his sword stained scarlet.

Yandere! Gladiator who dreams of you in his arms every night. Who longs to hear your voice even when the crowds scream his name.

Yandere! Gladiator who finally earns enough money to buy you from his patron. Who sits quietly in front of the fire while you comb his hair, staring into the flames and thinking. Eventually he finds the courage to ask.

What would you do with your freedom?

Your hands grow still.

Return home. To my father's farm with it's ancient olive groves.

Yandere! Gladiator who squeezes his eyes shut like you've hurt him.

Of course you would leave. He was a fool to think otherwise. And yet... he couldn't help imagining you staying with him. Willingly.

Yandere! Gladiator who asks around about your home. Sold, he learns. The farmer couldn't pay his debts and his daughter was sold as a slave to his creditors.

Yandere! Gladiator who uses the money he saved to buy your father's farm instead of your freedom.

It's selfish, he knows. If he loved you as you deserved, you would be your own master again.

But he can't let you go.

Yandere! Gladiator who watches the longing flicker across your face when he tells you the news. Who tries to convince himself you'll be happy here, that your collar won't weigh as heavy.

Yandere! Gladiator who kills for a living and doesn't bat an eye.

But whose hands shake when they touch your skin.

[nezuscribe]

what if instead of arranged!gojo it’s arranged!sukuna? he’s in his curse form, centuries ago, and the elders decide that the only thing that might appease him would be a marriage between him and their youngest sorcerer, you.

naive you who thought that this was just another state affairs issue, not realizing that they had signed you off as the bride of the infamous sorcerer killer.

it’s weeks of fighting, tears, screaming, until you’re eventually hauled away and thrown on the steps of his estate. they don’t bother with a wedding, just a piece of parchment that legally binds you and him together.

you don’t even see the curse for a while.

you try your best to get used to the bustle of activity, to life on the grounds, how to act as a “wife”, but you are yet to see the king of curses.

at some point, in between your day filled with boredom and nights filled with tears you decide that enough is enough. if he’s not even here, then he won’t even notice if you were to run away.

you pack some things, escaping through a window as you make your way through the woods near his estate, not daring to look behind you as you feel the twigs cutting your cheeks, heart palpitating so fast you fear you might just die.

and you think you’ve made it, finding an open pasture, most likely one of a nearby farmer, and let out a sigh of freedom.

if not for the massive force that jumps from behind you, holding your weak body to the ground.

you let out a hoarse scream, trying to breathe through the clawed hand wrapped around your throat.

your eyes widen in fear as you meet four, your chest heaving at the sly grin that makes its way onto his face.

“you have audacity, i’ll give you that,” the king of curses says with a chuckle, his baritone voice shaking your bones.

you try to turn your face away, wincing as he rests his weight even more on top of you.

“y-you…you don’t even want me,” you choke out, lips trembling as you take in the unreadable expression that takes over him.

his nails dig into your skin, threading blood.

“don’t stoop so low,” he growls, “to think that i’d follow you out of want,”

“i don’t like it when what’s mine goes missing.”

[immunobiz]

Rappelez-vous pas de fermiers pas de nourriture! Remember no farmers no food!

[seaplusglass]

Honestly part of me is really tempted to make a new version of this with what Arthur does post-war now. Although, he'd probably be closer to this on the cover of an agricultural magazine as opposed to the glitz and glamour like

In another life, that whole agent business was just a passing phase... Thank god it isn't so, huh?

[tanuki-kimono]

Great example of everyday noragi (work clothes, worn by farmers for ex.)​ from Taisho period. Note the makisode sleeve shape, offering freedom of mouvement!

You can see the close-up of the weave, made from asa (bast-fiber like hemp or linen) and kamiyori (twisted paper thread​). Despite its "rugged" materials, weave is delicately interlocked with regular black stripes.

The coat also presents geometrical sashiko (white quilting), both reinforcing easily worn areas (collar, hems, inner center back), and decorating the garment.

PSA for writers: please please please don't put characters doing manual labour in "silk" kimono. I'll be forever grateful ;)