#how to turn off irrigation system

[dragonsondragons]

Self Care - Jack Abbot x Resident!Reader

Summary: Jack’s new girlfriend takes self care really seriously given the line of work they’re in. He starts to observe these habits and some of them rub off on him.

Tags: Super fluffy, no use of y/n, implied age gap, suggested sexual activity, no real smut just Jack feeling you up a little, beekeeper!Jack

Author’s Note: Why am I obsessed with beekeeper!jack. There may be more where this came from because I had so much fun with this one– perhaps Jack and reader gardening (wink wink) while in their garden? Leads to sweet and slow stoned sex? Let me know what you think or if you have any requests! I’m always looking for more ideas. 

Also, fill out this google form if you'd like to be added to my taglist :)

You do your little stretching routine after you wake up and you ask him if he wants to join you. He gives it a try, reluctantly at first. Then he starts to realize how good it makes him feel and does it with you every time. 

“What's this pep in your step you got going on here, brother?” Robby notices one day at hand-off. “Something to do with your favorite resident? Or should I say…new lady friend,” he does a little jazz hands.

“I regret ever telling you about us,” Jack rolls his eyes at lady friend. “But yeah, actually. She’s got me stretching when we wake up,” he explains.

“Ah. She’s got you whipped is what you mean.”

Jack chuckles under his breath. “Fuck off, stretching is good for you. And being whipped isn’t so bad either.” ____

You have a little garden that you tend to in the morning as the sun’s still rising right when you get off shift. It's cathartic, to take care of something that can't puke or bleed on you. Can’t punch you in the face. 

Both you and Jack had worked last night and it was a tough one. One of those nights where it felt like you lost more than you saved. You asked Jack to come back to your place after the shift ended, just wanting to be near him after your hell of a day. 

It was still early in your relationship, you had only spent the night at Jack’s place. This was his first time coming to stay at yours. 

You could tell he was so exhausted that you offered to drive home and he eventually accepted. He sat in the passenger seat of his Tacoma with his eyes closed as you drove, envisioning a shower, you looking soft in a ratty old t-shirt, and eating take out on the couch before going to sleep.

Instead, after you made two mugs of tea and set one before him on the coffee table, you headed to the backyard, slipping through the sliding glass door with a quiet “be right back, have to take care of some stuff real quick.”

After you’re gone more than 10 minutes and he almost dozed off twice, he started to wonder what this stuff was. He peeks out the glass door, seeing you knelt down at the edge of a garden bed peeling weeds out of the ground around your plants. The garden hose was on, filling up a big watering can to your left.

He comes to stand next to your kneeling form, placing a tender hand on the crown of your head and lightly running his fingers through your hair. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Checking on the plants. It helps me clear my mind from the day.” You smile softly up at him, see his free hand rub at his weary eyes. “Why don’t you go hop in the shower, I’ll be right in," you promise. He nods, turns to head back inside. 

He couldn’t believe you wanted to be pulling weeds and lugging watering cans after a shift. But when you trailed in a few minutes later, joining him under the spray of the water, he could see the way your shoulders were looser. You were more peaceful, at ease. It made him feel more calm too, just knowing you felt a little bit better. 

He started lugging bags of soil for you the following mornings. Dug up trenches to lay a new irrigation system for the crops. This time of spring brought so many birds tweeting around in the morning air, the perfect sound track to your calming moments together in the garden.

It was a peaceful endeavor, one Jack never thought he would find himself doing but turns out he absolutely loves it. After you tell him about the benefits of pollinators he really wants to start keeping bees (Jack Abbot is beekeeping age). He does all this research about it to make sure he doesn’t fuck with the bees, wants to do it right. Gets the whole mesh suit which you can't stop laughing at the first time he puts it on. Names his hive Beetopia. He's serious about these bees and you find it so endearing. You love that he's meshing into your life like this, making his own niche in something you both do together.

Sometimes when there isn’t much to be done he’ll make breakfast while you tend to the garden. He will always try to utilize the fruits and vegetables you grow as well as his self-harvested honey whenever he can. You eat it out on the patio, admiring the work the two of you have done. Your own little paradise. ____

Out of all the self care tactics that you have brought into his life, the bubble bath is definitely one of his sleeper favorites. His house had a huge bathtub in it that he never once used. One of the first times you stayed over, you went to use the bathroom before going to bed. His eyes were already closed when he heard you squeal in the en suite attached to his room. 

“How did you not tell me about this!” you yelled out to him. 

“What, the bathroom?” he responded half asleep and confused. You came back into the room and jumped into the bed next to him, resting your chin on his chest. He peeked his eyes open as he rubbed up and down your back.

“No! That massive tub, genius!” He was surprised. Hadn’t thought once about that thing since he moved in. 

“You like it?”

“I don't like it, Jack. I love it. Baths are so soothing and rejuvenating. I always feel like a newborn baby when I get out of the bath. And I don't have a tub at my place.”

“You’re welcome to use it anytime you want, honey.” He shifted you to your side, cuddling into you and kissing your cheek. 

“You’re too good to me. And as a reward I’m making you get in there with me.” he lets out a breath of a laugh as he drifts off to sleep with you in his arms. ___

You both had the next day off, for once. So there was no time like the present to christen Jack’s bathtub. He was nervous about getting in, not being able to wear his prosthetic to keep him stable, but you got in first and held onto him tight as he stepped over the edge and eased himself down into the water. You settled in front of him, letting out a breath as you melted back into him. 

You thought you liked baths already, but this was pure bliss. His strong body against you, your breaths synching up. He washed your hair and you washed his. The warm water soothed his achy back and the overcompensating muscles in his leg. 

Safe to say, baths become a regular occurrence for you two.

You get him a matching fluffy robe with a hood because one time he said he was jealous of how cozy you looked in yours after a bath. Once, Shen stopped by to drop off the butterfly portable ultrasound that he had borrowed and Jack answered the door in said robe. 

Jack had his stoic work face on, the grumpiness only enhanced by the fact that Shen’s visit was interrupting his time with you.

“Ha, you look like a Sith, Abbot,” Shen teased him, butterfly in one hand and a half drank Dunkin’ in the other. “Robe’d up and about to cut my hand off.” He took a loud sip of his coffee as Jack just glared at him. 

“Get out of here before I actually consider it.” He tugged the Butterfly from Shen’s grasp, about to slam the door in his face. 

“Oh c'mon Jack, that’s not very nice.” You ran up to the door and opened it further to reveal yourself. 

“Sorry John, he didn’t mean that.” 

“Yeah right.” He takes in your appearance beside Jack, wearing the same exact fuzzy robe. “Like the matchy matchy, very cute you two.” Shen pulls out his phone and snaps a picture before either of you could even process it. “That’s totally going in the group chat, dude,” he laughed. 

“Not making a good case for yourself here,” Jack muttered. Shen couldnt stop laughing, and at that you moved your hand off the door jamb and let Jack slam it shut. 

He turned to you then and let out a little chuckle at the whole ordeal. “He’s a piece of work.”

“Thought he was your favorite resident?”

“No, you're my favorite resident.” ___

Besides stretching to start the day on a good note, taking soothing baths, and tending to your garden you also do yoga sometimes to turn your mind off and tune into your body after a hectic shift. He’s still reluctant to try that one, and likes to give you your space to do the things you enjoy on your own sometimes. So he doesn't join you for that, but he loves watching you as you get ready to head to the studio. 

You always wear these skin tight, colorful matching workout sets that drive him crazy. He doesn’t mean to keep you from getting to class, but sometimes he just can’t help the temptation.

“Baby,” he draws it out in a long groan. He crossed the room to you, grabbing your hips and ghosting his hands up and down, reverently. You were trying to gather your keys and yoga mat to head out the door. “You’re killing me here with the powder blue.” The leggings hugged your ass just right. God, he was about to start drooling.

You try to squirm out of his hold to put your shoes on, but he won't budge. “Get a good look, Jack, because I gotta go. Gonna be late if I don't leave right now.” 

“Oh no, you're gonna be late already? Maybe you should just stay here with me,” he pouts suggestively. 

“Already paid for the class. Actually you did, your card’s on the account.” With your resident salary, Jack liked to treat you to things like a membership to a fancy yoga studio with free green smoothies. He loved ‘providing’ for you, even though you both knew you could be just fine by yourself. 

“Even better. I don't care about losing 30 bucks right now. Because you look way too sexy in those leggings to leave me here all alone.” He pecks your lips, then down your neck, sucking the spot where he knows will draw out a moan from you. You grasp your hand into his hair, getting lost in his efforts to entice you. 

“Let me peel these off of you,” he begs, running his fingers under the waistband of the leggings. His hands travel lower, kneading at your ass and pulling you tighter against him. “Just let me worship your beautiful body, sweetheart.”

How could you say no to that? Maybe you would miss your class, but this was a form of self care as good as any.

[meta-sequoia]

Rose genetics and the law of unintended consequences (or, ten rose bushes, reviewed)

I have a number of longposts in the backlog, including updates on a number of garden improvement projects I undertook over the winter, but I kept putting off posting them because there kept being Horrors. However, spring is here - in California anyway - and plants wait for no one.

Over the winter of 2025, as a coping mechanism for the aforementioned Horrors, I got really into roses. Because of who I am as a person, deciding what roses I wanted to buy also made me feel obliged to reconstruct the history of rose breeding, just to make sense of the teeming confusion of the tens of thousands of named rose varieties. Humans have been raising roses for food, medicine, and beauty for untold centuries, and so they've really grown up with us. The history of the development of roses, it turns out, is the history of the development of humanity in miniature.

This post has it all: history, some light phylogeny discussion, material analysis of English folk ballads, a conceptual framework for understanding how different kinds of roses vary and why, a #haul breakdown of what bare-root roses I got and what I thought of them, and some philosophical musings on what it means for an organism to be subjected to a long-term selective breeding process, to be remade wholly in the image of human desire. All that, and pictures of roses, under the cut.

My general region of California is considered to have a good climate for roses, much good may it do us. It never gets too hot or too cold, so they essentially never go out of season, and even though our winters are wet, the rest of the year is fairly dry. This is absolutely critical, because the main problem that makes garden roses hard to grow is fungal disease. Modern roses are incredibly susceptible to fungal diseases, which are caused, roughly, by Damp. This has typically been combated with toxic sprays (though there are now less-toxic options) and aggressive pruning regimens.

Needless to say, this is a ridiculous fucking problem for a plant to have. California natives, by comparison, hate irrigation - they have a natural life cycle involving being dry in summer and wet in winter, like California itself, so if you grow them in a climate resembling their natural range, without too much added water, they will be mostly OK. Roses, as far as I can tell, actually hate all water, including rain and humidity, which is much worse because gardeners do not control the weather. If it rains too often after, say, noon, the rose's leaves might get wet, fail to dry off, get a fungal disease, and die. If there is too much fog, or it is humid, as it is in most of the country in the summer, the rose's leaves might get wet &c. If you have a sprinkler system - you get the idea.

Fungal disease can also weaken roses and make them more prone to insect infestations. This is bad because modern garden roses are, without any help from The Weather, already incredibly prone to infestations from aphids, mites, beetles, and a mite-borne disease undescriptively called "rose rosette disease", which produces a habitus that I can only describe as "rose bush eldritch horror".

Now, this may all have you asking one question. Probably, that question is "why are you so obsessed with a plant that wants so badly to die?" I will not be answering this question today. Instead, I will be answering a different question, which is "Why do modern garden roses suck so bad?"

Now, if roses are subject to some manner of curse, then it isn't a family curse, phylogenically speaking. Roses - genus Rosa species extremely miscellaneous - are a member of the family Rosaceae, which contains a massive number of useful and delightful plants. It is possibly the most economically important family of plants next to the brassicas. The rose family brings us not just roses, but apples, strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, plums, peaches, apricots, and almonds. And the wild rose, untouched by human efforts, is a lot like a raspberry, actually.

Its flowers have only five petals, in pink or white. It’s got thorny stems that form thickets, and oval (or, technically, lanceolate) leaves with lightly serrated edges. Its flowers are fragrant, which is an adaptation to their long and necessary coexistence with pollinators and other insects - fragrance serves as a chemical signal for insects to "come here" or "go away", depending. The wild rose is hardy, like all wild plants, tolerant of various environmental problems that would kill a garden rose: shade, salt, normal levels of ambient insect and fungal disease pressure, drought, being consistently rained on in the afternoon or evening. It may reproduce asexually from suckers - strong shoots from near the base of the plant - and this makes it able to withstand browsing pressure from e.g. deer. (Put a pin in that.) It also can reproduce in the normal way, by having its flowers pollinated and forming seeds, which are borne in prominent reddish-orange fruits called "hips".

This is not a rose I bought, but here’s Rosa gymnocarpa, a California native rose. It’s a wood rose, so it’s shade-tolerant, and it’s often found in redwood forests specifically, so it tolerates relatively dry soil and very acidic soil.

Honorable mention: Rosa gymnocarpa (wood rose)

Source: Calscape

A raspberry plant in flower, for comparison. Source

The wild rose has another trait, which may be surprising to those who have only ever seen garden roses: it blooms once, usually in the summer. This is typical of flowers, which almost always have a season, for the exact same reason fresh fruit has a season. Flowering plants are on a tight schedule: they need to finish up their blooming, so they can set fruit, so they can get their seeds out before winter, in case the frost kills them off. And mostly we’re used to that: tulips are for spring, so you don't expect a tulip to make a second showing in fall, or to flower continuously throughout the summer. But roses have been bred to do this, and have done it for centuries, for so long we barely remember what it was like when "roses blooming" was a time of year, an event.

It's possible that for most of human history, roses were all the more treasured for being fleeting, which simply isn't an aspect of how we moderns understand roses. I am constantly subjected to traditional ballads at home, both in English and German, so I am very aware that multiple Child ballads mention roses as a way of placing the events of the ballad at a particular time of year. In 'Lady Isobel and the Elf-Knight', a song traditionally associated with May Day, one version of the chorus references the events as occurring 'as the rose is blown'. And at the start of 'Tam Lin', the protagonist meets her fairy lover while plucking a double rose, is "laid down among... the roses red" by him, and finishes the ballad on Halloween night heavily pregnant with his child. The course of the ballad is inextricably intertwined with the course of the seasons, and the bloom of roses is synonymous with early summer. (There's so much symbolism in 'Tam Lin', but especially around roses. Can I interest you in tam-lin.org at this time?)

European religious literature even uses "a rose e'er blooming" as a purely figurative phrase, something impossible and magical enough to be a metonym for the Virgin Mary - but in the modern era, most garden roses are ever-blooming. The perpetual-blooming rose is not the natural state of the rose plant, but a kind of technology that had to be developed. And I don't know, I just think that's neat.

So what have we learned? The wild rose is: once-blooming, tough, possibly shade-tolerant depending on species, very thorny, bearing simple pink or white five-petaled flowers, that are fragrant, pollinator-friendly, and produce fruit readily enough. In short, a practical, normal sort of plant.

The garden rose is…not that. There’s no other way to put this: the modern garden rose is the wild rose, but bimboified.

Now, in case today is your first day on the Internet - well, first of all, welcome, it’s bad here - but secondly, bimboification is a niche fetish where someone is transformed into a hypersexualized version of themselves that is also very stupid. Plant domestication is obviously analogous. I didn’t originate this joke; in fact, I reblogged a joke like this just last week.

Roses are like this but even more so. Like, wheat is clearly bimboified. Its sexual parts (seeds) have been remade, swollen to ludicrous proportions, and wheat is probably worse at being a plant than wild grasses. But we created modern wheat from wild grass because it was more useful that way, and wheat could in theory survive and spread without human cultivation. Roses are Like That purely because we wanted to make them a more perfect decorative object. Centuries of intensive selection pressure for appearance have rendered roses useless as an independent plant: they are so disease-prone they need extensive intervention to even survive, and they are often physically incapable of propagating themselves - one of the basic features of plants! - without human aid. That’s plant bimboification.

Source: Heirloom Roses. This one is called 'Oranges 'n' Lemons. Hardly seems like the same plant!

Here are just a few examples, of what we've done to roses. Humans love rose petals - eating them, distilling them into perfume, smelling them, just looking at them - so the garden rose has massive flowers that are so stuffed with petals that pollinators cannot get at their centers, rendering the rose incapable of reproducing except possibly with the help of a human equipped with a paintbrush. Humans love bright colors, so modern roses come in every color their natural pigments allow. Garden roses are often - though not always - less thorny than their wild cousins, because thorns are inconvenient to humans, and so have been somewhat bred out.

And what’s just as important is what was bred out of wild roses in the process of becoming modern roses - by accident. As mentioned above, modern roses are often useless to pollinators, and, not unrelatedly, can’t reproduce without human help. They often lose their fragrance, if not specifically bred for it. They are very susceptible to disease, because gardeners can keep alive, through sheer stubbornness, plants that natural selection would have culled. Likewise, they need full sun where many wild roses can get by even in the shade of big evergreens, and they can't tolerate nearly as much cold, heat, or salt exposure as their wild relatives.

This 'use it or lose it' thing, by the way, is a general principle of selective processes like plant breeding, or like evolution. If you have two independent traits, A and B, and you select hard for A, then B is likely to gradually drop out of the population, simply because the subset of A carriers that also have B is likely to be small. It's pure statistics. (It essentially is a human-created population bottleneck.) The more intense and ruthless the selection pressure, the stronger the effect. Evolution cares a lot about seed production and hardly at all about color, so wild roses are plain but make enormous rose hips; humans like beautiful roses the color of sunsets, and are indifferent to seed production, so modern roses don’t make hips at all. The failure to select for eventually becomes an implicit selection pressure against.

(Highly-bred organisms are thus less, I guess, well-rounded genetically even before you get to issues of inbreeding, and if you assume there is no biological link between your selected-for traits and other ridealong traits, e.g. domestication syndrome. Genetics is complicated!)

One adapted wild-type trait that - I speculate - was not bred out, due to its direct usefulness to humans, was the ability of roses to grow back vigorously from having leaves or branches removed. This is, it seems to me, an adaptation to herbivore browsing - if you are a rose with minimal regrowth ability, and a deer chews on half your canes, it’s curtains for you. But humans also fully remove half of the canes of their garden roses every winter - it’s critical to controlling the fungal disease that so plagues them. Specifically, pruning improves airflow through the plant, which evaporates the water that keeps falling on the leaves from the sky. (You know. The rain, that roses both hate and need to live.) In some sense, we are acting as caretakers here, shaping the plant in inscrutable ways for its own good. But to the plant, we are basically deer: just another in a long line of animals that want to steal its leaves. Unbelievable! It needs those! Fuck you too, buddy: here’s a faceful of thorns.

Truly, a tale as old as time.

This brings me to my first actual rose review, a kind of bridge between wild roses and the world of cultivated roses.

#1: Rosa rugosa, probably "Hansa"

Source: the author's yard.

This is a sucker - a vigorous young ground-level shoot - from an unnamed rosebush from my mother's house. I say "probably 'Hansa'" because we have no idea what this actually is, only that it is a rugosa hybrid, purchased from an unknown nursery in the Midwest sometime during the Bush administration.

'Hybrid rugosas' are crosses between garden-type roses and a wild rose species called Rosa rugosa, which is native to much of Asia. This particular rose bush has many traits carried over from its wild parent: it's violently fragrant, a glorious sweet-spicy combo that smells to me like childhood and home; it has wrinkly leaves (characteristic of Rosa rugosa in particular); its stems are practically coated in prickles; and it's quite tolerant of shade, drought, and salt (Rosa rugosa is a beach rose).

The main virtue evinced by this rose, derived from its wild parent, is the same reason that it is still here in my garden: it is extremely difficult to kill. My mother, after hearing me say I wanted this specific rose bush at my house the same way it had been at my childhood home, dug up a sucker from her instance, put it in a bag with some wet dirt, carried it by hand on a multi-hour cross-country plane flight, and handed it off to me. Once I received it, I stuck it in a pot, because I was ripping up my lawn and had nowhere to plant it, and mostly forgot about it, because I was busy ripping up my entire lawn. It lost its leaves suspiciously early in the fall. ("That's not good," my mother said, over FaceTime, brow furrowed. "Are the rest of your roses doing that?")

But as the saying doesn't go, "where there's green cambium, there's hope", and I continued to take care of it throughout the winter. I eventually even remembered to put it in the ground. It is now March, and in defiance of the mockery of certain judgemental housemates, who said things like "why do you have a stick in a pot?" and "it's giving 'dead', my guy", this "stick" has now decided to become a rosebush, and has a grand total of (approximately) twenty-five leaves.

Like I said: extremely difficult to kill. It is currently planted 10-ish feet from the base of a redwood tree, a tough environment where some hardy garden-style roses have nonetheless been known to thrive. Given that its resurrection has occurred entirely while it was planted under the redwood, it doesn't seem too mad about its environment.

Review: holy shit, it’s alive???

#2: Zéphirine Drouhin, the "old garden rose"

Source: Heirloom Roses

Rosarians have conceived of many groupings of garden roses, based on known ancestry, phenotype, genetic studies, and Vibes, but one major breakpoint is those bred before 1867, the "old garden roses", and after 1867, the "modern garden roses".

The old garden roses were derived mostly from ancient European and Middle Eastern stock, which had themselves been created from wild roses centuries prior. For example, this is Rosa x alba, an ancient European rose strain; it was used as the heraldic badge of the medieval House of York during the English conflict known as the War of the Roses.

Source: not mine

Some of these roses are perpetual-blooming, a trait introduced as late as the eighteenth century, and which is entirely due to trade contact with China: as far as I can tell, the genes for strong reblooming only come from the Chinese rose-breeding tradition, which was itself centuries old by that point. So the modern Western concept of perpetual-blooming roses as the default kind of rose - like so many other aspects of modernity - is a direct result of Europeans cribbing from everybody else.

Interestingly, France was a major center for rose development during the early modern period. You can see it in the way old garden roses are named: overwhelmingly after some eminent madame or monsieur. This is probably connected to the fact that Josephine, Napoleon Bonaparte’s empress, was a rose fiend: she had two hundred and fifty new varieties of rose to be brought to her gardens at Château de Malmaison, which was probably pretty much all the named varieties of rose that existed then, and many of which were new to European cultivation at that time. Again, this represented a massive inflow of rose genes that were previously restricted to other countries or continents entirely. Inextricably, these gardens also represent the proceeds of early modern global trade, and of empire: Napoleon, on campaign abroad, himself sent her hundreds of specimens of flowering plants, and the French navy confiscated plants and seeds from ships captured and sea and sent them to her.

Anyway, Zéphirine Drouhin, created at the end of the "old garden rose" period and named for some now-forgotten madame or mademoiselle, is highly fragrant - one of the few roses said to really perfume the air - with a vibrant but old-fashioned color palette. (Apricot and yellow roses were also characteristic of the Chinese rose gene pool, and so were significantly less common in old garden roses.) Zéphirine Drouhin is also thornless, a rare trait that we nonetheless see in some old-fashioned garden roses, and a few modern garden roses as well.

Old garden roses have a variable but generally good level of disease resistance. Zéphirine Drouhin in particular, gets something of a bad rap for poor disease resistance; English rose breeder David Austin Roses says, tactfully, that it "prefers warmer climates" (versus, one must assume, rainy England) and that "controlling disease can be a problem". By this you should understand them to mean that it is a whiny little pissbaby that constantly gets blackspot, a diva that will defoliate at the drop of a hat (or the drop of, uh, water).

However, unlike certain other newer roses I will mention later, I have found Zéphirine Drouhin to be pretty healthy so far. I received this rose, like many in this post, "bare root", basically a stick, dormant in a bag of wood shavings. Upon being planted in a part-sun area, it has leafed out with only a scattering of aphids to show in terms of disease.

Review: So far, so good. Looking forward to the fragrance.

#3 and 4: 'Mister Lincoln' and 'Fragrant Cloud', the hybrid tea brothers

Remember how I mentioned that 1868 is the breakpoint between "old garden roses" and "modern garden roses"? That year marked the invention of a new type of rose, the 'hybrid tea', that is in some sense THE rose, the ARCHETYPE of a rose. If you ask someone who knows nothing about roses to draw 'a rose' - if you look up clipart of a rose - a hybrid tea rose is what you'll get.

Source: Star Nursery

This is Mister Lincoln, and although it was developed as late as the 1960s, it has the classic hybrid tea rose form. Hybrid teas have a very distinctive shape, described as "high-pointed", with a spiral of unfurling petals that curl at the edges, and they're borne singly on long stems, making them great for cutting and putting into vases and bouquets. They are not always strongly fragrant, and they are not generally very disease-resistant. They come in a very wide variety of colors, intense and subtle. They are reblooming.

Hybrid teas were developed by another East-meets-West cross, when the Chinese tea roses, freshly imported from Guangzhou in the early 19th century, were bred with the old garden roses. Tea roses have the same iconic form as the hybrid teas; they have those unique, pastel shades that were previously quite absent from European rose stocks; they smell like a fresh cup of tea. All these traits they impart to hybrid teas. Hybrid teas have been very popular ever since, and have been subject to a great deal of selective breeding for color and form.

Hybrid teas don't generally spark joy, to me. I find the 'cartoon rose' shape kind of twee, honestly. And the reputation for lack of disease tolerance puts me off. But I heard Mister Lincoln was incredibly fragrant, and that drew me in. Likewise Fragrant Cloud (1967), which also has the charming feature of being a violent neon coral that is allegedly very difficult to photograph.

Source: Heirloom Roses

“It'll be fine," I thought. "How much fungal disease can it get? It's not like it's humid here."

Never again. My trust is destroyed; fuck hybrid teas.

please, my son, he is very sick

This is my poor Mister Lincoln, planted from bare-root in mid-December. It has three different fungal diseases, and also an aphid infestation I can't seem to get it to shake. It looks like one of those diagrams of a liver in a medical textbook that has fatty liver and cirrhosis and liver cancer all at once, just so you can see what all the diseases look like. This is a rose that has every problem! No other rose in this flower bed comes close to having every problem! 'Munstead Wood' is also a modern garden rose (though from a very different lineage - see my review below) and it has no fungal diseases and not a single aphid!

Well, maybe the other hybrid tea I bought is doing better... well, nope, it rained last week and Fragrant Cloud has powdery mildew.

Review: Come on, man.

#5 Unidentified ‘sunset’ rose

I didn’t buy these roses; they came with my house. As a consequence, I have no idea what they are, but I am now intimately familiar with their traits, and I think they are very indicative of both the high and low points of modern garden roses.

On the surface level, the fact that these rose bushes are still with us is an impressive proof of their persistence under adversity. When I bought the house, these roses were being choked to death. Lily-of-the-nile had been planted way too close to them, and then permitted to grow unchecked and undivided for many years; their roots were completely infiltrated and surrounded with lily roots. The lily roots had also damaged the irrigation lines, which were dribbling uncontrolled amounts of water into the shared root zone. So when I excavated these roses, the whole area smelled strongly of rot, with visible mold throughout; the roots were fully wet even in the heat of August. The roses were also infested with blackspot, not surprisingly. I wasn’t sure if what I was doing was too little, too late.

But when they finally got some drainage, some direct sunlight, and some relief from the brutal root competition, they did start growing back, and even blooming. Come winter, I pruned hard, defoliated, and applied neem oil consistently. And they’ve made a comeback!

Source: these blooms are actually my roses.

They bloom, and they’re beautiful. They do this ombre thing, where the buds are bright yellow and as they open they go from yellow, to orange, and finally to red.

The growth is fairly vigorous, with no powdery mildew no matter how rainy it gets. But their foliage definitely suffers from blackspot, and occasional rose rust; the spores are probably ambiently present in the soil now, and they can’t quite seem to defend themselves, even with ample help from organic fungicides like neem oil.

They also have no fragrance. They smell like nothing. And that’s the standard modern garden rose in a nutshell, I think: beautiful color and form, shaky disease resistance, little fragrance. It’s a little sad, honestly.

Review: Okay, this one is really pretty, actually.

Interlude: Pesticides and the law of unintended consequences

So, yeah, you can sort of see how roses got a reputation for being picky divas. I can only imagine how bad this sort of thing must get in places that get (gasp!) rain or humidity in the summer.

Now, having created plants that are too disease-ridden to live, rose-lovers came up with practical and effective solutions to the disease problem they created. For the past century or so, the go-to fix for our increasingly disease-prone rose population has been chemicals: regular applications of synthetic insecticide and fungicide sprays, as well as plenty of fertilizer and herbicide to feed the roses and kill any competing weeds.

However, recall the theme of this post: the law of unintended consequences. In agriculture, the development of modern pesticides and fertilizers has been genuinely miraculous; the Green Revolution is estimated to have saved a billion people from starvation in the latter half of the twentieth century. Saving a billion people! Can you even begin to conceive of what it would be like to save a billion people, even grapple with the moral weight of that act? I know I can't; the number is simply too large for our moral intuitions to handle, I think. So I'm hesitant to bad-mouth pesticides and fertilizers too much.

But they do have massive downsides. Chemical fertilizers leach into the groundwater and cause algal blooms that make entire bodies of water go anoxic, rendering them uninhabitable to fish and the rest of the aquatic food chain. Insecticides are probably responsible for colony collapse, which endangers the pollinators that we rely on for our food supply.

And, well, even if you don't give a shit about the natural world - you are a part of the natural world. You are an animal, with all the frailty that implies. Our bodies use many of the same ancient metabolic pathways as insects and plants; the majority of your DNA is shared with a banana. And because you are an animal, it is very difficult indeed to create an insecticide that will poison other animals without poisoning you too, at least a little. Herbicides are somehow still worse, despite the more distant biological relationship between humans and dandelions: Roundup, for instance, is linked to non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, which has led to Monsanto paying out massive legal settlements to cancer patients who used their products.

So if we can't grow roses without coating them in poison, maybe we should just… not do that? Go back to growing super-hardy nearly-wild roses like rugosas, forgoing forever the elegance and sublime color of a modern rose?

Give up this? ‘Glowing Peace’, Heirloom Roses

Not so fast! Maybe this technological problem has a technological solution. If we bred roses so that they sucked, maybe we should just not do that! Make different roses! Make roses that don't suck!

#6-#8, ‘Ebb Tide', 'Eden', and 'Lavender Crush': roses that don't suck

Over the last fifty years, people have become increasingly aware of the impacts of modern lifestyles upon our health and the health of the planet and its ecosystems. So maybe this has made the public less willing to buy roses that need to be treated constantly with toxic sprays. Or maybe it's just that growing disease-prone roses is an enormous pain in the ass. Spray, prune, spray, defoliate, fertilize, spray, fertilize, spray, water - but not too much! Oops, powdery mildew. Defoliate and spray some more.

So the genetic health of the newer varieties of garden roses is greatly improved. The two hybrid teas I struggled with above were bred in the 1960s. All the named rose varieties in this section were bred since the 1990s or later: Eden in 1997, Ebb Tide in 2004, and Lavender Crush, the baby of the group, was introduced in 2016. All of them are vibrantly healthy and quite vigorous; Ebb Tide and Eden are shade-tolerant too, and Lavender Crush is allegedly very winter-hardy. After a scant two months in the ground, they've started to put out flower buds. And they keep some of the glorious color and form of older roses. Look at them!

Source: Heirloom Roses.

I don't mean to say all 20th century roses are bad and disease-ridden. I also have purchased 'New Dawn' (introduced 1930), due to it being the fifteen-dollarest rose at the Home Depot. (My toxic trait is that I am an absolute sucker for a good deal. I don't go into TJ Maxx anymore; it's too dangerous.) 'New Dawn' has all the ancestral, throwback traits I laud here: shade-tolerance, fragrance, disease resistance. It even brings in the pollinators! But it seems to me there's been a noticeable uptick in the quality of newer rose introductions, particularly when it comes to disease resistance. I'm not wired into the professional rose world to know what that is; I'm Literally Just Some Guy. But it's a good trend.

Review: I am so excited for the buds to open, you have no idea.

#9: 'Double Knockout': the 'landscape' rose

Wait, no, I take that back. These roses have too much ease of care. Put some back.

The Knockout rose has one virtue: you cannot kill it with an axe. Literally.

This rose was planted right at the foot of a redwood tree in my garden, because the previous owner of my house was an idiot. This is a terrifically bad setup for roses and redwoods: redwoods acidify the soil, and suck up water and nutrients aggressively, leaving little for surrounding plants, and of course they provide dense shade. Roses hate the acid, the dry and low-nutrient soil, and the shade; this plant never bloomed all last summer. For their part, the redwoods hate having anything planted in their inner root zone - their roots are relatively shallow for such a large tree. This is not a good situation for anyone, so I hacked this rose back to the ground, dug out as much of the root ball as I dared, and in my naivete thought that would be the end of it. Well, it has grown back. Now I am faced with the dilemma of whether to risk root injury to my redwood tree, or just let the rose be, bloomless as it is. Probably the latter is better for the redwood tree, on the whole. Maybe it’ll get choked out if I don’t water it? Anyone’s guess, really.

The category of landscape roses is a 2000s invention. The first Knockout rose was introduced in 2000 after years of intensive selective breeding for being easy-care, free-flowering, and disease-resistant; the similar Drift line was the product of an amateur rose breeder in 2006 to much the same ends. Landscape roses are so named because instead of being demanding prima donnas suited only to those who love roses enough to take on the Rose Tasks, they’re just another pretty shrub in the landscape.

And I will say this for them: in that bad, fungal spore–inundated flower bed I mentioned, my landscape roses (plus Munstead Wood, see below) are notably free of fungal disease.

Also, I think that's leaf tissue proliferating at the center of the bottom left bloom?? A rare but harmless growth disorder of flowering plants.

This comes at a cost, of course, at least if you’re a snob like me. I don’t think landscape roses are very interesting-looking - though of course they come in a wide variety of colors, the better to coordinate with the color scheme of your house! - and they are generally, tragically, without fragrance. While I can’t complain about anything that gets US gardeners to use less pesticides, they are barely roses to me. They are, in fact, the closest roses come to being an inanimate object, a decorative thing you can just plonk down in your garden wherever, like a tacky concrete statue. They’re a commodity; the enchantment is gone. I wouldn’t rip them out where they’re well-sited, but I sure wouldn’t plant more.

Now, this is incredibly mean to people who love landscape roses, but here goes. I’m reminded of a thread from r/Ceanothus, the California native gardening subreddit, that is now burned into my brain. OP asks for a native shrub recommendation, but not just any native shrub. OP wants a native shrub that will grow very tall, but also stay very narrow - 1’ wide in places. OP needs a native shrub that will grow thick and vigorous, to block out their view of the neighbors. OP needs this thing to be evergreen; OP presumably wants low water inputs. And OP needs all this, in a shrub that will grow in full shade.

In fairness, OP was polite about it, and this is a common problem for urban gardeners. The dark, untended canyon between buildings is a very common phenomenon in Californian cities. I too have a narrow, shaded side yard containing a tiny strip of crappy, gravelly dirt, that I’d love to grow something in: how do you think I found this post? Dear reader, I am very much at that devil's sacrament.

And the ceanothusheads of r/Ceanothus tried gamely. But one commenter replied with something that fully changed how I think about gardening:

Source: Reddit

Sometimes, what you need is not a living organism, with its own needs, that will change over time in ways you may not endorse, that interacts with the world around it. Sometimes what you really want is a man-made object. Sometimes what you want to grow in your tall, narrow, lightless, bone-dry side yard, for your privacy requirements, is a fence. And that’s what I think about landscape roses. In Mediterranean and desert climates, as long as there's enough sun, you can always fall back on planting a succulent. But not every location can grow succulents outdoors year-round. In temperate climates, landscape roses could probably be successfully replaced with a particularly attractive boulder. Or, if what you want is a smart-looking, easy-care hedge: consider a fence.

Review: I’d maybe rather plant a fence a succulent.

#10: 'Munstead Wood': the old English rose, reloaded

‘Munstead Wood’, my final acquisition, is a credit to another major modern rose breeding program, this time out of England: David Austin Roses. The main idea of the David Austin rose-breeding project seems to be combining the particular charms of traditional English old garden roses - their fragrance, their romantic, sophisticated forms - with the virtues of modern roses - continuous blooming, a wide range of highly Instagrammable colors - plus disease-tolerance that twenty-first century gardeners now expect. And judging by their singular impact on the contemporary rose market, they seem to have been very successful at that goal. The Reddit reviews are glowing, the forums are abuzz for their hottest new releases (Dannahue restock wen?), their most popular roses are often sold out, and other rose sellers have catalog filters for 'English shrub roses' that allegedly share the looks and fragrance of David Austin's best.

From the author's camera roll. 'I can't believe it's not Dave [sic] Austin!'

Their marketing is also very slick. Their website is very informative, with separate filters for various kinds of roses you might want to buy ('Best for fragrance', 'For a shady spot', 'Thornless or nearly so'), all the rose varieties have literary or historical names or else are named after charming British locations, and are all beautifully photographed in their idyllic show garden, and the prose is carefully engineered to incite lust in the winter-weary gardener. They even do periodic drops of new roses, like a sneaker company.

So last November, I allowed myself to buy one David Austin rose, 'Munstead Wood'.

Source: David Austin Roses

'Munstead Wood' is really gorgeous, I think, blooming in a deep burgundy color. The website claims the fragrance is "Old Rose, with fruity notes of blackberry, blueberry and damson".

An interesting fact about 'Munstead Wood' is that it is actually region-locked. David Austin Roses sells roses in both the US and UK (and maybe other places; sorry I am so American), but the climate of the UK has been changing, with more extreme weather events and even more rain. And you know how it is with roses and the rain. 'Munstead Wood' was no longer able to thrive, and has packed up its little rucksack and gone out to explore the world as a lone vagabond - specifically, America.

So how is it doing here? Great, actually. It may have been rained on every day for the past week, but at least it's not in England, I guess.

'Munstead Wood' has no fungal disease. It looks like it's never even heard of fungal disease. I'm pretty impressed! I can't actually tell you whether the roses are good, but this is a pretty good plant, which is a good start.

Review: I'm holding myself back from buying more David Austin roses right now. God help me, I have two more open full- to part-sun spots in my garden right now.

David Austin, "Lady of Shalott". Call me the Lady of Shalott the way I'm languishing in my tower, gazing only at the mere reflections of the real world (stuck inside, looking at my phone, because of the rain) and am about to throw myself in the river with longing (to be out in the garden)

[hanalyrata]

Do you still have your Mountain and Rain headcanon post?

I do! I know there was more I expanded on in another post, but that unfortunately got eaten with my account nuking.

Alas.

I can make Bassist/Drummer shipping tropes all day at this, but I won't.

Mountain was a little unsure of Rain to start with. Still reeling from Dew's transition, he wasn't ready for another water ghoul. Much less one who gave off prissy princess vibes (It's a facade because Rain is not very trusting and would rather push people out first).

It starts simple. Little bits of small talk here and there. Then Mountain is struggling for an irrigation system for the greenhouse. He'd always had Dew to do this, Mist before that. but now Dew isn't Dew anymore, and Mist is no longer, so he eventually has to bite the bullet and ask Rain. That's when he sees the cracks. That's when he sees just how unsure of himself Rain is. He has big boots to fill, he can see the love his pack has for Dewdrop and he's scared he'll never actually fit in.

But, Rain does a wonderful job. The genuine smile, the way his eyes are staring in wonder at the plants that Mountain grows and nurtures, it turns something in Mountain and he wants more. And more he gets, they're both sort of dancing around each other for the longest time. Mount wants help with the greenhouse, Rain has suddenly developed a flower-pressing hobby (which is an excuse to talk to Mountain) and they're both a little oblivious to what's growing between them. Rain's a little intimidated by Mountain's stern nature, and Mountain's aware that he isn't the best at talking.

They do work it out though and their relationship blossoms pretty quickly and they're almost always around each other after that.

They're that kind of pair you'll find dancing together like old-timey couples from the 20s in the living room with a record playing in the background, you know?

If you want NSFW thoughts, under the cut:

Mountain is a very caring lover but also can be commanding if Rain wants that. And boy does he want that a lot. He loves not having to think, only feel.

Rain is a bit of a size queen and honestly a little bit of a cock-drunk whore for Mount because of it. It's a contrast to their every day fleeting touches, but they're private about their love around the others. But that's what makes it fun, isn't it?

Mountain also cultivated a certain type of flowering plant that induces arousal in those exposed to its spores. He'll swear blind it wasn't for Rain, but everyone with half a brain cell knows he gave him those flowers to press on purpose.

Side note: Tentacle. Yeah she's pretty, yeah she loves Mount. End of discussion.

[cmdrfupa]

You sat on the edge of the bed, tugging on your socks as the morning sounds kept you awake. An unusually early Saturday morning for the both of you as Toji hummed in the bathroom while you got the last of a large yawn out.

The sunlight slanted in through the half-open blinds and the early chill to the day filled your bedroom as you moseyed to browsed over what to wear in the closet.

In the bathroom with the door cracked open, Toji’s rich, gravelly voice drifted out over the soft hum of the electric razor.

“Gonna be a long day,” he says, the razor going silent as he rinses his face. “That realtor said we’ll see, what… four or five places?”

“Four.” You glance over a skirt and hold it up to you, contemplating before looking in the mirror hanging on the wall. “But you know how it goes. If we don’t find something, we have time. Housing market should remain stable for another 6 months. There’s no rush.”

“Right. But if we don’t start wrapping things up, Megumi’ll be in college and Tsumiki’ll be visiting with a grandkid before we settle anywhere.” He lets out a low chuckle, warm and amused.

It didn’t register just how much time had passed until Toji realized he’d hit the goal amount to buy a house. 3 years of playing house and marrying turned into being worried about if a house will have proper irrigation systems that will last.

There’s a brief clatter, then the faucet comes on full blast as he rinses off the last of the shaving cream. “Speaking of which, you ready for those college visits?”

You laugh, slipping on your blouse and buttoning it up. “Ready, yes. Prepared? Not a chance. You know he wants to tour every campus in this province and a few overseas. He’s keeping you on your toes.”

“Kid’s got ambition,” Toji says, amusement lacing his voice. “Wonder where he gets it from.”

You can picture him leaning forward to scrutinize himself in the mirror, the way he sometimes squints as he checks for stray stubble along his jaw. Groaning at the small patch of gray he shaves off first every single time.

It’s one of those everyday scenes you never quite get tired of. He’s steady, predictable in his habits, but there’s an ease in the familiarity.

“So, what’s the dream house, huh?” he asks after a pause. There’s a hint of something lighter in his tone, playful almost. “Big yard for maybe another kid to practice in, good schools, fancy kitchen for you?”

“A quiet neighborhood would be nice.” you say, tugging on your jeans. “And, yeah… I wouldn’t mind a spacious kitchen.”

Toji snorts, as the idea of him caring about school districts is somehow amusing. “Skipping over the yard part? Come on, what’s one more kid? A little mini me running around. Would be nice.”

You laughed grabbing your belt, pulling it through the loops as you stepped out in the bedroom. “Let’s get the house first. Then we can discuss having a kid with your big head and features. Sound good?”

“Guess we’re going full domesticated life now, huh? Yard sales on Sundays? Book club on Tuesdays? Starting to think you’re losing your touch, pretty lady.”

You chuckle, rolling your eyes even though he can’t see it. “You’d love it. Don’t even pretend.”

A beat later, Toji steps out into the bedroom, adjusting the collar of his dark red polo. The sleeves were fitted just enough to hint at the broadness of his shoulders, the solid strength of his arms bulging. The deep red complemented his dark hair perfectly. His khakis hug his waist and tapered down, showing off the powerful lines of his legs and the definition there—he looks effortlessly good, a little rugged but undeniably refined.

He catches you looking, his lips curving into a sly, knowing grin. “Like what you see?”

“Your ass.. Jesus,” you tease back, though your eyes are unabashedly admiring. The camel colored pants fit him like a glove. The way they accentuated his thighs made you want to scream. “Since when do you go for khakis?”

“Hey, I clean up nice.” He closes the distance between you in two easy strides, dropping a casual hand on your shoulder. He gives a slight squeeze before letting his fingers trail down your arm.” I bought them from that wholesale store. You know the one with the family size peanut butter?”

“The one that you single handedly empty out for your thick ass smoothies?”

“That’s the one.” Toji squeezes your rear and winks. “Anyway, figured I’d match the high standards. Realtors are probably used to dealing with rich types. Gotta look the part, right?”

“Eh. If nothing else, you’ll charm them into knocking down the price.”

He chuckles, bending down just enough to press a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead then your lips.” I’m starting to think you married me for my looks and devilish charm.”

“For the last time, Toji,” you gently wiped his chest, loosening the wrinkles before. “Yes. I did.”

He picked you up with ease, laughing as he wrapped your legs around him. “You’re unbelievable. And I thought you loved me.” Toji laid you on the bed, kissing your neck and holding your waist letting your pleas and laughter warm him up inside. “Am I just a scary dog and eye candy for you?” He teased.

“You’re much more than that. Great support system, incredible cook, inhumanely patient.” You ran your fingers over the nape of his neck as he hovered over you. “Hefty wallet when you aren’t losing during horse racing season.”

“I don’t lose often… anymore.” His lips curled into a boyish smile as he helped you sit up on the edge of the bed. He grabbed your shoes, lacing them on you before helping you stand. “Now. Let’s go get your dream house, baby doll. It’s been a long time coming.”

“Let’s go get it, baby boy.”

There was always something grounding about the routines you had together. Those quiet moments where you planned for the future with the same unhurried certainty that he shaves with, that he presses his lips to your skin with.

The thought of the three of you wandering through endless corridors of empty houses, each one holding the promise of a new start, filled you with a gentle anticipation.

And no matter where you ended up, it was always going to feel home if you had one another.

[balkanradfem]

To make a pond + Earthworks!

I've been enamored by the idea that I could build my own pond in the future, but when I started looking into it (typing 'how to build a pond into youtube'), all people did was put a big plastic tarp into a landscape and add water inside. That wasn't what I wanted. I wasn't about to bring a plastic tarp in my environment, and it was obvious that once the tarp gets damaged and punctured, the water would drain into the soil and the pond would be no more. That's no fun.

Unable to immediately find a better way, I turned to my own brain to figure this out. There were natural ponds in the world, and somehow they didn't need a tarp to hold all that water in. Artificial lakes existed, and for sure there weren't any tarps holding the water in. Rivers don't drain easily, and they usually have a lot of sand on the bottom – but sand is a very drainable material, so that's probably not it.

I stumbled upon an interesting piece of information when I was learning about rocks. By some definitions, ice is also a type of rock, so there was a lesson on icebergs. I found out there that sometimes icebergs split apart and travel in the water, and when a huge chonk ends up in a non-icy landscape, it eventually melts and it turns into a lake. There were pictures of lakes that looked like they had no business being in that landscape, but were there because an iceberg had melted there. The water didn't drain or ran off, why? I assumed it was because the iceberg was so heavy it compacted the soil underneath, and the compacted clay was enough to hold the water in.

So I started playing with the idea that if I locate a soil with high percentage of clay, and then dig a pond, and then line the bottom with the highest-density clay I can find, and then I redirect all water from the landscape to go towards that pond, maybe I could make a little pond in there. Possibly it would dry out during the summer but for the rest of year, having a natural pond would be very nice. I wasn't sure if this logic would hold but then I also couldn't see why not. Clay doesn't drain easily and there's lots of it deep underground. I would grab a shovel and try.

I got an additional piece of information reading a book about collecting and filtering rainwater to make it drinkable; the book recommended before you do anything about this, you need to learn about 'Earthworks', a system of modifying the earth's surface to keep as much water in as possible, and to redirect it to where you want it. I immediately liked this, because I had already planned to do that, but I was interested in tried and true methods. So I looked it up, and one of the first videos I've found, was of people deciding to make a natural pond in the forest. They found the most dense clay-rich ground, dug to see if it was super dense and non-draining deep in. Then they created a dam to stop water from flowing past the pond, and redirected all rainwater that would fall into the forest, towards the pond. And it worked. It filled out within a month or two. It wasn't draining away.

I felt so vindicated, the logic I had put together in my head was real and I could see how other people did it in real life! And I learned about berms and swales; they're methods of making your ground uneven, so it could take in and hold more rainwater. Berms are little hills you make that have good drainage, and swales are shallow canals you make inbetween the hills; they hold the rainwater, stop it from flowing away from your property, and redirect it to where you want it to, for instance to irrigate a garden, fill a pond, or to water a big tree you want to grow.

The methods of keeping rainwater from evaporating are currently relevant, because the climate is getting unstable, and rain is no longer as consistent as it has been in the past. I've noticed that we now get tons of rain in the spring, winter and fall, but next to none in the summer, creating a drought. The forests and the animals feel it too; they struggle to survive the summer, and a lot of plants and animals die from lack of hydration, which they didn't need to deal with beforehand. There's also less ground covered by old resilient trees and foliage that keeps the water in the landscape; clean cutting forests means dry ground, water evaporating, streams and canals drying up, trees drying up because of no water supply.

The people who were building a pond in the forest were not doing it for fun and giggles; they noticed the natural streams of the forests have dried up as a result of cut areas and lack of consistent rain. The forest was in danger of drying up. So by building a system of swales (or trenches) to redirect rainwater, and ponds to store it, they've managed to revitalize parts of the forest. The forest around the pond was visibly greener within months, wildlife was multiplying around the pond where it could get water, new flowers and native plants were flourishing next to the pond.

Slightly modifying the landscape to keep water in is something people do to prevent the spread of deserts; digging half-moon shaped holes in the ground to hold water has enabled trees to grow even in the driest, sun-heated areas. I've been fascinated by the methods of growing trees in the desert! And right now we need to make sure other livable  green areas don't start turning into deserts, because the climate is threatening it, and the animals are unlikely to survive it all on their own.

And if you build a little pond, you're gonna have more birds in your backyard. There's gonna be little frogs and turtles and tiny critters coming to drink from your pond. Maybe a little lizard or a snake. You're gonna be able to plant flowers around it, your trees will be happy, and if you want a great big willow, she's going to enjoy that water too, and purify it with her roots. I'm still putting it together in my brain if I could make a little swampy area and plant rice in it, that would be the ultimate success.

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Eleven (Gonk) 1 of 2

@sleepyselkiesims, @sanitysims, @bakersimmer, @invisiblequeen, @abbysimsfun, @fallin4fiction - Sim creators, co-writers, costume/makeup department and fashion photographers

Bright and early, the household wakes up. Room order was randomised, and turns out Nicola and Nephinae have ground floor rooms today. A wheel was spun for type of shower the contestants would have (opportunity for energised, flirty or inspired moodlet) and whether they would brush their teeth (possible confident moodlet). Once they are finished getting ready they're sent to breakfast. Autonomy is toggled on and room doors are locked.

The order the contestants arrive at breakfast matters a little. Deanna compliments each of them in the order they arrive. Those who are talked to early seem to have more chance of fitting in autonomous socials with Deanna. They might fit in a joke, flirt or gossip between her complimenting others.

Deanna: Good morning Nicola! Oh... are you alright?

Yasmine: Did you have another shampoo disaster?

Nicola: *tearfully* Yes

Arista: *mermaid noises* I'm sorry if that seemed insensitive

Nicola: No I know, it's involuntary

Nephinae: You okay Kris?

Kristina: *sadly* Shmoo shmoo

Yep, Kristina has been struck by a sad moodlet from her erratic trait this morning.

Arista: Hold on, I need a hug

Deanna laughs and hugs the pink haired sim before checking up on her. When she sits back down it appears Yasmine's steamy shower is paying off.

Yasmine: The stripes on your shirt match my hair, it's fate, we're matching

Watchers note: Evelyn who was clearing dishes hears Yasmine flirting and dumps the pile of dirty plates in front of her. I couldn't stop giggling for a while as Evelyn just stood there interrupting the conversation in such an un-Evie way. Yasmine however is unbothered.

Deanna: Do you need to take some time Kristina before the challenge? To feel better?

Kristina: *smiles* No, I just need some extra love

Deanna hugs her and brings her back to the table to talk with everyone. Please note how Kristina did not wash that big pile of dishes in front of Yasmine either...

Nicola: I mean I thought about cutting my hair but I feel that would just make it easier for the shampoo to get to my face

Arista: Depends how short you want to go. I don't have any problems

Yasmine: I hope we get to do an outdoors challenge today

Kristina: I would love that, maybe a gardening challenge

Nicola: I love gardening, it's such fun!

Nephinae: Back home I built these raised planter beds with a full irrigation system...

Arista: Do you have pictures? I just hope the challenge isn't swimming

Evie: *laughs* I think you'd have the advantage there

Deanna: It's not a swimming challenge

Nicola: I just want it to be something I can enjoy

Evelyn: *shocked* But Nic, you already had a date and bonus points. Did you not enjoy those ones?

Nicola: *carefully* I enjoyed winning

Evelyn: *sighs wistfully* I wish I was good at stuff I didn't like. It would make assignments easier

Nephinae: I think anyone can be good at most things, there's just a learning curve first

Arista: I am really good at bouquet catching at my sisters weddings now

Yasmine: Are all six married? That must have been good practice for catching

Arista: They are, and I reckon by wedding three I knew where to stand

The contestants enter a costume department of a local film company.

Luna: Guten Morgen. You haven't met me yet but I'm Luna Villareal. Before I fell for Deanna's older sister I was an active member of the paragons, a group that loves to dress up. So for this challenge to win a date with my sister-in-law, we're going to be doing some dress up. Drumroll please

*group taps a drumroll*

Devin: Ta-da!

Devin strides out in one of her signature outfits from the Starlight Accolade winning Pirates of the Aegean.

Devin: What can I say? I'm optimistic about a sequel

Devin: My wife loves fashion, and I basically play dress up to pay the bills. Today we have some of my friends coming in to help you dress up. Our themes are earth and land, wind and spirit, water and sea as well as fire and light. We'll be picking themes randomly, then you'll have the help of Luna, me, some paragons and some of my co-stars to pick your outfits. Once you're decided Rudolphous, who does all my film make-up, will apply the finishing touches and we'll get you in front of a camera

Watchers Note: Since art is subjective I did not want to choose the winners myself. They will be decided by charisma skill levels. That is coming in the next part, this part is all about celebrating the creativity of simmers. Don't forget you can post your own creations on your page once they've debuted here, I would love to make sure people can see them! This challenge is inspired by the dress up challenges @cawthorntales does for his BC's.

On with the show.

Nicola's Theme - Wind and Spirit

Nicola: I LOVE dressing up! Miss Frizzle is my practically my idol. I don't dress up as much as she does, and I also don't have a magic bus, *sad violin music* but the students love a theme day and they make me feel like a kid again!

Nicola chooses to soar amongst the clouds with her outfit. Henford has beautiful blue skies and Nicola has many memories of cloud gazing as she was growing up with her brother. It's a way to connect with home.

Nephinae's Theme - Fire & Light

Nephinae: Oh watcher, these sims aren't ready for me.

Nephinae chooses to pay homage to fire in nature- the glow and burn of magma. When Volcanoes show their might, that's where you'll fine her. The heat pushing from under the crust of the earth.

Arista's Theme - Fire & Light

Arista: Oooo sounds fun! I never bothered with dress up when I was a little boy, so I suppose it's about time I give it a try!

So much for killing with fire, Arista has become new in the flames. From the ashes of her past this trans woman rises like a phoenix, becoming her own light and true self.

Evelyn's Theme: Water & Sea

Evie: Ooh, fun!

Water flows all over the surface of the earth. It is a powerful force, yet it still bends to the will of the moon. Day is not the only time the ocean is alive.

Yasmine's Theme - Earth & Land

Yasmine: *confused* I never thought too much about what I wear, but if it matters for this challenge, I guess I will try. At least the theme seems right up my alley

A truer statement has never been spoken! Nature loving Yasmine takes the theme head on and basks in the choices. So much so that she finds eight outfits she cannot pick between! Was there really any other outcome for Earth's biggest fan?

Kristina's Theme - Wind & Spirit

Kristina: I'm not the biggest fan of dressing up. It can be really fun, but I love being outdoors, being comfortable, and you can't really climb a lot of trees in a costume. But the theme of this one speaks to my soul. The natural elements that make up our beautiful planet; it's such a cool idea!

Death being the end, such a strange concept. Spirits can linger… Unobserved by humans, a spirit's movements may be seen only by the creatures of the world under the light of the moon. Their presence felt only by windchimes, casting sound into the darkness.

[elwenyere]

WIP Wednesday

The Cassian/Melshi/Bix WIP "Then the War" has reached 9.6k, and we are making progress, slowly but surely. Here's a little snip for your WIP Wednesday.

.....

“These crates go straight to the Yavin mess,” Bix confirmed, gesturing to her right, “and the blue ones are for running past the blockades. We skim a bit of grain from each council, so it’s harder to spot: the repair crews hide it in old gray-water tanks from the irrigation towers.”

“Clever,” Melshi remarked.

“And what has Vel sent for me, hmm?”

Melshi reached down to give her a hand, and she pulled herself up into the cargo hold before turning to the line of 614-AvA speeder bikes at the back of the transport.

“Smuggling crew nicked these from an Imperial base on Lothal,” Melshi said. “Captain Sartha said you’d know how to reprogram the targeting systems.”

Bix nodded toward the nearest bike’s control pod. 

“Help me get the casing off?”

Melshi took the hydrospanner she passed him and worked at loosening the bolts while she scraped at the scoring that had partially fused the carbon plating on one side. When she finished she slid the flat blade of her chisel beneath the edge of the panel.

“Watch your fingers,” she said, and then they pried the cover loose so she could examine the interior. “The wiring’s in decent shape. If the other bikes are in the same state, it will probably take a week or so.” She looked up at him. “You’re pretty handy with a spanner.”

“Plenty of practice on Narkina. And you know what they say: never let a good prison sentence go to waste.”

Bix tilted her head, a small smile forming at the edge of her lips.

“That was a joke,” she observed.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“No, no, that was almost funny. You should keep practicing.”

Melshi chuckled, feeling a smile of his own form as hers widened. 

“I’ll have to work on my material.”

[boneapplet]

From Rust and Bone pt.13

Chronicles of the Lost Primarch

Relationship: Rogal Dorn x oc/afab!reader

Warnings: alluded to illness

Word Count: 1397

Requested tag:@noncon-photobomb @beckyninja @blukitty40k @runin64 @ilovewolvezz

Masterlist

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7 | pt 8 | pt 9 | pt 10 | pt 11 | pt 12 | pt 13 | pt 14 | pt 15 | pt 16 | pt 17 | pt 18 | pt 19 | pt 20

Days pass by within the agri-spire, not in peace exactly, but in a kind of uneasy calm neither of them have known in weeks. The structure groans in the wind like an old ship hull, and somewhere above, a broken vent fan clicks every ten seconds like a faulty metronome. Still, it is dry. The power systems are responding—barely. A trickle of energy keeps heat in the walls and gives the storage lights a dull amber glow.

Kessa spends much of the first day resting, her cough raspier than before. The medicine helping—some—but Dorn notices her reaching for the wall more than once, grounding herself like she might fall. She waves him off, always the same: “Not the worst it’s been.”

While she recovers, Dorn sets himself to work. Clearing old grow-trays, dismantling collapsed rail systems in the upper stairwell, and re-routing a pressure seal to close off two of the breached chambers. It isn’t his fortress, not even close—but the act of rebuilding, of doing, offers structure. Purpose.

Kessa eventually joins him. Together, they scavenge broken drones for parts and map the full spire. She shows him the collapsed lift shaft and a sealed armory she’s never been able to open. In turn, he shows her how to secure a barricade using counterweight and tension hooks. In the quiet moments—by the heat of a salvaged thermal coil, or while stitching a tear in her cloak, she talks more.

"Before I had this place, I used to sleep in old vat-pods. Some still hummed when the wind caught ‘em right. Sounded like breathing."

Dorn gives a low grunt of acknowledgement. “How long have you been doing this?”

She shrugs. “Long enough the seasons blur.”

He turns her words over slowly. “Why keep coming back?”

Kessa doesn’t answer immediately. She picks at the seam of her gloves.

Then, quietly: “Because something out here remembers. The land, the machines, even the things we buried. It’s like... if I leave it too long, it forgets me back.”

The agri-spire becomes a kind of limbo—too quiet to be danger, not quiet enough to be safety. A place of waiting. Recovery.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The days shorten quickly. By the end of the first week, the sun barely crests the ridgeline before slipping into a murky veil of ochre clouds. The air turns sharp, brittle. Every breath outside the spire stings faintly, like ash scraped across the lungs. It isn’t the worst of it—not yet—but both Dorn and Kessa can feel the shift. The world is tightening its grip.

Inside, the agri-spire becomes their shelter, their fort. They partition a section of the main chamber for sleeping, clearing the irrigation decks for water capture, and repurpose scavenged panels to reinforce the outer seals. It isn’t secure in the Imperial sense—no fortress walls, no void-hardened gates—but it is enough to hold out against the wind and most things that come with it.

Dorn adjusts to the space quickly. Working with steady, almost obsessive focus—repairing what he can, reinforcing old support struts, even building a crude training rig from a collapsed hydro-frame. He sharpens his blade daily, not because he expects an attack, but because of ritual matters.

Kessa, for her part, moves even slower. Her flare-up has passed with the medicine she’d traded for, but with the cold surrounding them, she never quite regained her full breath. Her voice remains slightly hoarse, and some days she coughs until she must sit down. She hides it when she can. Dorn doesn’t press her.

Instead, he starts doing little things—silently reinforcing the steps where she walks most, adjusting the ration layout to ease her reach, making sure the warmth is centered around their bedrolls even when he takes a colder corner for himself. Neither of them speak of it.

The first blizzard hits four days after they seal the western door. It comes in hard and fast, sweeping across the plains with choking particulate and a shriek in the vents that makes the walls shudder. The beasts below lowed uneasily, clustering in the lower feeding levels where the structure’s warmth holds out longest.

They stay inside for two days, wrapped in scavenged blankets and thick clothes. Kessa works slowly on her notes—old logbooks she keeps, detailing cave routes, collapsed vent maps, and places the earth has split during past seasons. Dorn sometimes watches her sketch with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing more than the maps. One night, she breaks the quiet.

“You ever think about staying here?” she asks, not looking up from her charcoal lines. “Through the whole season, I mean.”

Dorn is seated nearby, repairing the bracing on his scavenged vambrace. He looks up, considering her words.

“You said it wouldn’t hold.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I’ve stayed here before. Not during a black gale, but close.”

He doesn’t answer at first. “If it holds, it holds.”

Her lips curl in a half-smile, tired but real. “Not exactly enthusiastic.”

“I’m still alive,” he retorts. “That’s enthusiasm enough.”

They fall back into the quiet again, but something has changed. Neither of them is racing anymore. No more forced marches or cliffside scrambles. Just the steady rhythm of survival, and the long silence of a world falling asleep under poisonous winds. In that stillness, something begins to settle between them—not comfort exactly, but the mutual tension of two people who know they might be the only living souls for miles, watching the world die a little more outside the walls.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the storm passes, they fall back into rhythm. Each morning, Dorn wakes up first. Stoking the heat vents they’d coaxed into life, carefully rationing the fuel bricks they'd traded for. Kessa waking to the warmth and the faint metallic smell of recycled air, her coughing now less frequent, though never quite gone.

The work is quiet and constant. There is no luxury of idleness—only preparation. Dorn reinforces the storage lockers into makeshift barricades for the exposed entry points. Kessa overhauls the old nutrient processors on the upper tier, tapping into her years of wrangling broken machinery with stubborn hands and low expectations.

One afternoon, Dorn finds her with both arms buried in a pipe junction, grease streaked across her face.

“It’s all corroded,” she mutters. “Water flow won’t hold if a real freeze hits.”

He crouches beside her. “Show me.”

She blinks at him, surprised. “You don’t—”

“I do now.”

So, she shows him. Slowly, methodically. He doesn’t speak much, but he watches her hands, mirroring her movements. Once, her hand brushed his while reaching for a broken valve core. Neither pull away.

That night, they share heat packs and a hard-won meal of preserved root and broth. Dorn chews in silence, but his gaze keeps drifting to her scarf—threadbare, patched at the ends.

The next day, he leaves early without telling her. When he returns, he brings back a strip of weatherproof lining from one of the lower storerooms. Ugly thing—stiff, dark green, covered in old agri-tag stenciling—but it is warm and thick. He hands it to her without a word.

Raising an eyebrow. “For fashion?”

“For your neck.”

She smiles. “Romantic.”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth twitches just slightly. That is enough. Later, she finds him shaping the length of a pipe into a better tool grip. Crouching beside him and holds out one of her old vent masks.

“The filters are dead,” she supplies. “But the seal’s still good. Could be useful for you if the spire vents turn.”

He accepts it without question. One evening, as dusk bruises the clouded sky, they stand at the spire’s viewing slit, watching the wind scatter ash across the cracked fields.

Leaning against the frame. “Still don’t like the quiet,” she softly says.

Dorn looks at her. “You think the storms have voices?”

“Not the storms,” she retorts. “The things inside them.”

He says nothing, but the way his jaw tightens says it all.

Kessa turns to him, her tone lighter. “Still think you were built for silence.”

Dorn gives a short breath—close to a laugh. “And you weren’t?”

She snorts. “I was built to curse at broken ducts and haul beasts uphill.”

They stand like that for a while, the storm sighing against the spire walls, their shared warmth stretching out like a tether.

[ottpopfic]

The Drafting Table (921 words) by ottpop Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jason Grace/Leo Valdez Characters: Jason Grace, Leo Valdez, The Waystation (Percy Jackson) - Character Additional Tags: Fluff without Plot, Short & Sweet, Wolf Speak, Married Couple, Cuddling & Snuggling, Jason being an eppy boy Series: Part 22 of Valgrace Good Future Summary: Leo has a drafting table in their room

Leo has a drafting table in their room

He's had it since the Way Station first made him a room, and it traveled with him when he started sharing a space with Jason. It's a nice wood one with a matching spinning stool, wooden gears and knobs for adjustments and a lamp attached to the back. It even has a few cubbies and cup holders for various protractors and pens, easy to tuck away and plenty of storage for spools of blueprint paper

And as much as he loves how open and communal all of the maker spaces are at the Way Station, sometimes Leo does need the alone and quiet to think. It's nice to have the drafting table then, and also in the middle of the night when things come to him in his sleep. Sleep is weird with demigods, magical inspiration from your dreams is not out of the norm, and when that strikes it can strike . 

It can be hard to get back to sleep after dreams like that, the only way to get further rest is to put it down on paper. 

It's a night like that tonight, the solution to the problem of the roof garden’s irrigation malfunction jolting him awake. Leo had carefully slid out of Jason’s arms and padded over to his drafting table to get down his ideas, slamming out the math and then reworking the system in rapid fire. He tries to be quiet as he sketches the new hose layout not wanting to wake the other man, he doesn't succeed

Leo hears his husband rouse. First shuffling, an arm out searching Leo’s side of the bed for him, blindly padding through the covers for a body that isn't there. Then there are a few waking huffs, snuffles and then a whine. Leo turns his stool away from his drafting table to check on him, Jason's brow is pinched as he pulls himself towards the waking world in search of where Leo has gone. When he gets his eyes open Jason whines again, more distressed than before 

“I'm over here mi cielo ” Leo softly calls, knowing how waking up alone can disorient Jason in the worst of ways. Jason just asks for him to come back in Wolf Speak as pathetically as he can, whimpering and huffing and rolling onto his back so his stomach is open and vulnerable, Leo slides away from his drafting table to answer him

Jason is usually pretty easy to soothe back to sleep, a few kisses and playing with his hair and he will go right back under until Leo is ready to join him again. But not always, sometimes if he's not holding Leo he can't resettle, wires crossing wrong without his extra heat. Tonight looks like that, the second Leo sets his hip on the edge of Jason’s side his husband rolls towards him and flings an arm around his waist, trying to pull him back to bed

Leo lets his man tug him in a bit, leaning back against the headboard and threading his finger into his hair. Jason gives a happy half-asleep hum, pillowing his head on Leo’s thigh. He gets himself cozy, nuzzling into Leo’s sleep pants and clinging with his arm like Leo is the biggest bestest most comforting teddy bear, letting out a huge content sigh as he resettles. Leo can't help but smile at his husband as he pets through his hair, it really is such an honor to see Jason like this

It's when Leo tries to re-extract himself that it becomes a problem.

He does go slow, attempting to slide Jason’s head off his lap and onto the pillow again, but the second Leo starts moving Jason just tightens his grip on his waist with a growl. It's very cute, his little pitched brow and the way his nose scrunches, but Jason is about three times as strong as Leo so if he wants Leo to stay there is not much he can do about it

“Cielito,” Leo chuckles “C’mon, lemme go cariño”

Jason just tells him ‘Fuck no’ in the sleepiest Wolf Speak imaginable, the lip curl not even going high enough to show the canine he's trying to flash, he doesn't even open his eyes

“Can I at least turn my light off?” Leo tries to compromise, but the Way Station does it for him. Leo guesses that it agrees with Jason about bedtime, “Traitor” Leo stage whispers out into the darkness

So Leo gives in, he's gotten enough down on paper to at least try and sleep again. 

“Scooch,” he tells his man, jostling Jason with his hip. His husband grumbles but does as he's told, trying to wiggle across the bed towards Leo’s side without letting him go. It's only half successful, but it doesn't matter because as soon as Leo is close to horizontal he's being reeled into his man’s arms. Leo is able to battle the octopus cuddle off long enough to nab a pillow before he's completely engulfed in a sleepy snuggly husband.

As soon as he's close to settling Leo is being sniffed, his husband burrowing his face into the back of his neck and breathing him in in a few short deep breaths. Then Jason lets out a big happy sigh, the kind that fills his whole broad chest, gives Leo one more big squeeze, and goes right back to sleep. It takes everything in Leo to keep from giggling, his husband can be so cute

[myfootyrthroat]

I really hate how people on here moralize any use of generative AI for any reason. People act like its some evil corrupting force that will atrophy your brain for even *playing around* with it to see what it can do. Your critical thinking skills aren't going to shrivel up and die because you asked chat gpt a question!!

I think there's definitely some ethical concerns with how the data was collected, and more specifically how companies are profiting off of it. But people take this to mean that just by *interacting* with an LLM that you are personally guilty of plagiarism, even if you never present that information as your own words, take it as undisputed truth, or try to pass it off as anything other than the output of an LLM

As for the environmental impact (I'm only speaking for LLMs here), 3ish watt hours is a commonly cited figure, but that might actually be a really high estimate. Still, even assuming 3 watt hours of energy, that is hardly anything. Running a 1500 watt space heater for *1* minute uses 25 watt hours of energy. Its like having a 60W incandescent lightbulb turned on for 3 minutes, or having a 9W LED bulb of equivalent brightness on for 20 minutes. If you own a lava lamp, it uses as much energy as 14 (or more) chat gpt responses for every hour that its on.

Sure that's more energy than a Google search, but most things are. And yeah it sucks that all of this energy adds up, especially when companies are trying to shoehorn it into everything, probably just as an excuse to collect more data to sell to advertisers, but I don't think that means that everyone who uses generative ai in any manner is responsible for every bad thing that its is used for.

I just hate that its impossible to talk about what using AI is actually like, because people would rather repeat the same talking points to feel morally superior. And I'm not even saying that AI is always, or even usually, good. It writes awful essays, makes incredibly bland art, and might tell you to eat a poisonous mushroom. Don't blindly trust LLMs. But they're not literally Satan, they're just complicated computer programs

Yeah, I don't rely on it for anything, but I've also used it enough to know what it's limitations are (and you hit them very quickly!)

There are obvious environmental concerns, but with a lot of things like water usage, they're not unique to genAI, and point to existing problems in the system (like why are open-loop water cooling systems so prevalent? That could obviously be improved. Hell, the heat could be harnessed.) And living in the US, our reliance on cars, center pivot irrigation, etc seem like larger issues.

But yeah, I agree, AI points out a lot of *larger issues* like labor, environmental concerns, IP rights, etc that were and will continue to be issues regardless of genAI. Putting the focus on AI alone doesn't actually improve any of those.

[xenophilderdragon]

One Good Time

A fic based on this post I made about how I believe Mic would do drag. It has since turned the gears in my brain, so there will be an AU coming (eventually). Crossposted to my ao3 here.

Not proofread, I stayed up late to write this. Enjoy!

“Absolutely not.” 

Shouta likes going to drag shows, that much was hardly a point of embarrassment for him. He can appreciate artistry for what it is, and the shows are fun. There’s nothing better than seeing his husband and his best friend up on stage having the times of their lives. He had a similar approach when Nemuri introduced him to burlesque last week, in preparation for the theme of the drag show for this week. It’s fun, it's entertaining, and the people are more fun, despite his social battery being all but nonexistent. 

He never once considered being in a drag show. 

“Come on! It’s amatuer night soon, so there won’t be any pressure to do anything too crazy! You can even go up with me or Nem if you’re so worried.” Hizashi turns around in his chair, pouting over at Shouta. He twirls his eyeshadow brush in his hand, sending glittery dust falling onto the ground. He chose a red eyeshadow today, which made his green eyes stand out even more. One side of his face had intricate, swooping lines that ended off in little hearts around his cheekbones. 

Shouta was draped across the velvet couch in one of the shared dressing rooms, hoping against all odds to go back to his nap. It’s a favorite spot of his after his shift at the workshop, and the showers they have here are almost as good as his own back home. Washing off the engine grease, motor oil, and seventeen different mystery smudges is always exciting with the odd soaps people leave for everyone to leave. Tonight, it was candied apple. Next week, who knows?

He’s spent many afternoons in here, napping on the couch while he waited for his friends to get ready. The other performers never bothered him, either. He’s woken up to steaming mugs of coffee or tea next to him late at night, blankets draped over him in the winter, and snacks placed on the table next to the couch. This is his home as much as it is Hizashi’s. 

It’s where they met, after all. 

“I don’t have any desire to go on stage, Hizashi. That’s it.”

“Don’t you think it would be fun, though?” Nemuri stands up from her own chair, her makeup completely done. She somehow made it look like hearts have been airbrushed onto her face, and her lips were done in a red and white checkerboard pattern, the centermost square containing a red heart in the middle. When she talks, it’s a little awkward, since she’s clearly attempting not to smudge her lips before it fully sets. 

They must be matching tonight.

“Whether it’s fun or not, it isn’t my thing.”

“But you’d look so good, Sho’. Come on! Just once, and if you don’t like it, I’ll never ask again!” Hizashi practically whines it out. “Pinky promise.”

“I’ll think about it.” 

That seems to be as good enough an answer as any for him, because those green eyes light up and blonde hair whips around with the force of how fast he spins in is chair. 

“You two! Hurry up!” The sound of Ivy, the owner of Club Revolution is firm when they enter the dressing room. They’re a sweet person, but they can be scary when it comes to keeping a schedule. Their brown eyes settle on Shouta, the clear culprit of slowing Hizashi down. 

“Shouta, stop distracting my openers right before they go on. Out, out, out, out!” They shoo Shouta out, something he knows better than to resist. He can talk to Shirakumo instead. 

Shirakumo works as a light and sound tech pretty much everywhere they’ll let him: high schools, dance studios, local cabaret theaters. As long as he’s backstage, he’s happy. Shouta met him in tech school. When he was getting his auto mechanic certification, Shirakumo was getting his welding certifications. He easily could be doing something that pays way, way better, but he chooses to do this. He even helped create an irrigation system for the community gardens (with scraps of materials Shouta provided from his shop). The community rewards them both for it. Shirakumo’s landlord is the owner of Club Revolution, and they never make him pay a dime. One of the patrons owns three of the restaurants in town, and if anyone is in need of a hot meal, they can come. It was a massive help to Shouta when he was living out of his car and devoting all the money he had to running his shop. Since meeting Hizashi though, money troubles were a thing of the past.

He can’t believe he landed a model, of all people, but he’s certainly not complaining. 

“Hey, Shouta.” 

“Hey Shirakumo.”

“You look especially worried today.” He laughs. “Did they ask you to–”

“Yes.” Shouta sits down at his regular table near the back. Not a lot of people like to sit directly next to the sound booth, and since it’s the furthest spot from the stage, it’s unpopular. It allows him to blend into the dim lights and talk to his friend while in between acts. A win all around. 

“And?”

“I don’t think drag is my thing.”

“How do you know that if you’ve never tried?”

“Are you going to try?” 

“Yeah! I think it’ll be fun!” Shirakumo grins, sure as ever. “I work the lights at all these shows, so it’s not like I can really do it any other time than ametuer night. I’m always told to keep the light shows to a minimum, if they aren’t someone who will draw a crowd.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t wanna do it, can I ask you to man the light booth then? It’s kinda all autonomous now, unless something breaks, but I should have everything fixed by then.”

“I…I’m still thinking on it.”

“We’ll talk after the show. I just got my cue.”

The lights fade out and the intermission music cuts. Shouta shuts up. 

A spotlight shines on the stage, revealing the owner of the club, in their own costume. It reminds Shouta vaguely of Cher in the movie Nemuri showed him a few days ago, Burlesque. Judging by the theme of the performances tonight, he was probably spot on.

“You know them, you love them, welcome our first performers of the night, Present Mic and Midnight!”

Shouta doesn’t care what anyone calls him for it, he’s hopelessly in love with his husband. Seeing him all dolled up on stage, a big grin on his face is all he needs to be happy. Shirakumo has described Shouta as looking like he has hearts in his eyes when watching Hizashi perform, and tonight would be no exception. He and Nemuri seemed to have gone for a “cupid” theme, their costumes looking straight out of a renaissance painting. Hizashi had a fake quiver full of heart-tipped arrows, and Nemuri had glittery wings that shimmered in the light. The song they do is in French, a language he does not know, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s entranced, eyes locked onto his husband. Shouta isn’t even sure he blinks until they both step into the crowd, doing the thing they do best: audience interaction. 

Nemuri spins around, collecting tips and sampling people’s drinks while Hizashi makes a very clear journey to him. Shouta feels like he’s being hunted in the best way possible, totally still when Hizashi circles Shouta’s chair, a hand dragging across his chest. The only break in his lip synching is when soft hands push his hair out of his face and even softer lips press a kiss to his forehead. Shouta felt his heart explode when Hizashi made eye contact with him, winked, and lightly tapped the tip of one of the arrows to Shouta’s chest before quickly sauntering away.

He gets to go home to that flat ass every single night. 

~

That night, Shouta stays awake thinking. It’s not an uncommon thing for him to do, with his numerous issues sleeping. He’s lucky Hizashi is such a heavy sleeper, because his nights wandering around would have definitely led to divorce by now. Right now, there were no dishes to wash, no floors to scrub, no laundry to fold. Instead, he would go into the basement to clear his head. 

Hizashi seemed genuinely upset at Shouta’s immediate refusal to try drag with him. Shouta knows that his husband would never actually force or pressure him into doing something he doesn’t want to do, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be sad about something. It’s less about Shouta not wanting to do drag and more about him not knowing how. Hizashi and Nemuri have explained time and time again that rules are not the purpose of drag. Uniqueness and individuality are the things he’s heard them and the other performers say to new, fresh faces. Subverting societal norms and expectations is the heart of it, but to Shouta, that’s easier said than done.

Shouta Aizawa never was the most ‘artsy’ kid in school. He didn’t do musical theater, he didn’t do marching band, he didn’t participate in any of the art competitions his high school hosted. He wasn’t well connected, he didn’t do any sports, he just kept to himself until he graduated. 

He did, however, have an intense, unshakable interest in aerial arts. 

It was born of a silly desire in middle school to run away and join the circus. His parents didn’t exactly approve of his sexuality when he started to question it. He still has nightmares about asking what he thought was an innocent question at dinner one night: was it possible for him, as a boy, to also like boys? 

He was grounded for three months. 

He made another mistake in high school, when they found out he was writing love letters to another boy in his class. They nearly sent him to a conversion camp for that. 

Shouta held onto the idea that, if by some miracle, he got good enough to join the circus, he could do that, rather than ever having to deal with his parents again. He read all the books his local libraries had on it, hoping to at least train his body for the time he could take classes. His muscle gain pleased his parents enough for them to leave him to his own devices come high school. Shouta didn’t really “reach for the stars,” as it were, for fear of picking “the wrong thing” and being retaliated against by his parents. He tried his best to fit in, but it never quite worked. Something was different with him, and he never had the freedom to explore what. 

Being a mechanic was the only compromise they could ever hope to come to that led to him being left alone. It was ‘manly’ enough for his father and profitable enough for his mother. Shouta does like working on cars, though. The feeling of fixing something that’s broken and knowing it will hold, the feeling of doing something with his own two hands is immensely satisfying. 

Shouta never did drop his fascination for the aerial arts though. He took classes wherever they would let him, community centers, workshops for performing troupes, private lessons when he could afford it. Even now, decades later, the basement of his and Hizashi’s house is home to a sturdy set of hooks for him to practice with his silks. 

It always did the trick for clearing his head. 

Being up in the air, tangled in his silks, with nothing but his own strength and skill to keep him there helped the rest of the world fall away. There was nothing but him and the cloth he wrapped around himself. 

What could he possibly perform in front of a crowd? He’s awful at lip synching, Nemuri told him that. Voguing looks like something that would give him head trauma if he tried it, and god forbid someone asks him to sing. He saw someone last year do a puppet show in veggietales themed drag. The audience loved that, but Shouta is nowhere near that bold. He isn’t all that creative or skilled, either. He can’t exactly show people how to change their brake pads on stage. 

He sighs, slowly sliding down from his perch near the hooks in the ceiling. He really should get to bed before Hizashi notices he’s gone. He gets grumpy when that happens. In the middle of his descent down, a voice makes him stop, upside down and still suspended in the air. 

“Sho’?”

He stops in his tracks, hands gripping at the silks to still his motions. Hizashi’s hair is a mess of blonde, falling out of what Shouta can’t tell was a bun or a ponytail. His red rimmed glasses are crooked on his face, slipping down by every nod of his head. Clearly, his husband is barely awake. 

“What are you doing down here? Come back to bed.” Hizashi steps closer, careful not to stay directly under Shouta. Soft hands grab at his face, tilting his head up–or down, since he’s flipped–and green eyes shine at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He sighs softly, readjusting his grip and leaning his face into the touch. “Just thinking.”

“Oh yeah, ‘bout what?” Hizashi places a gentle kiss to Shouta’s lips, mimicking the beloved ‘Spiderman kiss’ Hizashi loves so much. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was very aware of how he’s dangling, Shouta would have hit the ground. He nudges his head free from Hizashi’s grip and slides the rest of the way down. When he gets back on his feet, he’s a little wobbly, from the headrush or the kiss, he isn’t sure. 

“I…think I want to try drag. Just once.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Really. I mean it.” Shouta rests one of his hands on Hizashi’s waist and squeezes reassuringly. “I have some questions, though.”

~

“No.”

“It’s really not that bad–”

“I am not tucking.” 

“Are you sure? You have, like, a lot to hide.” Hizashi’s grin is lecherous and accompanied by a shameless flicker down to Shouta’s crotch. A couple nearby performers whistle lowly and laugh amongst themselves at the comment. 

Shouta’s face flushes red in record speed. “I didn’t shave, so that’s going to be a no.”

Hizashi grimaces, as if remembering the agony it was when he missed a spot and tucked anyways, years ago. “Fine, fine, no tucking. At the very least put on these.” Hizashi holds up a pair of skin tone panties. “They’re tucking panties. I used them when I was just starting out and way, way too scared to tuck.”

“Oh.” Shouta was aware such a thing existed, but he never really connected the dots. He did his best to mind his business when anyone was talking about their groins. 

“Here, I’ll help, okay?” Hizashi ushers Shouta into one of the only changing rooms with a door–one he and Hizashi have rendezvoused in a handful of times over the years–and gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Just remember, pretty hurts, but pretty isn’t agonizing.”

Drag isn’t his thing. He said it over and over again in the days leading up to tonight. 

Yet, looking at himself in the mirror, twirling around and watching the skirts of his costume–because that’s what it is, really–he can barely recognize himself. Hizashi outdid himself with the makeup, covering up all his “mannish” features and softening all the sharp edges of his face. He even managed to cover up the bags under his eyes. Dark, smokey eyeshadow outlined his eyes, and intricate lines of eyeliner connected his eyes to his black lips.  

They went for a mummy sort of look, to match his otherwise bland color palette in his day to day and performance style of choice. While he couldn’t properly rig the place to do aerial silks, he could do something with an aerial hoop, since that didn’t require suspension from the ceiling. The bandages were a nod to his art of choice. 

His costume looked a lot like actual bandages, up one leg, around his hips, barely covering his midriff and chest, before curling around his arms. Nemuri added little trails of fake bandages that loosely resembled the shredded frills of a skirt. It was tame, all things considered, but it was all he could handle at once. This isn’t his thing. 

Hizashi picked the name “Eraserhead” for his stage name, a vulgar, embarrassing name that he absolutely could never have dreamed up. If it was only for one night, then he would deal with it. Shouta turns around, careful as he can be in the heels another long time performer lent to him. He wasn’t sure how the audience would receive it, but he knew one thing for sure. 

He looks damn good. 

Shouta has never actually performed in front of a crowd before. The silks classes he took at a local community center had monthly recitals, but he never partook in. As an adult, work got in the way. As a teenager, he was scared of his parents finding out. They thought he was taking swimming lessons. 

Club Revolution is somewhere his parents would never dare go. He remembers passing by it, when it first opened. He remembers seeing all the patrons dressed to the nines in all sorts of unique, outrageous, eccentric styles he’d never even imagined before. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, but he was awed. He didn’t know people could dress like that at the time. He didn’t know there were so many ways people could look. He got so distracted by the bright lights and pretty clothes that he lost track of his parents. He immediately–since he was a child–burst into tears right where he stood. One of the lined up patrons stepped out of line, crouched down to his level, and calmly talked him through his tears. He doesn’t remember a lot about them, except that they vaguely reminded him of a peacock, with their bright costume and dark braided hair full of intricate beads, gems, and feathers. 

It didn’t take long at all for his parents to realize their kid wasn’t with them. When they backtracked, they all but snatched Shouta up into their arms and barked profanities at the person who was kind enough to check up on a lost kid. He remembers distinctively watching his father spit at this person before turning on his heel and rushing away. Despite that, the person smiled at Shouta as he was carried away.

That stuck with him, even though it took him five years to realize why his parents acted like that. 

Now, he’s in his thirties, dressed up in an outfit he never would have dreamed of being in, in that very same club he wanted so, so badly to see the inside of as a teenager, getting ready to perform. He has his husband giving him a thumbs up from behind the curtain, Shirakumo grinning over at him from the soundbooth, and Nemuri pushing him forward in those way too tall heels. There’s an audience of people just like him, or maybe not at all like him, just gathered here, unsure like he was the first time he came. People sure of themselves, people confused, people somewhere in between. A strange little picture frame of people just looking for a place to call home, a place to get away from it all, a place to just be. They don’t care if he’s amazing or if he sucks, so why should he? The three people he cares about most, his own little family, think he looks fantastic. That he is fantastic. And he believes them. 

For once, Shouta thinks that everything will be okay. 

Is this what freedom truly means? 

Is this what he’s been chasing all his life?

~

“So?” Hizashi sits next to him at his spot backstage. The performance was a blur from the moment he stepped out. Shouta couldn’t remember a damn thing he did, whether from nerves or excitement. He did know one thing though. 

“It was fun.” He admits, leaning his head on Hizashi’s shoulder. An arm wraps around his own. 

“Would you do it again?”

“Absolutely not.” His response is met with a loud laugh. 

“You did wonderful out there, you know. I’m very proud of you for trying.”

“Thanks, ‘Zashi.” Shouta’s voice cracks, and an unexpected wave of emotion hits him all at once. Before he knows it, he’s sniffling and feeling tears run down his face, stinging his eyes on account of all the makeup. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. He isn’t sad, quite the opposite. The last time he felt this happy was on his wedding day. 

“Is my baby crying?” Hizashi sounds worried, moving down to kneel in front of Shouta. 

“Only a little. They’re good tears.”

“Those are the ones I like to see.” Hizashi kisses each one of his knuckles individually, before trailing up, up, up his arm, his shoulders, his neck, his jaw, and then finally to his face, where rather than kissing the tears away, Hizashi presses the flat of his tongue to Shouta’s cheek and licks them away. 

“You’re so fucking weird, ‘Zashi.” Shouta laughs, tugging his husband up off the ground. 

“You love it.” Hizashi stands up fully and offers a hand to Shouta. He stumbles a bit, wobbly on his feet. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to walking in heels, and quite frankly, he hopes he never has to again. Not ones this high, at least. “Wanna keep those heels till we get home, handsome? They’re doing something to me.”

“These aren’t mine, remember?” 

“A shame.” Hizashi pouts. “We’ll have to get you some.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you idiot.”

“That can be arranged.”

[the-hinky-panda]

War of the Roses Series: Part II

Warning: Mention of miscarriages

Next time ends up being a couple weeks later when Bill and his crew arrive in Tulsa to survey the land that’s going to be turned into a weed farm. Bill had been trying to come up with an excuse to show up at Thresher’s door, asking if you happen to be around, just so he could see you again. That accidental kiss in the coatroom has left his world slightly askew. He isn’t sure if seeing you again is going to put it right again or tilt it even more off-balance. So when Carl suggested they pay a visit to Thresher to make sure he really was set up to start the business, Bill jumped on the idea. 

When they arrive at the house, Bill is constantly searching the background for you, or any sign of you. The house is massive, all dark wood, dim lighting, and expensive art work. There’s a gigantic medieval tapestry that hangs behind the large mahogany desk in Cal’s office. There’s no warmth to the belongings, no family history. Everything in here is a showcase of trophies, expensive baubles collected to show wealth. 

He thinks of the hundred year old bronze of a cowboy on a bucking bronco that his grandfather bought after making his first million dollars. The Toulouse-Lautrec painting his grandmother bought to hang in the dining room so guests could converse over the subject matter of a young woman seated at a table. There were silver trophies, cups, and punch bowls his father had won on reining horses. Hell, sitting on his desk at the autoparts warehouse was a signed baseball from Mickey Mantle that his father had secured for him. 

The difference between generational wealth and new money. 

Cal spreads out a map on the desk and shows where the fields are going to be located. There are places marked for where the greenhouses are currently being built and he’ll show them the progress in that construction that is almost complete. Bill has to give it to him, he’s thorough and organized in the approach. That’s a good sign. What’s not that great of a sign is that there’s no personal pictures of you in the office. There’s framed portraits of Cal and what look to be his relatives but not one picture of you. It irks Bill. 

He doesn’t see you, or any presence of you, in the house. He knows he’s not going to see you out on the land and greenhouse tour. It does make it easier to concentrate on Cal and his development plans. Bill has to admit, this may just be the top producing weed farm out of all the ones he has growing. The one to beat would be in Texas but Texas is prone to drought and that could be an issue in another year or two. Cal has had the foresight to acknowledge drought as a problem and has a mobile irrigation system that will cover most of the acreage. They’re riding back from the demo of the irrigation system when Cal invites Bill and his guys to stay for dinner. It gives Bill the opportunity he’s been waiting for. 

“Is your wife going to mind having to feed all of us?” 

Cal shakes his head. “No, she likes cooking. At least that’s what she said this morning when I told her you were coming today to have a look around.” 

So you are around, know he’s here, and offer to make food for everyone. He takes it as a positive sign, shaky as it is, that perhaps that kiss has had lingering effects on you as well. He uses this time, just the two of them in the four wheel drive UTV, to try to get more information out of Cal. 

“How long have you two been married?” 

“Six years.” Cal frowns. “That might be it though.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Let’s just say she’s not exactly holding up her end of the bargain.” He sighs. “Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. You ever been married?” 

“Once upon a time,” Bill looks out over the gently rolling hills and wonders what exactly is the bargain between you and Cal. “She was from California and thought she’d give farm life a try. She didn’t care for it or me. Moved back to San Franscisco and married some silicon valley fucker.” 

“You would think with the lives we provide them, scenery like this, homes like ours, never wanting for anything, they would be motivated to do their actual fucking jobs. But they’re never satisfied are they?” 

Bill bites his tongue because he doesn’t know the details of what Cal is talking about and it causes him hesitation to agree with anything when he doesn’t know both sides of the story. 

***

As soon as the meal is over, when the last dessert fork has been laid on the table, you excuse yourself from the table. It’s not the first time that you’ve attended a business dinner at the house and your presence is never welcome past the completion of the meal. The house staff clear the dishes and set everything back to its pristine condition while the men find some appropriate spot either inside or outside to smoke their cigars, sip their whiskey, and talk about their interests.  

You remove yourself from the gathering and head down to the small barn that Cal built for you and your four horses. He refuses to have any more than that because the horses you have don’t make money, not real money at least. There’s really only one horse that has a six figure value but he’s a retired reining horse. Two are classified as therapy horses and the other one is just a sedate trail horse. You’re thankful Cal allows them on his property at all but you’re not sure for how much longer they’ll be there. 

After your return from Kansas City, Cal gave you an ultimatum. You had one more chance to deliver a healthy baby before divorce papers were drawn up. Your parents have already told you that if a divorce occurs, you would not be welcome back to Texas. Your sister has already had three children in the last six years so infertility shouldn’t be an issue for you. Therefore, you must be doing something on purpose to cause the trio of miscarriages. But you don’t know if you can handle another pregnancy, another loss. Every time you lose a baby, a piece of your soul goes with them. Maybe if Cal showed some sympathy towards you it would be worth another risk but you doubt he’s going to change his ways now. 

You like being in the barn at this time of the day. The stable manager is gone for the evening and it’s just you and the horses. You put the halter on one of the therapy horses and tie him to the cross ties so you can brush him down. There’s a couple students from a school program that are coming out tomorrow to ride and you want the horses to be clean and ready for the appointment. 

The truth of the matter is, you needed to get out of the house, away from Bill specifically. You had spent the last two weeks replaying that kiss in the coat room in your head on a constant loop, trying to remember the exact feel of his lips on yours, the sharpness of his cologne, the gentleness of his hands. You were ashamed to admit that there were times when your daydreaming was so immersive that when you came back to reality you’re startled by seeing ice blue eyes instead of whiskey brown. 

Now, he was sitting directly across the dining table from you, the candlelight dancing across his tanned skin and highlighting the flecks of green in his eyes. You hadn’t seen those before in the dim light of the coat room. His smile is different when Cal says something humorous and then when he makes eye contact with you. It’s more subtle, more personal in a way that made your face heat up and you had to concentrate on the feel of the linen napkin in your lap. But then your mind drifted from the napkin to what it would feel like to run your fingers over his stubbled jaw, into his dark hair. The way he held his wine glass, the round bowl sitting perfectly in the wide expanse of his hand, was practically obscene. You were afraid to stand up when dinner was over because your knees were so fucking weak. 

You take a deep breath and lean your forehead against the sinews in the horse’s neck. You had never believed just sitting across from someone could create such want. That is the part you struggle with, you want Bill in a way that you have never experienced before. You’ve tried to feel that way with Cal, tried to feel the passion and desire but it was never there. Your wedding night had been spent on your back, tense, and staring at the ceiling. You were too afraid to engage and Cal never did anything to encourage you otherwise. So even though you had that desire for Bill, you don’t know what to do with it. It’s frustrating on multiple levels and that’s why you sought out the horses. 

“Hello?” 

Your eyes fly open and your breath catches in your throat. “Fuck.” 

Bill is standing in the doorway of the barn. “Sorry, I didn’t think anyone was down here. Cal said I could check out the horses.” 

He doesn’t realize it’s you. You’re too far away and most likely backlit. Taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the rush of nerves that cause goosebumps to race across your skin, you step around the horse. 

“That’s fine, Bill. It’s just me.” 

The problem is, Bill is not backlit. You can see his facial expression perfectly. And when he starts to move towards you, with dark eyes and clear intent in his step, you realize it is not fine. There is no hesitation when he reaches you, when his palms cover your cheeks and he kisses you with such force you have no choice but to hold onto him. You feel his fingers apply pressure on your jaw, permission to deepen the kiss, and you grant it immediately. Whiskey and raspberries, that’s what he tastes like and you’re becoming lightheaded. When he finally releases you, it’s to rest his forehead against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re even sweeter than I remember.” 

You smile at that, your fingers doing what you had wanted to do at dinner and skate across the scruff on his cheeks. “I can’t stop remembering.” 

He kisses you again, moving you until your back is against a stall door. His one hand rests at the back of your head to make sure you have a buffer between your skull and the metal bars. The other moves slowly from your waist, rising up your rib cage until he cradles your breast the same way he held the wine glass. You gasp when his thumb drags over your nipple, even through your shirt and bra, a moan coming from him when you arch your back. He takes the opportunity to slide his knee between your thighs and you grab fistfuls of his shirt to hold yourself upright. 

“You like that,” he whispers in a rough voice. 

You can’t even form words right now. Everything about this is new to you. The desire for this man, to give yourself to him and whatever he wants to do to you, is more intoxicating than the entire wine cellar in the house. You grind down on his thigh and your wontoness surprises you. 

“I need to hear you say it.” 

Your mind is completely shrouded in want you have no idea what he wants you to say. “Wha…what?” 

His cheeks are flushed, his pupils blown completely black. “Do you want to do this?” 

You nod your head immediately. “Yes, please.” 

He groans as he kisses you again, nipping at your lower lip. He moves his thigh up higher and you move against it. The seam of your jeans with the flex of his muscle provides the perfect pressure on your clit. Your fingers dig into the sinews of his shoulders. 

“Fu…fuck…”

He leans back to watch your face. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Come for me. I want to see you come.” 

Your head tips back as you shake when the release breaks over you. You bite your lip so hard to keep from making noise that you taste the tang of copper. You’re sweating and panting, still holding onto Bill because you’re shaking so hard, you can’t stand. You’re surprised at the gentleness he shows in just holding you, gently running his hands over your back and shoulders. 

When you get partial functionality back in your hands, you reach down and fumble with his belt buckle. You found your release, he didn’t find his. You need to fix that, even the score. He reaches down and takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his lips and kissing your knuckles. “Next time.” 

You struggle with that mindset, where your pleasure comes first. You touch his face, trying to memorize all the details from the colors in his eyes, to the rasp of his scruff, to the shape of his mouth. “Next time, huh?” 

He gives you a quick smile before turning very serious again. “He doesn’t love you.” His lips skim across your cheekbone, your jawline, and he presses his face in the space where your neck meets your shoulder. His hands curl around your waist and shoulder blades, pressing you tightly against him. “I can’t imagine why.” 

Tears prick the back of your eyes as you lean into the embrace. “I can show you why he doesn’t.” 

[ladylooch]

A Different July - [Mack x David]

Request: Felix and his wife’s reaction to learning Mack is pregnant. 

Word Cont: 1.5k

It happens during a beginning of the year call about the farm.

There has been a skeleton crew running through the holidays, but now that the new year has turned over, the page needs to turn and new goals need to be established and prepared for. 

On the other side of the computer, the glare of the screen glows in Felix’s glasses. Mack sits on David’s left, listening in on the annual meeting as she has done since her and David have been engaged. She doesn’t say much, focuses only on being a sponge and absorbing whatever she can about their family business.

“How is feed looking for the animals right now? We got enough hay to get through the winter?” David murmurs, jotting down notes on the legal pad to his right.

“Yeah. Winter hasn’t been too bad. Should have more than enough to finish out the cold days.”

“Alright.” David says in acknowledgment. “So March, we know will be fertilizing and tilling the fields. Then checking how the equipment fared through the winter.”

“Send up a prayer that plow still works.” Felix mutters.

“I know it’s a peace of shit, but if we can get through this year, we will be in better shape next to replace it.”

“You said that last year.”

“I know I did, but now I mean it.” David reasons. “We had the unexpected cost of the irrigation system last summer and we gotta be careful with capital projects until we know what’s in store for us this season.”

“You’re cheaper than your daddy. Mrs. Mackenzie, you know he’s a cheap ass right?”

“Leave her alone.” David mutters. “She willingly married this cheap ass. Let’s keep it that way.”

“Weird. You told me money was no object for my happiness last night…” Mack trails off, teasing her husband. David looks over at her.

“You know why I said that.” He is referring to the baby that’s growing in her right now. Mack cocks an eyebrow, silently asking when they are going to tell him. David kisses her lips.

“Soon. I’ve got an idea.” He whispers then pulls back, directing his next words to Felix. “April and May will be full of planting.”

“That reminds me, Bob asked if he could use our S.E. pasture for his cattle in case his grass doesn’t come back over there.”

“No. I told him no twice already, that’s still my answer.”

“He’s a stubborn asshole.”

“Great, so you’ll relate to him better when you tell him my final answer?”

“June those interns from U of I will be down.” Felix ignores David. “Will have them work with Don to get the hay bales going.”

“Yeah, but give them something real to do. I want them all with an actual project that they present to Mack and I at the end of their internship. We have ‘em until August?”

“Yeah.” Felix nods. A small smile tugs the corners of Mack’s mouth up. By then, there will be another Carlson here.

“Good. Talk with the boys, see what problem areas or strategic initiatives we can get their brains churning on. Hey, can you grab Lorena for a second, if she’s around? Before we get to July? I want to talk to her about something that month.” Felix calls over his shoulder to Lorena who appears in the camera.

“Hey!” Mack greets before David can. 

“Hi kids!” She waves, squinting at the camera. “Sorry, I don’t have my glasses. Do I need them?”

“No.” David chuckles. He leans back in his chair, wrapping his arm around Mack’s shoulder. “So July is going to be a bit different this year than the previous ones.” Felix crosses his arms over his chest, tilting his head curiously at David. “I know we do a lot of sitting around and watching things grow in the summer months and this year, y’all can add Mack to that list of things.” 

“Wow.” Mack mutters, slapping his stomach. 

“I know I usually do the county fair booth at the end of the month, but I won’t be able to, so we will need someone to stand in. Lorena, I’m hoping you will.”

“Why can’t you do it?” Felix asks, not catching on even as Lorena brings her finger tips to her lips, hiding a smile.

“We will be on baby watch.” David says, then pauses. 

“Oh my god!” Lorena gasps, looking at her husband, lips pursed in a muted excited as if waiting for him to understand.

“Holy shit.” Felix suddenly blurts. Mack grabs the picture of her first ultrasound that David keeps on his desk. It’s nothing - barely the bean they had been talking about when she took the test. She flips the screen and the two Iowans lean forward, to get a good look. “Well I’ll be damned!” 

“A baby!!!! You’re having a baby!!!! Yes!!!!!” Lorena hops up and down beside Felix, then throws her arms around him. “A baby on the farm!”

Mack leans her head into David’s shoulder as they watch them celebrate. Felix gets out of his chair, hugging his wife. Then utters they need a drink to celebrate. He comes back with a bottle of scotch David’s father had given him to crack open for the occasion. It feels fitting, like somehow Chuck is there with them in that moment.

“Your parents would be so damn proud of you. Even happier to know you’re having a baby with the love of your life. Mrs. Mackenzie, they would love you.” Undeniable emption fills Felix’s tone. Mack reacts with tears of her own. David wipes them off her cheeks. 

“They sent her to me. Knew exactly what she would bring to my life. Now this one too.” He taps the picture frame Mack still holds. 

“Are you going to find out what you’re having?”

“Yes.” Mack confirms.

“Thought you two didn’t wanna do this?” Felix adds bluntly. Him and Lorena don’t have kids, not because they didn’t try, but several, devastating miscarriages forced them to stop. The two men have talked about a childless life and the way the world looks at that. David folds his lip into his mouth, staring at Mack. She smiles back at him.

“We love our life and want to bring a little more sunshine into this world.” David says simply. “Together.”

“You will be incredible parents.” Lorena says after a small sip of her scotch. “We are here to support in whatever you need too. Or stay out of it completely.”

“Speak for yourself.” Felix scowls. “I can’t let David teach this kid shit about farming.”

“What the hell.” David scoffs. “I do know what I’m doing.”

“You and those fancy degrees sure think so. Get you on a tractor every summer and you stammer around trying to remember how to turn the damn thing on.”

“That was a new-“ David stops, pursing his lips together. “Anyways, yes, Mack is due at the end of July, so I’ll be taking some sort of leave to help her recover and figure out newborn life.”

“Take all the time you need.” Felix says, getting serious. “The boys and I will cover everything.” 

“Oh! Mack, we can do a freezer packing party with some of the neighbors! We’ll stock everything up good for you until you two head back to New York. Give the boys any leftover y’all don’t get to.”

“Thank you.” Mack murmurs. “That will be fun and helpful.” Mack squeezes David’s thigh. 

“You know your old crib is out in the shed?” Felix points out. “Will have to move some stuff, but we could probably get it out and fix it up for you.”

“No.” Mack shakes her head immediately. “Nope. We can splurge on a new one I think.” Mack turns to look at David, giving him very clear direction with her eyes to agree with her.

“It’s built well. The crap you can buy today isn’t built to last.”

“Honey, you got the old man started.” David chuckles. “I’m with the wife on this. New baby, new crib. Why do we even have that still?”

“Your mom wanted to save it for the grand kids.”

“Denise has kids.” Felix rolls his eyes immediately. 

“She turned your daddy down when he asked.” 

“Well, fuck!” Mack exclaims, tears in her eyes again. “We have to.”

“No, we don’t.” David corrects his wife.

“I’ll pull it out just in case.” Felix assures them both. 

David sighs.

And so it begins.

[jacksgreysays]

Hiiii how about a prompt for Further Down Road One, political marriage!Shikasuke, maybe something from an Uchiha's POV on the Shikabane-hime's meteoric rise in power, international acclaim, and political capital? And how it ripples out onto the clan as a whole?

I mean, the point of Road One is that the arranged marriage itself already does SO MUCH to change the trajectory of the Uchiha clan’s fate for the better that, basically, everything else after that is kind of a bonus. The fact that Shikako’s smart and powerful and a good person is NICE, yes, but just being engaged to Sasuke already earned so much approval from the clan as a whole that it’s just kinda… ehhhh…

Although… and this somewhat of a tangent to the prompt… it would be funny if… okay, let me set this up by saying: I don’t necessarily like Itachi as a character. When he was kind of a psychopath and apparently just murdered his entire family to test his power, that was at least a… strength of will or conviction that kind of resonated thematically. Like, what if Will of Fire goes bad kind of thing. Or the pressures of being clan heir, of being pushed too hard and too fast, would lead to a genius of violence snapping and using said violence. Then when it turns out he was given orders to murder his entire family and his one condition was that Sasuke would get to live is like… what the fuck dude. It’s both backtracking to make Itachi weaker as a character and also, somehow, even more of a psychopath in my opinion. And, like, sure, Danzo maybe used Shisui’s Sharingan to unbreakable genjutsu him into it, but I don’t think that really absolves Itachi.

All that being said, theoretically in this kinder world of Road One, we never get to that point. Additionally, there’s less pressure on Itachi to continue to excel SO OVERTLY since the clan isn’t getting isolated and also because Shisui is still there and alive to share the burden.

BUT, I do still… the idea that the Uchiha elders have been wanting one of the clan to become Hokage is something that I hold to be true unless proven otherwise. I do think the clan elders would push more for Itachi to be Hokage—because he is clan heir and so has the pedigree, while Shisui (just as powerful, literally Flee On Sight in the bingo books at such a young age) I think we’ve fandom agreed is an orphan or at least a lesser branch of the Uchiha clan.

Anyway, all of the above leads me to: Shisui and Itachi trying to PR campaign for their sister-in-law Shikako (who WILL be an Uchiha once the marriage actually) to be the new “best candidate” for an Uchiha Hokage. Like, really just them listing off all of her accomplishments to not only the Uchiha elders but the rest of the clan (who, again, already quite like her).

I also think, in this universe, that Shikako would DO SOMETHING about Sora-ku once she feels a little more comfortable making decisions—or, at least, making proposals with attached logistics—for the Uchiha clan. Like. It’s a huge chunk of territory that seems to be an abandoned city. But it’s apparently functional enough to have a community of sorts of black marketeers and a support system. Like, it’s not so out of the way of things that nobody bothers with it, which implies that it could be rejuvenated with the time and resources. I think I read a theory once that it’s because Senju used their skills to desertify the area so there just wasn’t enough food to support a city of that size. BUT, now they’ve got Shikako. And Shikako’s connections. Whether that is the ANY clan alliance or Tenzo/Yamato or upper echelons of Hidden Mist’s administration (Haku is an ice user, yes, but like he and Zabuza wouldn’t throw a squad of Mist nin with water nature to help with irrigation at Shikako’s request for free) or even the literal oasis creating ancient god Gelel.

So, you know, she’s more than proven herself to the world. And with the Sora-ku rejuvenation, already brought a level of prosperity to the Uchiha clan than they could ever imagine. “Shikako for Hokage” is not a hard sell for Shisui and Itachi whatsoever (and also, they do think Sasuke would be so happy as her First Gentleman/trophy husband)

Yeah, that’s kind of all I can think of for this prompt in terms of it being different than how the Nara clan or DoS canon clans for that matter would view her meteoric rise. Hope you enjoyed, anon.

[fiftysevenacademics]

The Getty Villa, the museum built by oil tycoon J. Paul Getty and home to thousands of priceless antiquities, activated its emergency operations center in response to the fast-moving Palisades fire at 10:40 a.m. Tuesday. At 11:44 a.m., fire could be seen over the ridge, less than one mile away. By 12:27, flames had reached the property.

Fast-moving, wildly unpredictable and catastrophic in the damage it caused along a vast swath of prime coastline, the Palisades fire ultimately spared the Villa and its more than 44,000 objects, including many Roman, Greek and Etruscan relics dating from 6500 BC to AD 400.

J. Paul Getty Trust President and Chief Executive Katherine E. Fleming described for The Times the scene on the ground and how she and her staff worked from a conference center-turned-war room at the Getty Center in Brentwood, about 10 miles away — all while 16 staff members remained at the Villa to implement emergency protocols.

“We did get lucky in some ways, and people were rushing around,” Fleming said in an interview Wednesday evening after the most immediate danger had passed. “But there were also a lot of people who were really thoughtful about this over a long period of time, and I think that clearly paid off for us.”

Extensive brush-clearing over the last year, Fleming said, had been completed with the knowledge that fire is a way of life in Los Angeles, and that the region’s frequent periods of drought made a massively destructive fire inevitable. The museum had already pruned landscaping that might catch fire and made sure tree canopies were high off the ground. Low-lying brush had been significantly thinned. The grounds were irrigated Tuesday morning.

Fleming offered a riveting play-by-play of the day’s events. The staff members who remained at the Villa worked in emergency response, facilities, security and communications — each highly trained in emergency preparations. When the fire broke out, the biggest concern was protecting the collections from the damaging effects of smoke. The double-walled construction of the galleries provided significant protection, and at 10:45 a.m., the dampers — small valves that regulate airflow in a building’s HVAC system — were turned off, as was the air conditioning. The staff still smelled smoke, so the museum doors were sealed at 11:04 a.m. The smoke became overwhelming by 11:15, and at 11:20 the staff was sent an email alerting them that the Villa was closing.

About 20 minutes later, security swept the grounds to make sure only emergency staff was on site. Heat from the fire caused several cameras to fail to reboot. Ten minutes later, an aerial fire crew dropped water over the Villa’s ranch house, which Fleming said is at the perimeter of the property and most vulnerable to fire. (The ranch house was J. Paul Getty’s original residence and was not built with the same fire-resistant construction as the Villa.)

Fleming noted that communication between the two sites was difficult. Villa employees’ radios stopped transmitting when they were more than 100 feet away from one another. That meant staff in the Getty command center in Brentwood — about 15 people in total, sitting at a large conference table — had to relay pertinent information to each staffer at the Villa.

“We have cameras on pretty much every single conceivable part of the Villa property that you can zoom in with great specificity,” Fleming said. “There were instances where we would know something and have to relay it back to someone at the Villa.”

Over the course of the day and night, Fleming said, “we had all kinds of live video feed coming to us up at the Getty Center from the Villa.” When accumulating ash prevented the water from draining in the parking structure, a staff member was deployed to clear it.

At around 2:40 p.m., Fleming said, the perimeter wall behind the restaurant was in flames. Then, at close to 3:15 p.m., bushes directly above the outdoor classical theater caught fire. This was probably Fleming’s biggest moment of panic during the whole ordeal, she said, adding that it was “a total red herring.”

The fire came from a plant bed filled with rosemary.

“And lo and behold, just like if you sprinkle a bunch of rosemary on a pizza and put it under the broiler and it crackles and sparkles, and then very rapidly goes out,” Fleming said. “That happens ... and for someone like me, who doesn’t know a lot about how fires work, it looked really bright and fiery for a few moments.”

The wall flames died down on their own, but at 3:59 p.m., fire erupted at the museum’s pedestrian gate. Getty security put out the blaze with fire extinguishers in just six minutes. The Palisades fire grew large enough for staff at the Getty Center in Brentwood to see the flames by 5 p.m. At 6 p.m., museum officials made the decision to close that campus to help alleviate traffic in the area.

People on social media and news sites may have seen images of flames whipping next to a structure by the Getty Villa sign on Pacific Coast Highway. That structure was not the museum but rather Villa de Leon, a 35-room Italian Revival mansion that’s not affiliated with the museum.

Villa teams continued to monitor the fire threat throughout the night, and for now the Villa appears to be safe.

“A lot of what there was to burn has burned. The rosemary is gone. The low-level vegetation is gone,” said Fleming, who added that she was too superstitious to say the danger had completely passed.

[kalevalakryze]

The Seeds We Sow

The fic + art collaboration Art completed by @mirandemia for the @ahsokaevents Wildflowers collab! Find it on AO3!

Sabine Wren + Ahsoka Tano The soil was warm under her hands; Freshly turned and clumpy where she uncovered it from the ashen tones of the earth. “Life finds a way.” Ahsoka had told her upon setting out on this task. The water source wasn’t too far away, a still pool with sediment floating in the murky water. 

“We can get this cleaned up, can’t we Asha?” She called to the howler, snuffling through a patch of stubbornly prevailing grass nearby. She did not receive any response from the peculiar creature, though it was nice to have her to bounce ideas off of. 

The Noti had given her the scraps from an older trawler, dragged each time they moved to limit waste, carrying broken vaporators, gears, and even old power packs to blasters that must have been acquired from Thrawn’s troopers. At least she didn’t need to lug it too much further than their current campsite to get it near the water supply.  “Let’s see what we can do,” The Mandalorian talked aloud, boots crunching over the crumbling outer layer of the planet’s crust. 

First, Sabine grabbed old pipes from blown cooling systems, using her hands to dig out four long rows in the dirt, exposing nutrient-rich soil to the sunlight above. “Bet you guys missed the sun just as much as I do,” She chuckled warmly to a squirming lifeform. “You kinda look like an exogorth. Can I call you Exo?” The pad of her thumb brushed along the sliminess of the creature's side, laughing warmly to herself when it squiggled away. “Alright, Exo. I’m sorry I gotta move you, but hey, you keep pests away from my seeds, and this can be a mutually beneficial arrangement, got it?” 

The creature was set inside of a pile of upturned dirt, where it happily burrowed itself to be rid of the humanoid that dared interrupt its rest. 

Building the irrigation system was nothing new to Sabine Wren; In fact, it was something she understood almost as well as mixing her explosive paints. Back when rebel holdouts needed crops, she was often the one counted on to help them get started, and it was always something that helped her feel useful. 

A Mandalorian could destroy, and conquer, and a million other destructive things, but she was put in this Galaxy for more than that. She created, and saved, she strived every day for as long as she could remember to embrace her Mandalorian heritage, to be everything her ancestors could have wanted, and then some. 

It was through her continued work every day that she honored the patron of her House, Tarre Vizsla, it was through her dedication to her people that honored her Clan and the lives they’d once lived, and it was her determination that honored the Rebellion she’d spent so long fighting for. Everything she did was for her family, and right now? That family was found in Ahsoka and the Noti. 

Her purification system was simple in design, and it required the sacrifice of a power pack from her blaster to generate enough of a spark to keep the miniature solar array working. She could return with a new source for it one day, for when the sun grew dim and the gears needed to turn. For now, the blaster she’d painted in the blues of reliability and royalty was dismantled under a caring hand and slotted into the home of the system. 

Clean water trickled slowly with a quiet whir of machinery, sucking the water through and filtering out sediment as it pushed along the rows of water she’d dug out. “Hey, we did it,” She called to Asha, now dozing lazily in her interesting patch of grass. “Thanks,” She laughed, bubbling like the carbonation in The Outlander Club’s specialty beverage, warmed by the lull of a punk tongue hanging lazily past yellowed canines. 

With dampened soil, Sabine was able to meticulously lay each seed; They were from her Galaxy, so there was no telling if they would take to their new home, but she had hope, and she’d learned long ago just how far a little hope could stretch. Then, the compost that had been saved up was spread evenly over the rows, pressed in lightly to allow for the sprouts to push past without much resistance, though would not risk being washed away when the drought on this side of the planet would end at last. 

“You’ve done well,” Ahsoka’s voice was warm; Lighter than she was used to, over the course of her previous apprenticeship, that is. 

“Yeah? You think so?” The Mandalorian questioned genuinely from her spot knelt in the dirt, mud caked her armor and her flight suit, and streaks painted her face and dirtied her hair. The purple-haired woman turned her head to watch as Ahsoka dismounted her howler, allowing it to trundle to Asha’s lazy form. “I do,” The hand on her shoulder was warm. Sabine allowed the offered strength to rise from her knelt position. “Lunch is ready back at camp, you look like you could use it,” The jab was light, bouncing off her armor with a light chuckle. 

“You’re tellin’ me… Think everything will be safe here?” 

Ahsoka’s gaze turned to the horizon, searching. When she shook her head in the affirmative, Sabine’s shoulders relaxed. “Do you think they’re okay…” She questioned after a moment. 

It didn’t take a genius to understand who she was asking after. “Shin will be alright, I’m sure of it. Baylan… worries me, he’s treading a dangerous path, one we will have to follow, sooner than later.” 

As the Master and Apprentice rode their howlers the short distance back to camp, Sabine’s fingers threaded through the thick, dark wool of Asha’s neck. “Thanks,” 

Ahsoka’s head bowed towards her. She could have kept the thoughts to herself, as she’d once had. But even Ahsoka Tano learned when it was time to truly be more than the people who’d trained you. Where Obi-Wan and Anakin may have kept themselves quiet, she was determined to break the cycle.  Shin Hati

Communication with the bandits was slow. Truly, Shin had heard of droids learning and adapting better than this sorry lot. All she received from them were grunts, either of indignation, or approval, she could only tell after they’d begun moving, either to follow her orders or to blatantly ignore them. 

The most recent act of ignorance from the clan found Shin stubbornly figuring out ways to feed them all. They’d seemed unbothered by the prospect that they could go hungry, as if they could pillage their way across Peridea; and maybe they could have, if not for the Jedi and Sabine protecting their favorite victims now. Shin knew better than to allow themselves to march into that camp, she knew what the Torguta and Mandalorian were capable of. 

Chasing away the nomads that had settled in this desolate canyon had been simple, natural, even. The moment they saw a blood-orange blade on the horizon, and saw the sun glinting off the worn paint of her bandit’s heads, most were intelligent enough to turn tail. It had even stocked them up with enough supplies to last until… well… Until what, Shin wasn’t sure yet, but they’d be damned if they didn’t figure it out soon. 

There was a water source nearby, old, rickety purifiers ran as they refilled the jugs as fast as her men could deplete them. They also noticed a raised bed of soil, something she didn’t see often in the wastes like this. There were no seeds nearby, though she could see plants sprouting from a host nearby. 

Eyes as dreary as their landscape peered around the supplies that had been left. This was new, but they had always been a resourceful student. If taking lives was so natural, then surely they would be able to sustain it, especially in the most non-sentient way life existed.

The soil had been freshly turned, Shin learned as their fingers delved into the raised garden bed. The travelers had been planning on making this place their home for the season as well. No matter, it was Shin’s people who were victorious in the end, and they would reap the profits of prior labors… and Shin’s own. 

Dirt spilled into the many tears in their gloves, worn from the months of use and with no true materials to repair them. The pebbles were harsh, though their skin was learning to grow harsher. Eventually, the tanned gorraslug material was set aside, resting precariously on a wooden support, allowing them to dig deeper, pushing grime up under their fingernails as they worked to bury the remains of the food supply. 

Plasto pails sat near the purifiers, and it was just Shin’s luck that the first pail they filled with water would crack under the unforgiving weight as it was filled to the brim. “Karabast!” They growled at the remains of the bucket, water soaking their boots and turning the ground at their feet into sloshing mud. 

The Force, a fickle ally, refused to answer their call in their growing frustrations; Even as they attempted to channel their annoyance into the pressure of water, thin plasto, and the space they wanted to create between it and the ground. 

Huffing and puffing, Shin found themselves resorting to other means; A spear was sent between the weak metal handles of the pail, allowing her the leverage to lift it, keeping it balanced on her shoulder with minimal spillage as she lugged it to the beds, cursing the whole way. 

By the time each sprout had a home in the dirt, Shin’s hands, tunic, and face were streaked with mud, sweat cutting tracks through the grime as they sat back against a boulder to admire their work. A bandit passed by them, Shin watched with narrowed eyes as they paused at her work. 

No words were spoken between them as they turned back to look at the filthy blonde, though Shin had felt the understanding in the nod of their head. A dented canteen was removed from their hip and passed nonchalantly to her on their way back to sorting through their treasures of the raid. 

The sinking of the sun was met with a wet nose sniffling at long-dry boots, a dirty white howler in search of food. With her fingers carding through the soft fur at its neck, Shin rose at last, acquiescent to find the poor beast something to eat, and with a rumbling of her own stomach, something for herself as well. 

Ezra Bridger Krownest had always been cold, but if there was anything Ezra Bridger had learned in his short experiences with Clan Wren, it was the planet's unique ability to nurture all kinds of life. 

This was why, as the Ghost touched down on a desolate surface, and no gruff voices came over their comms to demand clearance, Ezra felt the loss of those unique lives as distinctly as he had. The Jedi paused in the entryway, boot hovering just over the ramp. “Ezra?” Hera called, a gloved hand coming to rest on his shoulder. 

A deep breath and a warm smile recentered him as he used the familiar touch on his shoulder to ground himself. “I’m alright… It’s just hard not to notice…” 

Hera’s head dipped in understanding; She hadn’t made the venture yet, had been waiting on Sabine’s word to visit with the heir, the day had never come, until Ezra voiced his desire to do something for her family. “We’ll be right here with you,” She promised, glancing away from Ezra to peek down at Jacen, bundled up and standing by her side, with Chopper rolling just behind them once they began walking. 

The Wren stronghold was dark and untouched, mountains of snow coated the roof, while dangerous icicles hung dangerously along the large transparisteel windows. “Do you think it’ll grow here?” Jacen asked as the toe of his boot caught on a  patch of slippery ice. . 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ezra mused out loud as he knelt near one of the windows. Peering through the dust, he could see the inside of the throne room, dark and desolate, with cobwebs hanging across each surface. The light that managed to cut through the grime still found a way to cast across the painting of the Matriarch of Clan Wren, lighting yellow and grey armor up in an effect that made them glow gold and silver. 

“Do you remember how it went?” Ezra questioned, unblinking from his sight against the glass, catching the barest reflection of his own eyes back at him. 

“Never did manage Mando’a,” Hera admitted, lowering herself into the snow beside him, allowing Jacen to tuck himself against her once more as she settled. He’d known Ursa, though Hera doubted he would have much memories of them, not with the separate wars they found themselves fighting as Sabine focused on finding Ezra. 

“Basic should be fine… It’s the memory that counts, right?” He tried to keep his tone light, tried to keep the calmness steady, though the emptiness seemed to echo the way his words caught around the tightness in his throat. Addam’s apple bobbing, he nodded his head towards the snow, beginning the process of clearing away the piles to the frozen earth underneath. 

They did not have every name of every warrior lost, and Ezra found himself regretting this, too naive and headstrong, too worried about the fight than the lives of the people he’d fought beside. He would return, when the seasons changed, when Sabine came out. She could tell them their names, and they would plant flowers for them as well, as a family again. 

The ground was frozen and solid, though after a while of digging and chipping away, he’d been successful in clearing three small holes. “Vormur can grow through anything,” He assured himself as he retrieved a small duracrete container, filled to the brim with dirt from Lothal, soft enough to cover the tops and hopefully prevent them from freezing over. “They’re Mandalorian, you know” A foreboding gaze was sent to the portain through the windows before he dropped a seed in each hole. Hera stayed silent, for him, for Sabine and Ahsoka, and for Clan Wren itself. 

“Jace, you wanna cover this up, for aunt ‘bine?” He offered, leaning back as he cleared his throat, hiding a sniffle as he wiped the rough nylon material of his sleeve under his nose. Small knees shuffled through the dirt as the boy inched closer, mittens sweeping through the uncovered dirt to start brushing it to the small array of flowers. “These smell really nice,” He commented as he worked, taking a big sniff as the dirt began to settle. “Aunt Sabine will really like this when she comes back-” The young Force-Sensitive boy paused then, fingers curling in his mittens as his brows drew together. “If she ever comes back…. Here, i mean.” He was quick to correct; No one aired their thoughts about the possibility of Sabine and Ahsoka’s return, not when Ezra himself had been gone so long. 

“Well, when she hears about all our hard work�� I’m sure she will,” Hera’s hand brushed over Jacen’s head, pulling the wool hat on his head askew. Final preparations were made to keep the flowers healthy and strong from the climate. Just as the sun began to crest the mountains, pink and golden light splashing across the grey landscape of the frozen lake. Before they could leave, the Rebels settled back in one last time, peering through dust covered windows at the haunting silhouette of the Countess of Krownest one last time. “Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Clan Wren.” Their Mando’a was rough and heavily accented, but the words seemed to release some of the weight on their shoulders, allowing them to return to their new war with a lighter conscience.