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sai-int · 4 months ago

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LOW COUNTRY | HIGH NOON

johnny mactavish x reader

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yearning—they're both so dumb.

Two weeks fly by and Johnny proves himself in ways you weren’t prepared for.

The first two days after he arrived, you’d spent hours showing him the ropes, expecting some level of difficulty, some struggle once he got down to actually doing the dirty work. Sure, he could listen and memorize to his heart's content, but if he couldn’t do the work, he wasn’t useful to you.

But goddamn, could he do the work.

The day after he arrived, you had him shadow you as you worked. You narrated everything you did for the livestock and important things to remember. Shimmer was on a diet and needed a little less hay in her stall. The water in every barn had to stay cool to keep the animals from overheating. The sheep’s bedding came from cornstalks harvested straight from the fields, and the barn doors had to stay open during the day for ventilation. Dixie had to be fed alongside the sheep—otherwise, she'd get jealous. The cows ate soybeans, and their barn fans had to run non-stop to keep the heat at bay.

On the second day, you let him take the reins. He remembered everything, every miniscule detail, down to a T. You were there if he needed help, but he never did. He fed the animals—hell, he did it all like he's been doing it his whole life, like he could do it blindfolded.

It was almost jealousy-inducing how easy it comes to him. You’ve spent years building up the strength needed to handle farm work. You’ve got muscle, no doubt about that. Every long day under the sun has carved power into your body, earned through a lot of sweat and double the tears.

It’s unfair. It’s painfully distracting. He’s painfully distracting.

Regardless, you shove your pride to the side. This is what he’s here for, after all.

The division of labor falls into place easier than you expect. He takes over livestock care and you handle the crops and the house. But together, everyday, you both fix the fences, riding out in the afternoons with supplies in tow, patching up the weak spots before they become real problems.

You don’t speak to Johnny much during the day—mainly during meal times. He spends most of his day to the left of the house at the livestock pastures and barns. The main pastures are all sprawled out, home to about fifteen cows and sheep, respectively. You spend most of your time at the crop fields, which stretch to the right of the house, along with the old barn your family stopped using years ago. Too much upkeep for what it was worth. The cornfields are there too, easy to reach on horseback.

The stables sit in between both, a ways behind the house. The whole farm isn’t a big operation, not by most standards, but it definitely needs more than one person to run it. With Johnny proving himself capable, you both fell into an easy routine rather quickly.

Johnny's up at 7 a.m., like clockwork. He takes the biggest horse, Scout, and makes his rounds, feeding the animals breakfast, checking the water troughs and filling them up when needed. He lets the livestock graze before the sun gets too high.

By 9, Johnny finally gets a moment to breathe while you’re awake and already in the kitchen cooking breakfast. You found that if you time it right, you can get an eyeful of Johnny from the kitchen window. You’ve unintentionally made it part of your morning, standing by the window, mug of coffee in hand, watching him. You repeatedly tell yourself it's to make sure he’s getting the job done, but the more you watch, the more you find yourself thinking about him in ways that grow exceedingly inappropriate for a boss-employer relationship.

You should stop watching. If he were to ever catch you, he’d probably think you were some kind of freak. Maybe you should focus on the eggs in the pan, the bread in the toaster, but it’s hard to follow your better judgement with Johnny around. Pa’s been on your ass for how much toast you’re burning these days.

Breakfast is never fancy, but it’s solid. Eggs, grits, fried potatoes, sausage, bacon. Sometimes fresh fruit if you’ve got it, a pitcher of orange juice on the table alongside the coffee. Variations of the same spread every morning, something hearty and filling to start the day.

Johnny’s damn near worshipful over your cooking. It brings a flush to your cheeks each time he comments on it, considering Pa’s never had too much to say about it. The way Johnny reacts, closing his eyes when he takes the first bite, letting out a quiet “Christ, that’s good”- or he groans under his breath, making it hard not to feel at least a little smug.

You’re used to running the cooking and cleaning on your own: the dishes, wiping down the counters, making sure everything’s in order. Pa never offered much help in that regard. He’s traditional in the sense that ‘it’s a woman’s job’ to take care of the home, with all of its chores and domesticities. He’s stuck in his ways but he’s got a kind soul.

But Johnny does it all with you. Doesn’t even ask.

He waits till everyone’s finished eating, then rolls up his sleeves and helps clear the table like it’s second nature, like it’s part of the job description. He stands beside you at the sink, drying dishes as you wash, putting them away without needing to be told where anything goes. He just remembers.

Most times, you both wash in silence. The only sounds are the clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional scrape of a sponge against a pan. But you can feel his eyes on you, watching as you scrub a pot or rinse off a pan. He never says anything—just waits for you patiently.

But it does something to you. Makes you feel small in a way you can’t quite explain. Not insignificant, but exposed. Like he sees too much, like he notices things you don’t even realize you’re giving away. It sets your nerves on edge, tightens something low in your stomach, makes your hands move a little quicker even though you don’t want to give yourself away. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just dishes. Just a quiet kitchen. But under the weight of his gaze, it feels like something else entirely.

His arm brushes yours sometimes—subtle and fleeting but often enough that it doesn’t feel like an accident. Like maybe he’s finding excuses to touch you, even if it’s barely there. And it’s nothing, really. Just the briefest press of skin, the softest graze. But it burns and it lingers. It sinks into your skin like a brand, like something your body wants more of, wants to memorize. You keep your face neutral in the moment, your hands steady. Inside? Your pulse stutters, your breath feels too shallow, and your mind won’t stop spinning in circles. It’s ridiculous, how something so small can unravel you like this. But god help you, it does.

You try to brush it off. He’s just being kind, just paying attention. That’s all. Nothing more.

You remind yourself to be grateful for the extra set of hands, for the way his quiet presence makes the work easier. It’s a small thing, really—his help. But somehow, it takes the edge off the mornings, makes them feel a little lighter.

Johnny’s makes everything feel lighter, now that you really think about it.

Mornings used to be a race against the rising temperatures outside—shoveling down breakfast just to sprint outside and make sure the livestock were moved to the shaded pastures before the sun got too brutal. But with Johnny around, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. He’s got it covered.

After breakfast, usually around 11, Johnny heads back out to do just that, while you get ready for your day’s work. You throw on something you don’t mind getting dirty—some overalls and a tank top, old boots, maybe one of Pa’s loose flannels if there’s a breeze.

You head to the stables and grab Shimmer, heading out to the crop fields. You pass the time, watering, weeding, checking for pests, making sure everything is growing the way it should. It’s tedious work, but at least now, you can actually focus on it. In a way, it’s calmer than dealing with the animals.

By 3 p.m., you've made your final rounds around the fields, harvesting some cucumbers and tomatoes if they’re ready, checking on the other plants to make sure everything’s in place. The heat nears oppressive, and you’re already looking forward to heading inside.

As you ride back toward the stalls to put Shimmer away, your eyes find Johnny by the sheep pen. He’s herding them inside, guiding them with an easy patience, keeping them out of the harsh afternoon sun. Even from a distance, you can tell he’s got a good handle on them.

Your gaze drifts past him to Scout, tied to a fence post nearby. Shimmer must notice him too, judging by the way she whinnies, ears pricking forward with interest. They’ve been sticking close lately, choosing to graze together in the mornings and evenings, grooming each other like they’ve suddenly decided they’re inseparable. It’s odd, considering they’ve never paid each other much mind before—at least, not until two weeks ago.

It’s still August. Scout’s still in heat. You make a mental note to keep an eye on him.

Your gaze flickers back to Johnny—jeans slung low on his hips, a plain wife-beater stretched across his broad chest—and as always, you try not to stare.

But Johnny has a habit and it’s downright cruel. When the sun reaches its peak and the heat settles thick over the land, he peels off his shirt without a second thought. Like it’s nothing. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.

And maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just trying to keep cool. But sometimes—when he catches you looking, when the corner of his mouth quirks up just slightly—it feels like he’s doing it on purpose. Like he enjoys watching you struggle not to let your eyes linger on him too long, not to let your thoughts wander somewhere they shouldn��t.

You’ve never been so thankful for the relentless southern sun.

It clings to him, highlighting every sharp line and defined edge. His skin glistens with sweat, the golden light catching on the broad curve of his shoulders, the sinew of his arms as they flex with every movement. Thick and strong.

The first time you saw him shirtless, you stared. You couldn’t help it.

And of course, Johnny caught you.

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and amused, and in that split second of distraction, you didn’t even realize you were sliding right off Shimmer’s back—not until you hit the ground with a graceless thud, landing in a fresh patch of mud.

His laugh had boomed across the fields, full and unrestrained, carrying all the way to your burning ears. You barely had time to process the sheer humiliation of it before you wordlessly climbed right back onto Shimmer like nothing happened, like you weren’t covered in mud, like you hadn’t just been caught drooling over him.

Played it cool. At least, you had tried to.

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts away from Johnny, and focus on putting Shimmer away. It’s easier said than done, but you manage, leading her into her stall and giving her a quick brush-down before heading back toward the house.

Lunch won’t make itself, and you figure you might as well get a head start—assuming you’re not completely covered in dirt from standing around, too busy staring at him to notice the dust clinging to your clothes. Which, if you’re being honest, happens more often than you’d like to admit these days.

At least he has the decency to put a shirt on before stepping inside. Small mercies.

You always whip up something light—sandwiches and a salad, maybe. You’re never in the mood to make anything too heavy. Pa skips out on lunch as usual, though. He always does, opting to head out to visit your Ma. She’s buried alongside a 200-year-old willow tree at the far edge of the property, the place that was always her favorite. Lunch used to be between you and a farm catalogue. Now, it’s between you and Johnny.

He never comments on how Pa slips away; he’s gotten used to the routine of it by now. It didn’t take long for him to piece it all together—Ma’s absence, the way Pa goes to kneel by the tree each day. He notices something in your eyes, too. He’s seen it in his own—loss. Grief.

When the aching sound of silence settles over the house—when the scrape of forks against plates is the only thing filling the empty space, when Pa’s vacant seat feels heavier than it should, Johnny’s hand inches toward yours.

It’s subtle, barely there. His fingertips just skim against your own, light and careful, like he’s offering something without asking. Like he’s reminding you, in the quietest way possible, that he’s here.

The first time he does it, you flinch and pull away before the warmth can settle, before the weight of it can mean something. But the next day, and the one after that, he does it again. Always the same way, always patient.

Day after day, you stop avoiding it.

It’s unspoken, something steady. A silent offering. He never asks for more, never demands, just open to let you take what you need.

Today, your hand creeps to meet his. Your fingers slide to hold his own so easily—so naturally. Your fingertips graze over his knuckles before slipping between his fingers, not gripping, just resting. His other hand stills mid-stab of a piece of fruit, the fork hovering in place before a slow, knowing smile tugs at his lips—soft, easy, like he’s careful not to startle you. He doesn't tighten his hold, doesn't rush, just lets his thumb brush along your skin, as if memorizing the feel of it. His consistency is comforting.

And day after day, without meaning to, you realize just how much you’ve come to rely on it.

Today, Johnny checks on the livestock one last time after lunch, but not before pitching in to help clean up. He’s quick about it, helping you get everything in order before heading out to make his rounds. He moves through the pastures, checking the water troughs, topping them off, and making sure the animals get their feed. It’s a rhythm by now—one that’s almost as natural to him as breathing.

You, on the other hand, head upstairs. The heat of the day still lingers in the air as you peel off your dirt-smeared clothes and step into the shower. The water hits your skin, hot and soothing, washing away the sweat, the dust, the weight of everything. For a few minutes, it’s just you and the steam, curling around you like a fog that keeps the world at bay. Thanks to Johnny, you can take more time for yourself, allowing for a few moments of peace.

Once you're clean, you retreat to your room for a bit, letting the quiet settle around you. The heat from the shower still clings to your skin, steam curling lazily in the air, and for a little while, you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing. Just breathing. Just being.

But duty calls, as it always does.

With a sigh, you pull on something comfortable—old jeans, soft and faded in all the right places, a loose tank top that drapes over your shoulders, and a pair of boots worn supple from years of hard use. You leave your hair down, still damp, cool against the nape of your neck as you step into the hallway. The air meets you in a soft contrast, brushing against your skin as you shake off the last remnants of stillness and head downstairs.

Pa’s sitting in his armchair, the low hum of the 5 o’clock news filling the first floor. His eyes are glued to the screen, but you don’t disturb him, slipping into the kitchen to prep dinner. The knives feel familiar in your hands as you chop the vegetables you harvested earlier, the scent of fresh tomatoes, onions, and herbs filling the air. You sprinkle salt over the meat, massaging it in gently, knowing it’ll make the roast tender for tonight.

The clock ticks past 5:30, and at 6, the last task of the day is waiting. Fence checks.

You and Johnny do it together every day. At first, it was purely for convenience—two hands are always better than one. But now, you look forward to it—to seeing him again.

You grab your jacket from the hook by the door, the familiar weight of it settling over your shoulders, and step outside. The evening air is cool against your skin, the sky beginning to soften into a wash of purples, pinks, and golds, the colors mixing together like paint on a canvas. The breeze picks up, gentle at first, but carrying with it the earthy scent of grass and soil.

You make your way toward the stables, the gravel crunching under your boots in a steady rhythm. The evening air is cooler now, carrying the scent of hay and earth.

As you near the stables, you spot Johnny already there. He’s inside, leaning against Scout’s stall door, his back to you, speaking in a low murmur meant only for the horse. His fingers move through Scout’s mane with an absentminded gentleness.

There’s something different about him in moments like these—when he thinks no one’s watching. He softens. It’s endearing in a way you don’t quite have words for. And for a moment, you hesitate, just watching, before finally stepping forward.

You hum a soft, "Hey," and Johnny turns from Scout, a small smile tugging at his lips like he can’t help it, and he steps toward you with his hands tucked into his pockets.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You just stand there, caught in some strange pause, like you’re both waiting for something. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face with quiet curiosity, and the longer the silence stretches, the more unbearable it gets.

“You talk to the sheep like that too, or just Scout?” you ask, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind.

He stills, processing your outburst before he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Only th’ ones that listen.”

Before he can say anything else, you turn away—too quickly, probably—and busy yourself with Shimmer, running a hand through her mane like she suddenly requires all of your attention. Anything to ignore the way your chest feels too tight, your pulse too loud in your ears.

Johnny doesn’t move right away. You can feel him still standing there, watching, like he knows exactly why you turned so fast but isn’t going to call you on it.

“She givin’ ye trouble?” he finally asks, nodding toward Shimmer as you stroke her mane.

“Always,” you mutter, scratching behind her ears and she whinnies. “She thinks she owns the place.”

“Cannae blame ‘er. She’s got ye wrapped ‘round her hoof.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch despite yourself. He’s not wrong. Shimmer huffs softly, nudging at your shoulder like she knows you’re talking about her. You softly push her nose away, shaking your head.

Johnny steps next to you, leaning his arms over the stall door, softly scratching the base of her neck. “That why ye bolted over here, hmm? Needed an excuse tae hide?" His voice is light, teasing—but there’s something underneath it. Something careful.

Your hand stills for just a second before you scoff, shaking your head. “Please.” You turn, meeting his blue eyes with a practiced ease you’re not sure you actually feel. “If I wanted to hide from you, I’d pick a better spot.” You’re almost teasing when you say it, but you do know the property better than him, afterall.

“Dinnae have tae hide from me, hen,” he hums, the corner of his mouth quirks..

You hate that it makes your stomach flip. Hate that you have to force yourself to look away, to pretend the warmth crawling up your neck is from the evening heat and not from him.

Johnny lets the silence stretch, like he’s giving you a chance to say something—anything. His gaze lingers, drifting over you. Taking in the curve of your shoulders, the way your hair catches the fading light, the way you hold yourself like you’re thinking too much but refusing to say why.

When you don’t speak, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head before pushing off the stall door. Letting it go, for now.

He nods toward the fields, “C’mon. Fence line’s no’ gonna check itself.”

You follow without a word, slipping out of the stables with him. Long shadows stretch across the fields, swaying with the wind-blown grass, and somewhere in the distance, a few cattle call out, their distant sounds blending with the steady hum of crickets.

Neither of you rush. There’s no need. The fence line is long, stretching across acres of land, and it’s a quiet sort of work—just walking, looking, making note of any broken slats or weak posts that’ll need fixing. He walks alongside you, the toolbox rattles lightly in his grip as he carries it at his side, the sound punctuating the steady crunch of boots against dry earth.

For a while, neither of you speak.

It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t easy either. You’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to ignore—the way his steps fall in rhythm with yours, the occasional brush of his arm when the path narrows, the way he glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Ye always this quiet?” Johnny asks, his voice low, barely disturbing the quiet, as if it’s a part of the gentle breeze.

You snort softly, eyes fixed on the fence as you mindlessly trail your fingers along the wooden slats. “Only when there’s nothing to say.”

“That so?” His voice carries easily with a sprinkle of amusement.

“Mhm.”

You keep walking. So does he.

Every so often, you test the fence with a firm press of your palm, checking for weak spots. He does the same. Occasionally, he stops to inspect a loose post, tapping it with the toe of his boot before moving on. It’s a simple rhythm—walk, check, walk again—but the silence between you is anything but simple.

It’s thick, growing heavier as the minutes tick by.

You can feel his presence beside you like a current, something you could fall into and get swept under if you weren’t careful. And maybe he feels it too, because every now and then, his hands twitch at his side, like he wants to reach for something, but can’t. Won’t.

“Ye ever get tired o’ all this?” His voice is quieter this time, almost like he’s asking himself more than you.

Your brows pull together slightly. “Of what?”

He gestures vaguely around you with the hand that isn’t carrying the toolbox. “Th’ same land, same routine. Mornings start early, work’s never really done. That ever get to ye?”

You consider that for a moment, kicking at a stray rock with the toe of your boot. “Maybe. Some days.” You glance at him. “You?”

His mouth tugs into something like a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nah. Never.”

You don’t know what to make of that.

The two of you keep walking, keep checking the fence. The breeze picks up, stirring loose strands of your hair. Johnny exhales a slow breath, his shoulders shifting as he rolls them back, working out a stiffness from the long day. The movement draws your attention, and for a brief second, you let yourself look. Really look.

The sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light catches on his cheekbones, the way his shirt clings to the broad stretch of his shoulders, still slightly damp from the sweat of the day. The gold cross dangling from his neck and the dark, miniscule birthmark that sits just below his ear. His hair has grown a bit since he first came. Maybe you could cut it for him, like you do for Pa.

You swallow hard and snap your gaze forward before you get caught. Again.

Another long stretch of silence. Another step. Another brush of his arm against yours—so light it could be accidental.

Could be.

Johnny stops when he catches sight of a sagging section of barbed wire, his steps slowing before he finally comes to a halt. Without a word, he sets down the toolbox and crouches, running a hand over the worn wood of the post before reaching for the wire. Testing its give. Seeing how bad it really is.

You watch as he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly before grabbing the wire stretcher and a handful of staples. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even complain about the extra work—just gets right to it, like it’s second nature.

Rather than hover over him, you hoist yourself up onto a sturdier section of the fence beside him, perching on the top rail with ease. The wood is solid beneath you, not like the weakened stretch he’s working on now.

The sun is nearly gone, but there’s still enough light to bathe the fields in a golden glow, the last remnants of warmth brushing against your face. You tilt your head toward it, letting the heat sink into your skin, letting the evening breeze lift strands of your hair. It’s the kind of peace that settles deep in your bones, the kind you don’t appreciate until it’s gone.

Johnny breaks the silence first.

“If I’d’ve grown up somewhere like this…” He pauses, twisting the wire tight before driving a staple into the post. “I think things would’ve turned ou’ different for me.”

The way he says it—flat, almost absentminded—makes you hesitate. You’re not sure if he’s inviting the conversation or just thinking out loud. You don’t want to pry, but something about the way his voice lingers in the air makes you ask anyway.

“Different how?”

Johnny keeps his eyes on his work as he answers, pulling the wire taut. “Would’ve been normal, I guess. Wouldn’t have joined up. Would no’ have spent years runnin’ toward shit other people run from.” He exhales softly, a ghost of a chuckle. “Think I’d have been calmer. More settled.”

You watch him work for a moment, the way his hands move with ease, deft yet steady. He doesn’t look unsettled, per se. If anything, he seems at ease out here, like he belongs in the quiet.

“You don’t seem unsettled,” you say finally, tilting your head to him.

Johnny huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he pulls the wire one last time, before giving it a final staple to secure it. “Then ’m doin’ a great job at pretending.” His voice is light, but there’s something underneath it, something that makes you press your lips together.

You watch as he finishes up, hammering in the last staple before brushing the dirt off his hands. “If you aren’t happy here, you can always leave, y’know,” The words slip out before you can really think them through. “There’s plenty of families that need help.” It’s not a challenge, just a simple fact.

That stops him.

He straightens up, turning to you with something between bewilderment and confusion, like the idea hadn’t even crossed his mind. Like he can’t quite believe you’d think that, let alone say that.

“Ye think I’m no’ happy here?”

You shrug, glancing out toward the fields. “I mean…” you pause, exhaling as you look toward your boots, drawing shapes in the dirt with the pointed toe. “I wouldn’t be surprised. It’s isolating.”

Johnny sets the tools down in the grass beside him, his jaw tightening as he mulls over what you just said. It sticks in his head, gnaws at something deep in his chest. He hadn’t considered that you might think that—hadn’t realized he might’ve spoken in a way that’d made you assume he wanted out.

But when he looks at you now, perched on the fence, swathed in the gold, pink, and purple swirls of light from the sun, he understands why you would.

You’ve been here your whole life. You know the weight of isolation, watching things in your life pass by and disappear before your eyes. You probably expect people to leave.

And maybe that should be the case. Maybe he should leave—move on to bigger and better things. But when he looks at you—really looks at you—it doesn’t feel that simple. It can’t be. It’s not.

Your very presence buzzes with life, from your hair to the ever-present flush in your cheeks—from the heat or him, he doesn’t know. You’re sat on the fence like you belong here, like the land itself was carved around you. And maybe it was. Maybe that’s why he’s so goddamn unsettled. You’re everywhere; you’re in every breeze that brushes his skin, in each rooster crow that signals the wake of a new day.

He’s spent his whole life moving, chasing something—war, adrenaline, a sense of purpose that’s always been just out of reach. He knows the weight of isolation just as well as you do.

His throat feels tight as he finally speaks, his voice dipping lower, rougher. “I’m no’ unsettled because o’ the job. Or the farm.”

His gaze is locked onto you, unrelenting. Waiting. Willing you to understand—like he’s been holding this in for too long, and if you don’t get it now, he’s not sure what he’ll do.

And then it all clicks.

It’s not about the farm. Not about the work, the isolation, the long days under the southern sun.

“Oh.”

The word breathes out of you before you can censor it, before you can even feel it.

You’re the reason he carries tension in his shoulders, the reason he looks at you like he’s already lost whatever battle he’s been fighting with himself.

All at once you can feel the sharp pull in the air between you, the way his jaw tics, his breath slows, his fingers flex like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you.

And the worst part?

You wish he wouldn’t.

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vox-anglosphere · 1 month ago

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Ferne House - Wiltshire

#Ferne House #Wiltshire #English countryside #England #UK #English mansions #Palladian #rural estate #classic architecture #Georgian revival #neo-classical #grazing sheep #green pastures

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liyawritesss · 6 months ago

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ʀᴀɴᴄʜᴇʀ!ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

-> synopsis: in which arthur was able to set aside his criminal ways and leave the Van der Linde gang and live a life of relative normalcy, and perhaps meet a nice little lady to make it all worth it

-> pairing: rancher!arthur morgan + black!fem!reader

-> from: red dead redemption 2

-> contains: age-gap (reader is 27, arthur is 37), 2nd person ('you', 'your', 'yours'), references to canon-violence and crimes

-> a/n: my knowledge of Red Dead Redemption is limited, only really coming from watching gameplays and from beta-reading a friends fic, but arthur morgan the man that you are! I really just want him to have a good life outside the gang so i played with the whole rancher idea a little bit here, with a little bit of gen. store clerk!reader, so i hope you guys enjoy!

-> join my taglist!

-> tags: @mbakuetshurisprincess @shuriszn @writingintheshadowsforever @cafehyunji @niyahwrites @marsfunzon22 @briology @asensitivecookie @moon-bo-young @flo-milli-shit-hoe

ARTHUR MORGAN who eventually turns in his weapons and hangs in the towel of his criminal days, feigning for something more out of life than the thrill of a hunt, Though the decision wasn’t an easy one (mainly because Dutch never made things easy), the man took one last job and took the earnings from it to buy a good 10-acre stretch of land in the southern midwest territories where he knew trouble wouldn’t find him if it came looking. Within the next year he settles down into the life of a rancher, and he couldn’t have asked for anything better.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who has taken forever to nail down a routine that actually sticks when it comes to waking up and rousing the animals for the day. He does the chickens first, cuz he hates those little fuckers and how they always like to peck at his feet even though he knows he tosses the corn and feed pellets far away from him. Then the hogs start squealing whenever he even nears the pen, and Arthur always mutters about how they just ate the night before, how can they be this hungry already? After throwing their slop into the feeder, he opens the barn doors to let the cows know it’s morning and that they’ll be milked soon, but he learned not the milk them just as they wake up because they in fact do not like to be fondled so early in the morning. Instead, he grabs his horse and rounds up the few sheep and goats he’s got and leads them to nearby pasture to graze. Here, Arthur gets the chance to rest a little, maybe snack on some dried meat and journal about his dreams if he’s had any, his aspirations for the day, or maybe even sketch the view.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who learns to like making the honest living he’s got going. It may not be as thrill seeking as robbing trains or starting saloon fights or gunslinging like the old days, but he’s comfortable. Content, even. Sometimes he’ll sell one of the hogs for a pretty penny and can afford to buy himself something he likes. The people in the nearest town say his milk from his cows is the best they’ve had in a long time! He’s not a star or anything, but he’s got something good going for himself and he’ll be damned if he lets it wither and die like the dreams he had in his youth.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who won’t lie to himself and say he doesn’t miss his old life. At the start, he feigned for it so bad; he’d try to rationalize it and say that it wouldn’t hurt no one, but he knew better. Sometimes he’d lie awake in the modest little house that was on the property when he bought it, reminiscing about the good times in the gang before the cracks started showing. When they could make a quick scheme and walk away feeling like the richest men in the world. He missed his brothers and their asshole behavior; he missed the girls sometimes, too, even if they got on his nerves. But they were behind him, and he knew he couldn’t go back. For his sake, and for theirs.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who rides into town one day to drop off some milk at the general store to see someone new behind the counter; someone younger and prettier than the stuffy old lad who talks to proper and irritates Arthur with his poshness. He’s so taken off guard that he almost drops the crate of milk he’s carrying in. He learns that you’re the store owner’s daughter and that you’ve taken over for him because he got into a wild riding accident, and that he’d be out for the next couple of months. You try not to make it so awkward on Arthur, as it seems like seeing you behind the counter instead of your father has already thrown him for a loop. When the cowboy promptly drops off the milk and bids a quick farewell, you fear you’ve made a horrible first impression.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who comes back a week later with a much more level head and a little less awkward now that he expects you behind the counter. This time he brings with him some seeds to sell that he’d gotten from a farmer a couple miles down the road that he didn’t want. He thought he’d be able to sell or exchange them for something he’d actually use. He was quiet, yet polite, and had an air of mystery around him that intrigued her. It wasn’t every day a handsome rancher came into the general store, and you wanted to know everything you could about this Arthur Morgan, who kept his cards close to his chest and was a man of few words.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who made his visits slightly longer every time he’d come into the general store, whether to sell his goods or to buy some tools or necessities from himself. After a handful of encounters, he finally blessed you with more of his voice and words - they had a roughness to them from years of hard work, but was still warm and inviting. The way he called you ‘miss’ and way he tipped his cowboy hat to you as a farewell made you giddy like a little schoolgirl. You found yourself looking forward to opening the general store every day, hoping to have a conversation with Arthur Morgan if he’d come in.

RANCHER!ARTHUR MORGAN who says to you “I ain’t so good with the ladies” when you ask him why he always seems so shy talking to you, and it actually makes you giggle a little. Arthur Morgan, the unit of a man that he is, admitting his timidity of a woman? What God in Heaven made this be so? Oh, but you have no intention of letting it be just that. No, you tell Arthur Morgan, “I can teach you, if you’d like”, and you swear you see the lightest dust of pink cross his cheeks. He’s got half a mind to walk out of there like a puppy with it’s tail between it’s legs; how could you make him so embarrassed like that! Though, if it’s you than plans on teach him how to be a little less dense and awkward around women, he probably wouldn’t mind it. Maybe he could even return the favor and have you writhing in bashfulness…

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, comment, and reblog for others to see! And don’t be shy to send in a request!

#liya talks #black reader #black tumblr #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption arthur #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x black!reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you

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baby-you-you · 26 days ago

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would it be okay if you did some lamb regressor things?:3 /nf <3

definitely <3 enjoy this! I sure enjoyed making it hehe

Lamb Regressor Things !!

🐑 Activities

Cuddling with stuffies under a soft blanket Gentle brushing or pretend grooming games Listening to lullabies or nature sounds (like meadow birds, soft wind) Rocking back and forth like a lamb in a field Pretend grazing: playing with toy food or chewing plush leaves Drawing simple lambs, sheepdogs, or flower fields Playing with felt animals or barnyard figurines Watching soft farm-themed shows (Timmy Time, Guess How Much I Love You) Having slow, quiet tea parties with plushies Snuggle time!!!!

🐑 clothes

Cream or pastel onesies and footie pajamas Clothes with lamb ears, tails, or wooly textures (Or just wool coats) Sherpa or minky-lined hoodies Knit hats or bonnets with floppy ears Light cotton dresses or jumpers with floral or cloud prints Pastel rompers or bloomers with bows Cotton/wool shirts, jammies, or sweaters (BE CAREFUL IN SUMMER! DON'T OVERHEAT <3) Fluffy robes or shawls for snuggle time Binkie/paci with lamb clips

🐑 toys

Lamb or sheep plushies (especially weighted or big ones!) Taggie blankets or soft comfort objects Baby rattles/baby toys with soft jingles Barnyard animal finger puppets Sensory toys! (nee-doh, sensory balls) Stacking toys shaped like farm animals or hay bales Cloth books with simple textures and animal stories Baskets for “collecting” pretend grass, flowers, or fruits

🐑 games

Peekaboo with blankets or lamb puppets Pretending to nap in a field with “fluffy clouds” (pillows) Gentle shepherd-and-lamb roleplay Matching or memory games with animal cards Stacking blocks “Lamb spa day” — brushing and dressing up plushies Color sorting games with “flowers” or “pasture pebbles"

🐑 foods/drinks

Warm milk or toddler-style milk drinks Applasauce or mashed fruit Animal crackers or yogurt melts Oatmeal with honey or cinnamon Soft bread rollsor biscuits Cut fruit in flower or star shapes Mini muffins Cottage cheese or yogurt with soft berries Rice cakes with a thin layer of jam or butter Sippy cup “meadow juice” (apple or pear juice) “Cloud pudding” (whipped cream or vanilla pudding with sprinkles)

🐑 nicknames!!!

Little lamb Lamby Little wooly Woolie Wooly fleecebean Baba Ewe Little ewe Little baa meadowbaby wool fluff Floof muffin

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rederiswrites · 2 months ago

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How did you end up having so many sheep to bottle feed? I didn't know anything about sheep, is disinterest from the moms normal/common?

I'd love to hear more about the sheep process in general it's really neat to see on my dash

Alright, so, first off, I am an inexperienced shepherd, and came into this (my first) lambing season FAR less prepared than I would've liked due to my mother being in the hospital for the weeks leading up to lambing. Not only that, but Soay are weird, mostly feral, archaic sheep, and a lot of the care principles that are expected for most sheep don't really apply to Soay, so you end up relying on the far, far smaller body of Soay-specific literature. So there's a lot I just don't know.

Sometimes, for any number of reasons, a ewe may reject a lamb. Rates of rejection vary so much with various factors that so far I haven't found anyone willing to give a simple blanket statistic on the subject. Nutrition, ewe experience level, environmental factors, breed, and a million other things could play a part. We've had two rejections out of eight births (one singlet and one set of twins), and I genuinely do not know how bad that is relative to baseline.

Soay are reputed to be good mothers and easy lambers, and so far that seems to be true for all the mothers who bonded with their lambs. Bonding is the critical period right after birth during which baby and mother get each other's scent, and baby begins to nurse. But bonding can be effected by the mother's experience--ours are all first time mothers; there's not a single experienced mother in the flock. It can be effected by disturbance during the bonding period after birth, like a human taking the lamb away for too long or getting its scent confused by washing or by handling with another lamb's scent on their hands, etc.

Our ram is currently in dog kennel prison, because after having seemed to be a pretty good dad for a while, he started running one of the ewes off her new lambs repeatedly. If he had done that with a previous ewe during the night, that might have caused one of the rejections, and we wouldn't have seen it. Larger or more controlled sheep operations might well separate the ram from the ewes during this period pre-emptively. That would have been laborious for us at a time when we're Fucking Swamped, like, just so underwater bro, just fucking drowning. So we didn't do it initially. We can't know now if one of the failures to bond might be his fault.

And of course it's entirely possible that we, the shepherds, effected the ewes in some way that our inexperience doesn't allow us to see. It's part of the process. Learning, when your learning experiences come at the cost of another creature's wellbeing, is one of the very difficult parts of animal husbandry.

What fascinates me is how willing the lambs are to bond to humans, and multiple humans at that. We jokingly refer to each other as Mama-mama, Papa-mama, Sister-mama, and Brother-mama, and just walking through a room right now is likely to net you a flurry of tippity-tapping hooves as all three bottle babies eagerly follow under your feet.

So what'll happen now is that these guys will continue to need a bottle roughly every four hours, day and night, for six weeks. During that time, it'll be up to us to haul them out to the pasture progressively more often, until they're getting most of their nutrition through grazing and a little feed. On a more traditional or established farm, the bottle babies might be kept in a barn, but we don't have anything resembling a barn. On the other hand, we're hardly the only people to bring a bottle baby into the house, given that you have to feed them in the middle of the night/constantly. Soay are hardy sheep who can do well even on fairly poor pasture, and don't need supplemental feed at all on good pasture. Maryland is, I think it's safe to say, a much gentler climate than the islands of the Outer Hebrides where Soay lived feral for a thousand years. So really, we only give our sheep grain-based feed to facilitate their bond with us as the goodie-givers.

Someday, Binabik will hopefully be a big, fine ram, and if we play our cards right, he will still be fairly trusting and affectionate to us, which will lead to the rest of the flock being somewhat more trusting. This should help us catch them for medical care more readily, so a bottle baby now and then is a good thing. We really, really did try to get the twins (whom we're now calling Minnie and Kazoo) to bond with their mother, because we did NOT need more lambs in the house. But here we are, and here I am, with three snoozing lambs around my feet.

#sheep #lambing season

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naturistgirl · 6 months ago

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FORAGING FOR HOLLY AS WINTER BEGINS.

Today is the 13th and last new moon of the Celtic year; the Elder (tree) Moon. You may know it as December 1st 2024 but next year the new moon and the first of December may not coincide. The vagaries of the secular Roman calendar mean that it does not follow the moon's female cycle.

It was mild. We set out for the Wild Wood on a Holly Forage. I love going out to cut holly for the house. Most of you know by now that I do everything naked. This day was no exception. It was good to be outside with the soft winter light bathing my skin. I grabbed my Minnie Mouse shopping bag then we headed up the track to the wood. It lies part way up a hill and the brisk climb warmed us. I kept on my beanie and my pink wellies. Black over the knee socks kept my legs and feet warm.

In Celtic mythology, Holly carries great importance. I have spoken of the Derwen (Oak tree) before. The Oak King reigns the bright half of the year. Celynen, the Holly tree, is an emblem of Winter. Its shiny dark green leaves and scarlet berries shine out in an otherwise leafless woodland. The Holly King now reigns supreme in the darker portion of the year.

For thousands of years, people have gathered sprays from this Winter tree to garland and beautify homes in the darker days. The berries are poisonous to humans but the tree and leaves are known for their wonderful, magical properties. Holly wood, ivory white and hard, makes well balanced spear shafts for hunting. Babies were bathed in holly leaf water to safeguard them from ills. The Holly, like the Elder, was known to protect homes from evil spirits and to guard against lightning. The Holly symbolises peace and goodwill. An entwined wreath of holly brings good luck and faeries are thought to use it for shelter in the winter months; bringing good fortune on those who keep some of the boughs in their home.

We threaded the muddy paths of the Wild Wood and saw few other folk. Out on the pasture close by, a mixed flock of sheep were grazing, brought down here from the winter fells. There are many holly bushes here, dotted about among the taller trees. Most of them are male. You can tell them by the yellow flowers they sport in the warmer months. The female trees bear pure white flowers, and later, abundant scarlet berries. One male tree can fertilise up to about eight females (as long as they are no more than 300 feet apart)!

The Holly has a life of around 100 years, sometimes a little more. Like most trees, they embody a wisdom all their own. Look at a mature holly tree, particularly the taller ones (they can grow at least to 30 feet). Lower down, the leaves are spiny; a great defence against being eaten by cattle. Up above, the leaves lack spines and are gently smooth around the edges.

Once home, we will use the holly boughs to adorn our home as the Winter Solstice approaches. We decorate the fireplace, dresser, door frames and mantles to cheer the house as the light fails. Naked, you have to take care not to get pricked by the spines; ouch! We'll place holly above the old Welsh Dresser too. On its shelves, alongside the plates and crockery, stand two bottles of wild raspberry schnapps made from fruit foraged in late summer. Here's raising a glass to the turning of the year, the lengthening days and the returning power of the northern sun. Only then will we be able to spend long warm, naked days outdoors again.

If you are a naturist like us and you enjoyed this post, please like, share and re-blog with our blessing. All photographs were provided by my professional photographer husband (also pictured below).

Thank you Mart for taking such great images. All photos remain our copyright. We welcome messages of support and chats with other genuine naturists or the 'naturally inclined'.

If you simply enjoy looking at pictures of naked girls like me and don't want to read the blog, that's okay too. We won't block you, even if you have one of those creepily empty blogs. If you send messages or images of a sexual nature however, don't expect me to respond. They will generally be deleted and occasionally blocked. Finally, since you clearly appreciate nakedness, why not do us a favour and try it yourself? That weirdly vacant blog of yours could do with at least one naked, naturist photograph of you!

My blog depicts non-sexual nudity. This time I won't be posting solo pics separately as I have done previously. Too many of those shots have been re-blogged onto sexually themed sites, sorry. I love sex and intimacy but you won't find it on this blog. My blog is flagged as 'adult' because of its naturist content, not because there is anything sexual in its pages.

Enjoy your Winter naturism.

Jane xx

#naturist #nude outdoors #clothesfree #nude in nature #normalize nudity #girlblogging #outdoor nudity #woodland walk #celtic paganism #celtic mythology #holly tree #nonsexual nudity #trees and forests #winter #forager

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starscatteredsky · 8 months ago

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Any tips/fashion ideas for sheep? ^^

tips and fashion for sheep!

pt: tips and fashion for sheep! end pt

wear plenty of ethically sourced wool!

wear thick black or brown boots/gloves/mittens to feel like hooves!

collect some sheep plushes or decor to fill your living space with other sheep and comfort that safety in numbers instinct!

go enjoy some time in a field or pasture!

visit a farm!

practice vocals!

get some greens or salads to graze on!

speak softly!

make friends with other sheep therians online or in person to be your herd!

[ID in alt!]

image creds:

x x x

hope you enjoy!! -mono

[ID in alt!]

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bigfatwolf · 3 months ago

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thinking a lot about livestock right now, cute little cows and sheeps and pigs all kept on a nice big farm. Grazing all day and not worrying about a thing in the world~!

Oh sure, once in awhile the fattest among them seems to disappear, but the nice wolf farmer tells them that every time one of them gets fat enough they get sent to the special VIP pasture! It's a place that's warm, and soft and full of delicious food!

And so all the little livestocks get so excited and eat even more so they can get to the VIP pasture. Of course, the farmer's waistline seems to be growing with them...

#v0re #pred #v0re blog #vore posting #implied digestion

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loud-kid2 · 2 days ago

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@peaches2217 @iliveasalambforthelucidlydamned @bberetd @itsavee4117 @silly-inky @rainbogen @supergay-64 @silenzahra @eleventhhourfactor @vulpixfairy1985 @hyyacinthus-art @charlie-the-ghost64 @pinkcreamypeach

Sarasaland world building

The Birabuto Kingdom based on Egypt, and some inspiration from other desert civilizations, the Tuareg and the Bedouin specifically, the residents of Birabuto practice pastoral nomadism, they have a culture based on philosophy, trade, jewelry (made of colored glass and silver) and weapon wielding and making. They herd their livestock to different areas periodically for fresh pastures for grazing, Their livestock consists of cattle, sheep, goats, and camels, spring (early April to end of June) and autumn (mid September to end of November) are transitional seasons, in summer (end of June to late September) their livestock feed on higher plateaus and in winter (December till end of March) their livestock graze in desert plains. There are a few semi-permanent built along their travel route with camps established in the same spots every year. Birabuto is inhabited by people and Gao. Their language and burial practices are based off of Egypt and their clothing comes from the Bedouin.

The Muda Kingdom is based off of Bermuda. Muda has a culture based around the arts and space. Visual arts, dance, music, filmmaking, writing, and crafts. Muda is the main trading hub of Sarasaland, exporting goods produced across Sarasaland, the goods from Muda itself is liquors, liqueurs, perfume and flowers, Muda lilies specifically (based off of Bermuda lilies, also known as Easter lilies). Muda has two languages, English and a language based off of Portuguese (based off of Bermuda's Portuguese speaking community), and Muda dress style is like Bermudian dress style. The suit with shorts outfit is for business settings. The land is inhabited by people, the waters by Yurarin.

The Easton Kingdom is based off of Easter Island in appearance and native inhabitants alone. The Kingdom is inhabited by people but they all originate from the other kingdoms, they were hired to mine precious gems and various stones for the use of the other kingdoms and trade. The Batadon and Tokotoko act as managers for the mining operations while it was Hiyoihoi (Easton’s king) who started the whole project. The non-native inhabitants wear their kingdom’s attire on days off and after work but during they wear mining gear.

The language of the native residents is based off of Rapa Nui (the language the people who lived on Easter island spoke)

The fourth and final kingdom in Sarasaland is the Chai kingdom which is based off of the Qing dynasty. The main aspects of the culture of Chai are astronomy, mathematics, geography, ceramics, metallurgy, fabrics, clothes and printing. The fashion is also based on the Qing dynasty. The residents of this kingdom are mostly Pionpi with a small population of non Pionpi. The language is based off of chinese and mandarin

All of these kingdoms are pretty humid and hot because Sarasaland is pretty close to The Equator

#sarasaland #super mario bros #headcanon #mario headcanons #world building

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materassassino · 11 months ago

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Green Pastures, Still Waters

This is a little birthday present for @non-un-topo, who is very lovely and deserves to have a wonderful birthday. I hope you like it!

(I did try to draw Nicolò with sheep for you, but I have completely forgotten how to draw, it seems. I'm sorry.)

---

In truth, Nicolò loves Yusuf more than he could ever say. More than his own limbs, his own breath. With every beat of his heart, in time with Yusuf’s. It is a certainty, a steadfast and immovable foundation of his being, by now.

That does not mean, of course, that there is not… friction. They are two very different men, sometimes.

“I tire of this place!”

Yusuf announces it, loudly, to the pasture around them. The sheep are unbothered by this, and continue grazing. They have become completely inured to Yusuf’s histrionics, and he scowls at them, hands on his hips.

“Philistines,” he says, and throws himself on the grass. He then springs up again, yelping, because the grass is sparse and brown, and the ground is baked hard and it is very, very hot. The Sardinian sun is fickle at best and merciless at worst.

Nicolò, much more wisely, has chosen a rock in the shade. He sits with his crook across his lap, chin propped on his hand, and watches Yusuf scoot back into the shade beside him, where the ground is less fiery.

Yusuf draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, pouting fiercely. Nicolò lets him stew a moment longer.

“Why do you tire?” he asks.

Yusuf turns to him with a look of complete and utter outrage on his face.

“Why? Why?” he demands, his voice almost shrill with indignation. “Nicolò, what kind of question is that?”

Nicolò thinks it a perfectly legitimate question. He likes this place. He loves the gentle but rugged mountains, the rocks and the cliffs and the stiff, scrubby pines, the scent of the myrtle and the laurel bushes. He loves the olives and figs and carobs. He loves the animals, the mouflons and deer, the lizards and crawling insects, and the birds, from the smallest to the great vultures that soar above. He loves the silence broken only by birdsong and the symphony of grasshoppers and the quiet rustle of the trees. He loves tending the sheep, hearing their bleating, feeding and watering and herding them, and in the spring, helping the ewes give birth, bringing new little lives into this world, soft and white. He loves the sun on his skin and the cool of the shade and the caress of the mountain breeze on his face.

This place, he thinks, is its own sort of paradise.

Yet while he flourishes, Yusuf seems to wither.

“Do you not like it here?” Nicolò asks. Yusuf lets his head fall back with a long-suffering sigh.

“I grow weary, Nicolò,” he says. “I am bored!”

Nicolò blinks. “Bored?” he repeats, surprised. He would have deemed this place perfect for art to bloom, inspiration in every hillside. Yusuf raises a rather condescending eyebrow at him.

“Yes. Bored. It is the same, day after day! The sheep, the mountains, the vast, never-ending blue sky! I miss…” He huffs, folding his arms. “I miss being in a city. I miss gossip and debate and the vibrancy of human life! I miss markets and varied foods and music and festivities! I miss libraries and art! I miss people!”

Nicolò grip on his crook tightens, twisting nervously. In truth, despite the knowledge of Yusuf’s unwavering love, there is always some fear. Little, dark thoughts, ink in water, that Yusuf might one day want more. Want better.

“Do you tire of my company, Yusuf?” he asks, very quietly.

Yusuf whips around, his eyes wide and horrified.

“What? No!” He springs up, crowding close to Nicolò on his rock, and takes his face between his palms. “Never!” He kisses every part of Nicolò’s face, his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, his chin, his lips. “Never, not in a thousand lifetimes!”

He sits back, taking one of Nicolò’s hands. “No, I merely… miss other people. This place is beautiful but so quiet. My thoughts chase themselves, tangle themselves in knots until I can barely think. My head is so loud it aches, sometimes.” He sighs. “We have boundless time, and yet I fear that here there is too much of it.”

Nicolò reaches out, stroking Yusuf’s cheek. “I think I understand.”

What is for Nicolò quiet contemplation, for Yusuf is, after too long, maddening emptiness. They truly are two very different men. He kisses Yusuf’s wrist, the heel of his hand, the pad of his thumb.

“I would say we could leave, but…” He gestures helplessly to the sheep. “We promised.”

Yusuf hums. “We did, we did.”

Nicolò knows Yusuf is a man of his word. They promised the old widow Agnese to mind her flock for the spring and the summer, and Yusuf would never renege on such a thing unless there was, truly, no other choice, but wanderlust flaps desperate wings against the cage of his ribs.

“My desire is frivolous,” Yusuf admits. “I feel quite selfish, now that I think about it.”

“Do not be foolish,” Nicolò chides gently. “You have wishes, and I would see you happy, Yusuf. That is my desire.” He gets to his feet, crook discarded, pulling Yusuf with him. “When the summer ends, we will find a city, a huge, wonderful, loud city, and you will discuss your philosophy and write your poetry and make your art again!”

Yusuf laughs, tugging him closer. “In truth, Nicolò, wherever you take me, I am happy. Forgive my grumbling.”

Nicolò could never paint with words like Yusuf does. He could never voice the beauty he sees in that beloved face, the glory of Yusuf’s bright smile, the melody of his laughter, the softness of his joyful eyes. So he kisses him, attempting to pour all his love, his devotion, the boundless depth and lofty heights of it into where their lips meet. And when Yusuf kisses back with the same passion, perhaps that is proof he can feel it.

They must be very distracted, because all of a sudden Yusuf sqawks into the kiss. The earth disappears from beneath their feet, and Nicolò’s back makes hard, painful contact with the ground. Their teeth smash into each other, cracking, cutting Nicolò’s lip and his tongue, and Yusuf’s entire weight on top of him knocks the wind from his lungs.

Dazed, he stares up at the sky, feeling new teeth grow back in, an itching, sharp ache. It is a deeply unpleasant sensation.

“You beast! Demon of a sheep!” Yusuf cries. He scrambles up to his knees, pointing accusingly.

The sheep – the one Nicolò has called Alfreda, because he cannot help but name them, and name them after saints at that – bleats mockingly back, and turns away, content in her petty vengeance.

“She charged right into me,” Yusuf grumbles, shifting so he can massage his behind. Nicolò laughs at that, wiping away the blood from his mouth.

“Alfreda is very opinionated,” he says, sitting up. “God’s punishment for shirking our duties to mind them, no doubt.”

Yusuf snorts, and sits back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“I shall remember her for my entire long life,” he vows. “I shall remember and curse Alfreda the sheep, until death finally comes for me. Do you hear me?!” he yells after her. She takes absolutely no notice, going back to grazing.

Nicolò laughs again, falling to the side into Yusuf’s shoulder, and when the laughter dies away, he stays there. Yusuf holds out his hand, and Nicolò takes it, threading their fingers together, and Nicolò can never cease to marvel at how perfectly they fit, despite looking so very different.

#the old guard #kaysanova #joenicky #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #non-un-topo #happy birthday!#have some sheep #istg i will write old guard fic set somewhere that isn't italy one day #pixie writes

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librarycards · 3 months ago

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Since Israel began its genocide of Gaza in October 2023, the accelerated erosion of traditional food systems has made Palestinians increasingly vulnerable to Israel’s mechanisms of violence; the starvation campaign Israel has waged on Palestinians in the Gaza Strip for the past sixteen months demonstrates this. But these systems of dispossession have been at play for much longer. For the past few decades, for instance, Israel has regularly sprayed herbicides on the eastern farmlands of the Strip to undermine agrarian life. In Masafer Yatta and across the West Bank, Israel’s colonial legislations have disrupted the relationships with, and strong sense of responsibility for, the land, animals and plants that Palestinian communities have maintained for centuries. Food plays a major part in how this is done.

[...]

There are other insidious ways that the settler economy disenfranchises Palestinian shepherds [beyond forcing them off of their lands outright]. Abu Saber, a shepherd from Khirbet Tuba told me that his herds remain inside shacks, as there are no pastures upon which to graze. ‘This means a total reliance on [manufactured Israeli] fodder, which I cannot afford to buy as it is expensive. Only three years ago, I used to have 350 heads of sheep. Now, I only have 180,’ he said. Because of these challenges, many Palestinian pastoralists now see their traditional lifestyle of raising herds as a burden that exacerbates their impoverishment under Israeli settler colonial deprivation. Meanwhile, the younger generation of Palestinian herding families in Masafer Yatta, like Abu Saber’s sons, are compelled to seek poorly menial, poorly paid jobs in the Israeli market of construction and agriculture beyond the Green Line, turning nomadic pastoralists – once owners of the means of production – into wage labourers under an imperial, capitalist power.

The forcible proletarianisation of Palestinian shepherds is not the end goal of the Israeli state. Rather, it is a bid to further undermine Palestinian right to life and mobility – including systems of community, which involve sovereignty and customs surrounding food. Because of this, touchstones of social interaction are disappearing from pastoralist communities in Masafer Yatta. Sheep shearing – locally referred to as al-Qesas – is one of the popular rituals in the area which is threatened by obliteration under the pressure of colonial violence. ‘While the men would wash and shear the sheep, women would be busy cooking for lunch,’ Umm Amer, from Khirbet al-Mufagarah, told me. ‘We usually make a barbecue, mansaf or stuffed vine leaves with rice and ground meat. For me, al-Qesas is like a picnic, an occasion where the family gathers,’ she said. Today, a single Israeli settler lives in an outpost near where they carry out the shearing. The IOF uses the need to ensure his ‘security’ as a pretext to restrict the mobility and presence of Umm Amer’s family on their ancestral land.

Palestinian shepherds in Masafer Yatta also observe that Israeli pastoral settlers practice a Palestinian semi-nomadic lifestyle. Samir, a shepherd from the community of Khallet ad-Dabe’, tells me that settler herders graze their sheep in the same way as Palestinians. Some of the settler herders dress like Palestinian shepherds by covering their heads with a scarf similar to the Palestinian keffiyeh. ‘While grazing their sheep, they also listen to Dehiyyah music … When they host a feast, the settlers make Mansaf,’ he says. In this vein, Israeli settlers ‘indigenise’ themselves by appropriating the same Palestinian identity that the settler state continuously curtails and destroys.

Manal Shqair, Starving Palestine. [emphasis added]

#palestine #colonialism #food justice #mine #readings

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yoshi1517 · 5 months ago

Text

HAPPY NEW YEAR FROM MESMERTOWN

"HAPPY NEW YEAR, thank you for the support in these months with your subscriptions. I hope you liked the stories and I hope you'll like the next ones."

As usual, I was running late. Jack’s car horn blared impatiently from the driveway as I fumbled with the zipper of my bag. “Hold on!” I yelled, though I doubted he could hear me through the window. I grabbed my coat, threw it over my arm, and bolted downstairs, nearly tripping on the last step.

Jack had the window rolled down when I burst out the door, and he gave me an exaggerated shake of his head. “You’re always late. You know that, right?” he teased, a smirk playing on his lips.

“At least this time, we’re not late for work,” I shot back as I climbed into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

“Yeah, but I still need to get there before everyone else. If I don’t, who’s going to open the house?” he retorted, putting the car into gear and pulling onto the street.

Jack and I had been friends since we both joined the company fresh out of college. We were the youngest hires in our department, and we’d bonded over late-night deadlines, coffee runs, and mutual grumbling about office politics. Every year, it was tradition for someone from the office to host the New Year’s party, and this year, the short straw had landed squarely on Jack.

He’d decided to hold it at his family’s mountain house, a place I’d heard about in passing but had never visited. According to Jack, it was a cozy getaway that his family had used for years, though it had fallen mostly to him in recent times.

“What’s the name of the town again? People are asking in the group chat,” I said, pulling out my phone and glancing at the flurry of messages.

“Mesmertown,” Jack replied, his eyes on the road.

“Mesmertown? Sounds like the setting of a mystery novel,” I joked.

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s got a weird vibe. Not many people live there full-time, but it gets a decent number of tourists during the holidays. My family used to come here for Christmas sometimes. I remember the decorations, lights everywhere, wreaths on every door. It was magical.”

I glanced out the window as the car turned off the highway, the sprawling fields of the countryside stretching out before us. “Okay, you need to take this exit,” I said, pointing at the GPS.

We drove through fields that looked like they’d been plucked from a postcard, green pastures dotted with grazing cows, sheep, and the occasional horse. As we climbed higher, the landscape shifted. The air grew crisper, and patches of snow lined the roadside, glinting in the warm glow of the setting sun.

“Look at this,” I said, unable to resist snapping a photo of the sunbeams streaming through the trees.

“It gets even better,” Jack promised, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

The trees thinned as we rounded a bend, and suddenly, the town came into view. A weathered wooden sign greeted us: Welcome to Mesmertown.

Below us, the village sprawled like something out of a snow globe. String lights crisscrossed the streets, and wreaths adorned every lamppost. In the center of town, a towering Christmas tree glittered with ornaments, its star glowing faintly against the twilight. Beyond the town, the lake shimmered, its frozen surface reflecting the first hints of starlight.

“Wow,” I breathed, taking it all in.

“See that up there?” Jack said, pointing to a large building perched high on the mountainside. “That’s the Grand Hotel. Fancy place. It’s mostly for rich tourists, but the bar’s not bad. They make an amazing hot chocolate.”

“Noted,” I said, still marveling at the scene as we descended into the town.

The streets were alive with charm. Shops with frosted windows displayed handmade crafts and holiday treats, and families bustled about, their laughter and chatter carrying through the air. We passed the central square, where the tree stood proudly beside a small stage.

“Looks like they’ve been having some serious holiday celebrations,” I said, noticing footprints in the snow and the remnants of decorations.

“They take Christmas seriously here,” Jack replied, grinning as he maneuvered the car through the winding streets.

We drove past the town and along the edge of the lake until we reached Jack’s family home. I gasped when I saw it.

“Wow. Why don’t you host every New Year’s party here? This place is incredible,” I said, stepping out of the car and craning my neck to take it all in.

The house was massive, a modern cabin that managed to feel both rustic and luxurious. Large windows reflected the lake’s icy surface, and the porch was strung with soft white lights that gave the place a welcoming glow.

“Yeah, it felt like a palace when I was a kid,” Jack said with a laugh. “Come on, help me with the bags. We’ve got a lot to set up before everyone gets here.”

Inside, the house was just as impressive. Wooden beams framed the high ceilings, and a stone fireplace dominated the living room, its mantle already adorned with garlands. The kitchen was sleek and modern, with just enough wear to show it had been well-loved over the years.

We spent the next couple of hours transforming the space. Jack strung up more lights while I arranged the furniture and set up the bar area. By the time the first guests arrived, the house was warm, inviting, and ready for a party.

The evening was in full swing. I found myself chatting with colleagues, a drink in hand, while Jack tinkered with the music playlist. We were all comfortably settled into the warm, cozy house, waiting for the pizzas to arrive. The scent of pine logs burning in the fireplace mixed with the laughter and the faint hum of conversation around the room.

The doorbell rang, jolting me from my conversation. “I’ll get it!” I called out, weaving my way past a group gathered near the kitchen. I opened the door, expecting to see the delivery driver, but instead, a man stood there, pizzas in hand, a casual grin on his face.

“Hey,” he said, holding out the boxes. “I grabbed these for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” I replied, slightly puzzled. “Wait, who are you?”

“Connor,” he said, his voice warm and steady. “I just joined your team last week. Figured this would be a good way to break the ice.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Mike,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm against the cold air seeping in from outside. As our eyes met, something shifted, an instant connection, like the spark of a match in the dark. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was an energy about him that drew me in.

“Come on in,” I said, stepping aside.

Connor blended seamlessly into the group, chatting and laughing as if he’d always been part of our circle. Over pizza, I learned more about him. He was fresh from university, having completed his thesis with our company, and was already making a name for himself in the team. He was three years younger than me but carried himself with an easy confidence that belied his age. He’d been a volleyball player during his uni days and now kept up with running, which explained his athletic build.

As the night wore on, we moved to the living room and gathered around the fireplace for games. Connor and I ended up on the same team for Taboo, and to my surprise, we worked incredibly well together. It was like we were on the same wavelength, anticipating each other’s moves and guessing clues with uncanny precision.

At some point, the conversation took a turn toward local legends. Someone joked about taking a midnight dip in the lake.

“Are you out of your mind?” Jack said, laughing as he turned down the music. “That lake’s practically frozen solid. Besides, everyone knows it’s bad luck to swim there at midnight on New Year’s Eve.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Someone asked why.

“It’s just an old story,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair. “They used to say that if you swam in the lake at midnight, you might free… something trapped under the ice.”

“Something?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jack shrugged, a playful grin on his face. “Relax, Mike. It’s just superstition. Nothing to worry about.”

But as he spoke, a sudden gust of wind swept through the room, flinging the window open with a loud bang. The room fell silent, and a few people let out startled laughs. I got up to close it, glancing toward the lake as I did. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a faint light glimmering on the frozen surface. But when I blinked, it was gone.

The atmosphere quickly shifted back to lightheartedness. Someone set up a disco ball that pulsed colorful lights to the beat of the music, and the living room transformed into a makeshift dance floor. With the lights dimmed and the music pumping, we all let loose. The drinks flowed freely, and by the time midnight approached, the energy was electric.

Connor and I ended up dancing together, laughing and spinning in the middle of the room. He leaned in close, his voice just loud enough to cut through the music.

“Hey, want to step outside for a bit?”

“Where to?” I asked, curious.

“Let’s check out the lake,” he said, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Jack’s story has me curious. Let’s see it for ourselves before the clock strikes twelve.”

I hesitated but found myself nodding. “Alright. Let’s go.”

We grabbed our coats, gloves, and scarves and slipped out into the crisp night air. The world outside was silent except for the crunch of snow beneath our boots. A narrow path led us toward the lake, its edges lined with frost-covered trees. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale silver glow over the frozen landscape.

When we reached the lake, the view took my breath away. The entire surface was a perfect sheet of ice, shimmering under the moonlight. The stars above were reflected on its surface, creating the illusion of a second sky beneath our feet.

“Wow,” Connor said softly, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah,” I replied, my breath visible in the frigid air.

We stood there for a moment, side by side, taking it all in. The world felt still, as if holding its breath. Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of laughter and music drifted from the house.

Connor turned to me, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Ever wonder what’s really under the ice?”

I chuckled nervously. “Let’s not find out tonight.”

He laughed, the sound warm and genuine, and we stayed there a little longer, the lake stretching out before us, silent and mysterious under the midnight sky.

On one side, the town shimmered with festive lights, the faint sounds of distant laughter and celebration carried on the wind. On the other side, the forest stood in hushed stillness, its dark shadows blending into the silvery glow of the frozen lake.

Connor nudged my arm, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, look over there,” he said, pointing to a narrow path that hugged the shoreline. “Want to see where it leads?”

“Why not?” I grinned, breaking into a run before he could react.

“Hey!” he called out, laughing as he chased after me.

The cold air burned my lungs as I sprinted, the sound of Connor’s footsteps crunching in the snow behind me. My heart pounded, not just from the exertion but from the thrill of being alone with him in this secluded, dreamlike world.

We finally stopped when we reached a small, hidden cove. The beach was quiet, framed by snow-dusted trees, and the frozen lake stretched endlessly before us, glistening under the stars.

“Looks like I win,” I teased, breathless. “You owe me coffee when we’re back at the office.”

Connor smirked, leaning forward with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Don’t get too cocky. The race back is what counts.”

I laughed, the sound echoing softly in the stillness. “Fair enough. But seriously, this place is incredible.”

Connor’s gaze drifted to the lake, his expression turning thoughtful. “Hey…” he said slowly, pointing to a patch of water near the shore. “What’s going on there?”

I followed his gesture and noticed a section of the lake that wasn’t frozen. Steam curled lazily from the surface, as if the water was warm.

“How is that possible?” I asked, stepping closer. “Why would it be warm?”

“Does it matter?” Connor said, his playful grin returning. “Come on, let’s do it. A midnight swim to ring in the New Year, it’ll be unforgettable.”

I blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? It’s freezing out here.”

“Exactly,” he said, already unzipping his jacket. “That’s what makes it epic. Plus, we’ll have bragging rights. Imagine telling everyone back home we swam in a lake in December.”

I hesitated, but his enthusiasm was infectious. Before I knew it, I was shrugging off my coat and kicking off my boots. The icy night air bit at my skin, but Connor’s laughter and excitement pulled me forward.

By the time I waded into the water, shivering and breathless, I couldn’t help but laugh. The warmth of the lake was unexpected and surreal, wrapping around me like an embrace.

“See?” Connor said, floating effortlessly on his back. “Not so bad, huh?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said, splashing water at him. “This is… amazing. Strange, but amazing.”

We swam closer to each other, our laughter mingling with the faint sounds of fireworks in the distance. The world beyond the lake seemed to blur, leaving just the two of us in this surreal, glowing oasis.

As we floated side by side, the celebration in the town reached its peak. Bursts of color lit up the sky, their reflections dancing on the water’s surface.

“Midnight,” Connor said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Happy New Year, Mike.”

“Happy New Year,” I replied, my words barely audible over the distant cheers.

In that moment, the world felt impossibly still. The warmth of the water, the glow of the fireworks, the faint chill of the air, it all faded into the background as Connor turned toward me.

His eyes met mine, and the look in them was unlike anything I’d seen before. It wasn’t just the moonlight reflecting in their depths, it was something deeper, something that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against mine under the water. The touch sent a shiver through me, not from the cold, but from the undeniable electricity between us. Slowly, instinctively, we moved closer.

My heart raced as his hand slid up to cup my face, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheek. The air between us felt charged, heavy with anticipation. His gaze dropped to my lips, and I could feel the warmth of his breath as he leaned in.

The rest of the world disappeared. The distant fireworks, the cold night, the lake, all of it faded until there was only him.

Our lips were just a breath apart when, suddenly, a golden light erupted from beneath us, illuminating the water around us in a radiant glow.

“Mike,” Connor whispered, his voice trembling. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking as I stared into the blinding light.

What happened next was unlike anything I had ever experienced, terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. As Connor and I floated in the strange, warm water, a glow began to rise from beneath the surface, faint at first but quickly intensifying until it bathed us in shimmering gold. The liquid itself seemed to transform, wrapping around our bodies like silk spun from sunlight.

“Mike, what is this?” Connor asked, his voice trembling as he reached out, his hand trailing through the glowing water.

“I don’t know…” I whispered, unable to tear my eyes away from the golden light. It wasn’t just light, it felt alive, as though it were watching us, testing us.

The water clung to our skin, warm and almost weightless, as if the lake itself were embracing us. Then, without warning, a sudden force pulled us under.

The world turned to chaos and beauty all at once. I was surrounded by swirling currents of light and shadow, my body suspended in a golden haze. I tried to struggle, but my limbs wouldn’t respond. And yet, I wasn’t drowning. I was breathing, no, more than breathing. It felt as though the golden liquid itself had seeped into me, filling my lungs with something richer, purer than air.

Connor was beside me, his eyes wide with the same mix of fear and awe that I felt. Around us, shimmering tendrils of golden light began to weave together, forming shapes, olive branches, their delicate leaves glowing with an otherworldly radiance. They wrapped around us gently but firmly.

“Connor!” I tried to call out, but my voice was swallowed by the light. He looked at me, his gaze steady, and I could see that he had stopped resisting. Slowly, I let go too, surrendering to whatever force had claimed us.

Then, as if in a dream, a figure emerged from the light. It was radiant, almost blinding, with hair like liquid fire cascading in waves of gold. The figure’s features were indistinct yet breathtaking, as though sculpted from pure light and warmth.

Before I could speak, or even think, the figure leaned down, its face inches from mine. Its lips brushed against mine in a kiss that felt like the essence of the sun itself, warm, consuming, and impossibly gentle.

I barely had time to process the sensation before the vision dissolved, and the next thing I knew, Connor and I were lying on the shore, both of us soaking wet and stripped down to our underwear.

Mike and Connor found themselves on the beach, and despite being dressed only in their underwear, they didn’t feel the cold of the night. They looked at each other and noticed a symbol of two olive leaves on their skin, as if it were a golden tattoo. As they dressed, their eyes slowly turned golden, and a small smile appeared on their faces as they locked eyes. They both knew what they had to do.

They put on only their pants and shirts, leaving behind their jackets and other belongings, and began walking back toward the village. Meanwhile, the villagers were witnessing something extraordinary. The lake, which had been frozen just moments ago, was now thawing. Everyone had seen a golden light emerge from the water, heading straight for the town hall, and watched as the ice melted away. Some had filmed the event, others claimed it was an omen of misfortune, while a few recalled the old legend of the lake.

"Would you like to discover what happened next in Mesmertown? Starting today, I’m opening the official Mesmertown server on Discord. If you’re curious about the secrets of the lake, the golden light, and the mysterious bond between Mike and Connor, come join us. The inhabitants of Mesmertown are waiting for you. (Available exclusively for VIP subscribers.) "

#gay hypnosis #hypnotized #male hypnosis #gay mind control #mind control #hypnosis #gay #ai men #male mind control #story #new year #happy new year

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