#Farmyard games

[owliepowlie]

Let's Get This Barnyard Party Started: A Farm-Tastic Kids' Birthday Bash!

Hey there, party enthusiasts and farm-loving families! If you’ve got a little one who’s been dreaming of a farmyard adventure for their birthday, it’s time to roll up your sleeves and get ready for a good ol’ barnyard bash. We’re talking about the kind of party that’ll make your kiddo’s eyes light up like the Fourth of July fireworks. So, grab your overalls and straw hats, because we’re diving…

[small-one-snoogle]

[eilidh-eternal]

You don't like silence

Part of the Metanoia series | Part 1 | Masterlist |

| SingleDad!Johnny x f!reader | 18+ MDNI | Johnny’s accent is thicker when he’s tired/talks to his family | CW grief, depression spiral, feelings of inadequacy, loss of appetite | Everyone has big feelings |

The house is silent, but inside your head a brumous storm swirls, wispy tendrils of fog curling around delicate gray matter.

Your routine—watching Johnny walk Isobel to school, going to work and coming home, just in time to glimpse Johnny leaving to retrieve her—has changed.

You still watch from the window, mug bleeding warmth into cold, stiff joints from between your palms. Peer around the curtains every morning as the pair amble down the pavement together. 

A new month brings a steady influx of meetings and end of quarter reporting, projected sales and last minute production tweaks, but your days are no busier than normal. Rarely miss a lunch break. Leave no later than three each afternoon. 

Dinner, if you have any, is ready by five.

Even so, restlessness lingers in the midnight moons hanging beneath your eyes, darkens the air around you with somnolent clouds, and you list in the torpid deluge that rains down. 

Sleep evades you altogether most nights, and you’ve made a game of picking out patterns in the knockdown. Faces, animals; nebulous, nameless things. 

Some nights, when the faces of strangers, burned into your retinas, find their way into the patterns of textured drywall, you listen.

Isobels room must be on the other side of yours, beds sharing a wall. On the nights you manage to make it upstairs, you can hear them both. Isobel’s slow and measured pronunciations. The lilt of Johnny’s voice, filling in the blanks where she pauses on a word she doesn’t yet know. 

They’ve finished all of her animal books, which means the imitated roars of big cats and bleats of farmyard animals have morphed into exaggerated accents. Sing-song rhymes about the importance of kindness, accepting differences, and other life lessons told through colorful illustrations and whimsical narratives.

Every now and then, if you’re lucky, she falls asleep within a few pages, and you can pretend that the low, pillowy rumble of Johnny reading is just for you. A gentle coaxing made of velvety words, swaddling your mind, heavy with exhaustion, and cradling it to his chest against the maelstrom you’re spiraling in.

Sometimes she stirs, woken hours later in the placid, milky hours before dawn, just as your eyes begin to droop. Tiny feet patter across the hardwood like rain, muffled in uneven intervals by what must be a rug or runner in the hall, on her way to Johnny’s room or the washroom maybe.

You wonder if it’s full of frilly, feminine things, her room. Pinks and purples, dolls and plushies. Does she have princesses or ballerinas on her bedding? Do posters and drawings line her walls or does floral, pasted wallpaper? 

She likes Mulan, you remember. A warrior. Fighter. Soldier. Like Johnny. 

Probably not so frilly, then.

Perhaps they could make a fighter out of you. Press you into the mold of their little family–strengthened by loss and galvanized with love–and breathe life into clay limbs. Carve a soldier from the malleable earth. Shape you into something useful.

Now, most of your nights are spent huddled in the living room, listening to the droning of the television. Throw blankets suck you down into the sofa like quicksand and each breath draws them tighter and tighter around you, filling pockets of air with crushed velvet and fleece. Tonight, you let them swallow you whole. Sink willingly into a latibule of plaid and warm cashmere.

The cold and quiet of your empty home isn’t so bad when you can hear Johnny moving about on the other side of the wall. Isn’t so unbearable when the warm timbre of his voice chases away the numbing fog that muddles your head.

There are nights that he calls you, like he knows. Knows that you're drowning in the silence.

He does that now, after he puts Isobel to bed for the night. Calls to ask about your week. Casts a lifeline into the churning ocean between you, procellous waves lofting you on spuming peaks, and calls your name from the battered, broken shore.

A lighthouse calling to a ship, lost in the mist on a perilous sea.

Last Thursday he asked about the cookies you made with Isobel. Asked if you would be willing to share the recipe with him–teach him–so that he could make them with her for a school event coming up in the spring. 

The tenderness with which he speaks of her is a balmy breeze for your gelid heart. Soothes the burn of ice floes in your veins. Melts weeks of tension from aching muscles.

Now, his voice is somber, pensive, as it filters through the lack of insulation between you. “Friday. No, ah havnae told ‘er yet. Jus’ got the call.” He pauses, and you think you hear a muffled sigh. He sounds tired, too, accent thicker than honeyed whiskey rolling off his tongue, dropping consonants in favor of deep, throaty vowels. “Aye, ah ken. She’ll be happy tae see ye though.”

He’s on the phone, talking about Isobel. They must have family visiting soon, or a family friend if Isobel knows them well enough to be excited.

You wonder what the MacTavish family is like, if they’re a rowdy bunch. If they’re a large, extended family. Johnny seems like the kind of man who comes from a close knit community, one where you grow up down the street from your cousins and spend summers terrorizing small towns together.

“I’ll talk tae ‘er in the mornin’. Ah- No.” There’s a pause again, and even with layers of sheetrock separating you, you can feel the weight of his silence. “No, Mam. She’s… ah worry. Leavin’ ‘er like this. Piss poor timin’.” 

He’s leaving? Without Isobel?

It’s muffled through the wall, and you feel like you can’t have heard that correctly. He mentioned the army, but you had thought, with a child at home, that his work wouldn't be the sort that requires travel. 

Ice floes turn to glaciers in your chest, frozen spikes threatening to pierce brittle, fragile muscle, and the clouds swirling overhead descend upon you.

Lost in the mist, and he’s leaving. 

He’s leaving, and he’s taking the sun with him. 

“Ye cannae keep it from the lassie forever, John. Ye havnae even told 'er what ye do?” 

Christ, this woman…

“She knows ‘bout the army,” he defends. “Cannae say much more.”

Fenella MacTavish clucks her disapproval. “Ye’re heids full of mince.” Dishes clatter and a cupboard closes a bit too forcefully on the other end of the line. 

Johnny runs a hand through the disheveled strands of his hair, overdue for a trim, well outside of regulation length. “Mam—”

“Dinnae ‘Mam’ me,” she cuts in. “John Alexander MacTavish, ye tell that lass what she’s gettin’ herself intae—or I will.”

“Mam,” he tries again, voice pitched low, “Not yet. Cannae send ‘er off, naw like I do wi’ Bell. It’s safe enough here.” You’re safe with him here. “Dinnae like knowin’ she’s alone—Christ, I can hardly stand tae have the wall between us when I ken she’s hurtin’—but there isnae anythin’ I can do that’s naw already been done. Kate’s made sure of that.”

Fenella huffs and he can’t quite make out the garbled muttering on his end, but he has a fair idea of what his mother is blathering about beneath her breath. “Kirsten—have ye gone tae see 'er?” she finally asks, mercifully shifting the conversation out of your direction. “Has Isobel?”

“No,” he admits, and guilt twists in barbed coils through his chest.

He’s been meaning to, to drive up for the weekend and take her to visit her mothers grave, now that she’s older. Stay with her gran and look through the old albums. She's only ever seen the few photos they have at home, hanging in the hall near the kitchen.

Sometimes she asks about her. If she liked the things she likes. The way rain freezes on the tall grasses and tree branches in the winter, making glass gardens of trellises and window boxes. Extra whipped cream and blueberries for her pancakes. 

If she would have walked with them to school in the mornings. Take her to the park down the block in the summer. Hiking in the fall, looking for wisps darting about beneath the fallen abscission.

Isobel is so much like her mother there are days Johnny swears it’s her refusing to eat the dinner he’s made. That it’s her complaining about cold weather and overcast skies in the heart of winter, bemoaning how long they have until spring revives the land. Swears it’s her voice that wakes him in the middle of the night. Her ghost, standing in the dimly lit doorway of his bedroom, a blanket pulled ‘round her shoulders and a teddy dangling from her hand.

“I’ll take ‘er, then.” Johnny can hear the grief that tempers his mothers voice, turning anguish to steely resolve. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening, let ‘er have a few hours with ye at home before ye say yer goodbyes.”

“Thank ye, Mam,” he says on a strained exhale, lungs rattling with fragments of his own grief. It slices into old wounds until pockets of air become sanguineous aquifers, bubbling up in his throat and leaving a sour, metallic taste on his tongue.

“I meant what I said earlier,” she reminds him. “Ye tell yer lass. Dinnae leave ‘er in the dark like ye did Kirsten.”

The line goes silent and Johnny sinks back into the old corduroy sofa, pushed up against the wall beside a shelf overflowing with picture books in the living room, and a ragged sigh unfurls from his chest. 

The television across from him is dark, turned off when he took Isobel upstairs for bed, but he can hear an old rerun of Taskmaster playing softly behind him.

He listens, every night, for you. For the sound of your fridge, opening and closing. The soft ‘clink’ of porcelain against granite. The oven timer or the microwave. 

He prefers the former. Knows, after these last few weeks, that you cook when you’re in a good mood. Usually go to bed soon after. The sound of the microwave precedes long, muted evenings and little sound from your side of the wall. He won’t hear the stairs creak beneath your sluggish feet until the wee hours of the morning. If at all.

He listens in the mornings, too, while he makes Isobel’s breakfast. Makes sure he can hear you doing the same. Smiles to himself when he glimpses movement in the window beside your door, a miniscule swaying of the curtain, and he holds Isobel’s hand a little tighter as they navigate lingering ice patches on the pavement. 

The phone call with his mother, making arrangements for Isobel, masked the sound of your movements earlier, and his fingers twitch against his leather phone case.

When your side of the wall is quiet, he knows a storm is brewing; that you’re sitting in the eye of it, waiting for the walls to close in around you.

He doesn’t know if you’ve eaten tonight. Can’t hear anything beyond the muffled television and occasional creak of the sofa beneath your shifting weight. 

So he calls.

One… two… three… four… “Hi, Johnny.” Soft and breathy. Like the air the words are spoken on has borrowed from the softness of your lips as it spills into the receiver.

This is the way you sound when you’re tired, he’s learned, all soft and rounded syllables. Too exhausted, even for your own nervous habits. You don’t have the bandwidth to explain every little thing like you normally would; don’t bother with rationalizing your actions aloud.

“Hi, bonnie. What’s cookin’?” It’s cheesy as hell, but it earns a huff of a laugh from you and it tempers the jagged edge of his worry—a knife, lodged between his ribs.

“I, uh… I had leftovers. Takeaway, from a work thing.” He’s never seen you with takeaway. Always canvas bags full of groceries and the occasional frozen box dinner. 

How empty is your fridge? When was the last time you went to the grocer?

“Didnae take ye for the ‘easy’ type. Ye always make me work for it.”

“Work for it?” He can picture the pinch of your brows. The way your lips quirk to the side when you’re confused.

“Aye, got me makin’ puppy eyes an’ beggin’ for yer scraps.” You laugh again, more of a scoff, but it eases some of his worry all the same.

“When have I ever made you beg, Johnny?” He’s been begging any higher power that will listen to see you smile again, and he’d give anything to see the smirk he knows is dancing at the corner of your mouth right now.

“Could do it tomorrow,” he blurts before he can think better of it. “Come over. Show me that recipe again.” 

Don’t make him tell you he’s leaving over the phone. 

“I thought… you said the charity event is at the end of March, right?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll need a few lessons ‘fore my bakin’s fit for auction.” 

He needs to know—needs to see—that you’re well before he goes.

“And you want to start tomorrow?” 

“Why not?” He’d have you baking in his kitchen now if it weren’t for the late hour.

There’s a stretch of silence, interrupted only by the faint crackling of static and the sound of your breathing. “Do you have flour? Sugar? Anything to bake with?” you ask, and he answers with a proud ‘yes’. “Okay… okay. I can come over after work tomorrow.”

“I’ll ‘ave Bell home early then. She’ll want tae help.” Your amused sigh echoes across the line, followed by the faint rustling of fabric and then the soft pattering of stocking-clad feet over hardwood, fourth and fifth step creaking softly as you climb the stairs. “Off tae bed?”

Another sigh–on the tail-end of a yawn, he realizes. “Yeah. Well, trying. Don’t get a lot of sleep these days,” you admit, and though he’s successfully abated the storm of your thoughts, he wishes he could disperse it entirely. 

Be the shelter you seek, at the very least.

He’d nestle you in the warmth of his bed, tucked close and sleeping soundly in the cage of his arms. Anchor you to him with a leg hooked between yours, whispering adulation against the howling, taunting winds. 

He would make himself a rock to let your tempestuous thoughts batter and besiege. Weathered and whittled down to pebbles on a beach, he’d roll in the undertow alongside you. And when he is but sand on the ocean floor, still, he would drift and settle wherever the storm of you takes him.

“I used tae read for my sister when we were weans. She’d wake, spooked from a dream, and come tae my room in the middle of the night.”

“You have a sister?” A door clicks closed and blankets whisper over sheets as you settle in for the night. “What’s she like?”

“A lot like our Mam. Headstrong. Stubborn.”

“Are you the oldest?” You sound further away. Muffled. Like you’ve got the blankets pulled up to your nose and the phone beside you on the pillow.

“I am,” he lilts.

“She gets it from you, then,” you murmur, and his chest tightens.

“She got a fair number of things from me, I’d wager.”

He continues on, speaking just above a low, gravelly whisper. Reminiscing his early years and the trouble the two of them got up to. Thick as thieves and wild as the kellas cats roaming the highlands.

Your interjections dwindle, turn to soft hums and slow, even breaths. Sleeping.

He listens for a few more minutes to the soft, sweet sounds you make, little chuffs and sleepy hums, the susurrations of shifting sheets and nightclothes, and he whispers into the darkness, “Goodnight, sweet girl.”

Work passes you by in a blur, meeting after meeting chipping away at the hours and minutes ticking by on the analog clock perched on your desk. 

The drive home is uneventful and it feels as though you’ve passed through a wormhole somewhere along the way. Can’t quite remember making the turn into your neighborhood from the main road.

Normally, Johnny would be leaving to retrieve Isobel from school right now, but as you gather your things and step out of the car you hear your name being called from several houses down. 

Braids bounce and red wellies squeak as Isobel darts ahead of Johnny, weaving around patches of ice to get to you, and you step up onto the pavement just in time to keep her from running into the road. 

She barrels into you, wrapping her arms around your leg and smooshing her face against your slacks. “Ye’re back!” she squeals, fingers curling into the fabric. 

She’s leaving.

Your hand settles atop her head, soft wisps of curls tickling the pads of your fingers where they’ve escaped their plaits. “Where did I go?” you ask, and she tips her head back to look up at you.

“Bubby said ye were busy with work. Sometimes he gets busy too, and I have to stay with my gran.”

They’re both leaving.

Johnny’s caught up with her, lingering a few steps away near the walkway leading to your door. When you look to where he stands, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, windbreaker bunched up around his forearms where a tattoo peeks out, the corners of his eyes glimmer.

A smile curves the corners of his mouth, and it’s an odd mixture of grief and happiness that flickers there in the crook of his lips and set of his brow, sloped upwards and creased in the middle. His hair is longer than you remember, scruffy sides and tufts of mohawk curling at the ends, loose strands tousled around his face.

Wind blows at your back and a single tear tracks down the sharp plane of his cheek, disappearing in the dark shadow of stubble that lines his jaw.

“I have been busy with work,” you confirm, peering down at Isobel once more. “But I didn’t leave.” 

You’re staying, and they’re leaving.

The wind picks up and she presses closer, shielding herself from the cold behind your frame. “Let’s get ye inside and put yer book bag away. Then we can catch up over cookies an’ milk,” Johnny says as he closes the distance between you.

“Cookies?!” Her excitement carries on the wind, and his smile sharpens, bright and hopeful, but the whetted edge of sorrow undercuts the warmth.

“Aye, but we’ll have to make ‘em ourselves.” He brushes a stray lock from her eyes, fingers brushing against yours where his hand settles beside it on her crown, and dread blooms low in your stomach where warmth should.

She ducks away from you both, bolting towards their front stoop, and you’re left with both of your hands hovering in the air, his half curled over yours, staring after her.

You pull away first, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “I just need to sort this–” You gesture to the tote full of binders and your laptop. “–and I'll be right over.” 

He fishes his keys from his pocket and takes a step back, towards Isobel. “We’ll be waitin’,” he says with a wink, and turns to take her inside.

There's flour in your hair and matching handprints on your slacks, and neither Johnny nor Isobel have fared much better. You’re all a mess, and the cookies you’ve made are tantamount to your disheveled state–lumpy, dry masses of something more closely resembling a biscuit.

“Dunno what ah did wrong,” Johnny muses, breaking one in half and inspecting the crumbly texture.

You sit beside him at the kitchen table, watching Isobel dunk half a cookie into a glass of milk. “It’s the butter and flour. The ratio is imbalanced–not enough fat.” She doesn’t seem to mind, stuffing the entire piece in her mouth and readying the next, fingers covered in crumbs that fall in her milk.

Johnny shifts beside you, sliding out of his chair and taking a bite out of his cookie as he moves towards the fridge. “Still tastes good,” he says around a mouthful and pours two more glasses, placing one down in front of you when he returns. “But I’ll need another demonstration when I’m back, I think.”

You take a cookie from the plate in the middle of the table, breaking off a chunk to dunk in your milk, and ignore the mirrored sensation in your chest. You knew this was coming. You know he’s leaving.

“When you’re back? From where?” you probe. No need to dance around the subject.

He shifts again, uncharacteristically nervous, and speaks softly. “Have to leave for a little while, for work,” he explains. Your cookie turns pliant between your fingers and you bite off the softened corner, chewing slowly while you listen. “Willnae know where they’re sendin’ me to until the briefin’.”

“When are you leaving?” You stare down at the crumbs swirling in your glass.

“Tomorrow morning.” 

The foreknowledge of his impending departure doesn’t make the break any cleaner. The fracturing feeling in your chest widens into fissures and chasms, jagged edges crumbling, tumbling down into the festering darkness.

When you lift your gaze you find that he’s been watching you–studying you–and his hand has crept across the table, close enough you can feel the warmth of him. “How long?” It comes out wobbly. Unsteady. 

You’re drifting out to sea again.

“Few weeks. Maybe a month.” Your chest feels like it’s caving in.

There’s a knock at the door. A canary in a coal mine, warning come too late.

“Gran!” Isobel’s chair nearly topples as she pushes back from the table, racing from the kitchen to the front door.

Johnny’s hand covers yours, long, callused fingers curling around your clenched fist and squeezing. “I’ll be back before ye know it,” he murmurs, smoothing a strand of hair away from your face and tracing the curve of your jaw as he stands.

He only goes as far as the kitchen doorway. Your heart’s already somewhere in the North Sea. 

“Hi, Mam.” He’s greeted by an older female voice and pulled into a hug by a woman a whole head shorter than him. Isobel hovers nearby, bouncing excitedly from foot to foot, and tugs at the older woman’s–her grandmother’s–cable knit sweater.

“Gran, come meet our friend!” she says, and tugs again until she lets go of Johnny.

You stand from the table on wobbly legs, fighting to balance your listing emotions and put on a warm smile as Johnny’s mother slides past him into the kitchen.

The resemblance between the three of them is uncanny. Johnny shares his mothers dark coloring, rich hair and warm skinned, and they all have the same eyes–steely hues of grey-blue, spiraling outwards from inky pupils like storm cells.

“So, this is the lassie next door ye willnae stop glaverin’ on about?” she asks no one in particular as she openly appraises you.

“Mam–” Johnny begins, a simmering warning, but she holds up a hand to silence him.

They carry themselves in a similar manner, in the set of their shoulders and broad stance. She may not stand as tall as he does but she’s no less imposing, and it’s an effort not to squirm under her scrutiny.

Seconds feel like hours as she looks you up and down, cataloging the flour on your pants and in your hair, glancing to her left where Johnny stands in a state of equal disarray, and a knowing look flickers like lightning in her storm cloud eyes. 

“It’s good tae finally put a face wi’ a name,” she says, smiling, and pulls you into a hug, too. “Call me Fenella, or Fen, whichever ye like.”

You return the gesture hesitantly, looking over her shoulder to Johnny for guidance and finding none. He simply smiles back at you from where he leans against the doorway, something unreadable in his expression lingering beneath it.

“It’s nice to meet you too… I- I’d love to stay, but should probably be heading home. I have an early morning and wouldn’t want to intrude on your visit,” you say by way of excuse.

“Ah’m naw stayin’ long, dear,” she explains, finally pulling away. Isobel returns to her side, pressing her shoulder to her thigh, and Fenella’s hand settles on the crown of her head. “Here tae take the wean for a stay wi’ her gran.”

“Is yer bag ready, leannan? D’ya have all yer books for school?” Johnny asks from where he stands, hands having found their way into his pockets again. His shoulders droop, broad frame deflating before your eyes. Leaving her behind, even with his mother, takes a toll on him.

Isobel leans around her gran to say, “I’ave all my books. And Mr. Ghost.”

“Goan an’ get yer things then, Bell,” Fenella ushers her out of the kitchen, climbing the stairs behind her to her room.

You watch until they disappear above the half open staircase, but Johnny has been watching you. Watching you navigate the shoal of your emotions, razor sharp rock scraping against a flimsy hull.

“C’mere, lass,” he entreats, one arm outstretched towards you, and your feet move of their own accord, carrying you forward until his hand settles on your shoulder, momentarily moored in the eddy of a tide pool. “Didnae mean to tell ye in the middle of… this.” He gestures above him to the sound of footsteps overhead. “Only got the call yesterday.”

With your hands folded at your front, you stare down at them, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “It’s okay. I understand—”

“No, lass, it isnae okay,” he interrupts, hand gliding up your shoulder, your neck, and coming to rest on your cheek. He lifts your gaze back up to his and he’s wearing that nameless emotion, staring down at you with a pained expression. 

This hurts him as much as it hurts you.

“The job I do, it isnae always… predictable. Dinnae get much warning when I’m called in for assignments. I should have warned ye…” his thumb traces soothing arcs over your cheek, but it does nothing for the gaping hole in your chest. “I’m sorry… I should have—”

“It’s okay, Johnny. Really.” The lie feels like rubbing salt into a wound, burns the back of your throat like you’re speaking around a lump made of sandpaper, and your voice comes out scratchy and raw.

His hand lingers on your cheek, eyes darting from yours to your nose, lips, cheeks, brow. Memorizing.

“Let me walk ye home?” You nod, unsure if you can speak around the cordolium lodged in your throat, and his hand moves from your cheek to your waist, guiding you through the razor rock and churning tide to the front door.

His arm remains firmly around you, fingers digging into your softness as he escorts you across the meager expanse of your lawn. 

There’s an SUV, still running, parked in front of both houses and left to keep warm while Isobel gathers her things. She and Fenella step out into the brisk evening air just as you and Johnny reach the top of your stairs, and Isobel waves to you as they descend. Your arm feels leaden as you lift your hand into the air, waving back to her.

“She‘ll miss ye. Talks about ye all the time,” Johnny says beside you, unwilling to let you go just yet. “I’ll be missin’ ye too,” he admits, and you thought you’d found the bottom of the pit in your stomach. Thought you were already lying at the bottom of it.

You were wrong.

The well of your affection for them feels bottomless. The floor crumbles, residual tremors of the quaking in your chest, and you’re falling, falling, falling…Even with his arm around your waist.

You fell in love with the man in front of you. Fell in love with the darling little girl climbing into her grandmother's car. You’re already in love with Fenella and her dedication to her family.

You’ve been falling this whole time, no safety net in sight.

“I- …” Your voice cracks, and you try again. “I’ll miss you, too. Both of you.”

You’re falling, and they’re leaving.

There’s little warning, just a tug of your blouse, before you’re being folded into his arms. A wide palm cradles your head to his chest, fingers threading through your hair, and he presses his cheek to your crown. 

“Won’t be able to use my phone a lot, but I’ll call when I can.” He murmurs his promise into your hair. “If… if I’m not here an’ somethin’ happens… I gave my Mum yer number. Saved hers in yer phone when I gave ye mine.” He pauses. Sucks in a shuddering breath before he continues. “Whatever it is, she’ll help.” 

You nod your understanding and he pulls back just enough to see your face, guides your head to look up at him and says, “Promise me. Promise that ye’ll go to her if ye need anythin’,” with a desperation you’ve never heard from him.

So you make another promise. Let your eyes flutter closed as he presses his forehead to yours and ghosts his lips across the chilled skin of your brow.

And then he leaves.

Isobel is sorted, buckled into her car seat and saying her goodbye’s to Johnny, and Fenella MacTavish stands beside the driver’s side door, watching.

She’s said this goodbye a hundred times. Sent him off to god knows where to fight a war she’s never heard of. It never gets easier.

Isobel’s door closes, and her son turns to her with pain in his eyes. “I hate leaving ‘er.”

“Which one?” she intones, and Johnny leans his hip against the B pillar.

“Both of them. The three of ye.”

“Then make sure ye come back tae ‘er–tae all of us,” she advises, and pulls him into one last hug. “I cannae bury another child.”

Next>>>

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[scribblesofagoonerr]

— Buddy & Monkey: Double The Trouble

pairings: leah williamson x chaos fc reader!monkey x separate reader!buddy

a cross over that nobody asked for but i made it happen where chaos fc reader!monkey & separate reader!buddy are 2 unbiological sisters. A dynamic pair when led astray love to cause trouble together!

found family

how it came to be that monkey met leah and jordan

a lot of reserved feelings

this takes a look into monkey's reserved relationship with lia at the start and how it changes.

oh baby!

it's the day of the gender reveal party and monkey is more than excited to find out about it

you're just like them!

monkey is unhappy to spend the night round jordan's for the first time since the transfer to aston villa and she makes her feelings known

the bubbles are pink, jackass!

buddy learns a new word from monkey and can't stop repeating it, meanwhile leah's almost have a breakdown over it.

buddy's first words

buddy's got a few choice words which leave everyone with different reactions.

the farmyard adventures

following the swearing jar mishap it leads to a spontaneous trip to the farm everyone learns of monkey's fear of chickens

no more money for monkey

there's a single handed reason that monkey can not have money and this one explains why

we brought a puppy home

monkey brings a puppy home and its' not completely smooth-sailing

whoa, we're going to ibiza I

monkey joins some of the girls in ibiza much to her disagreement about coming on the trip in the first place

whoa, we're going to ibiza II

the holiday continues in ibiza and monkeys' somewhat reluctant to have fun

the haunting nightmares of the past

the anniversary of monkey's dad's death causes a lot of bad memories of the past to resurface

howdy, america!

preseason has kicked off in america and it's chaos all round!

she was a skater girl

monkey's menace behaviour ends with drastic consequences in the form of an injury

home run

baseball game chaos and monkey's up to her usual tricks throughout

— head cannons/blurbs

monkey moves in ivf pregnancy time off monkey meeting buddy for the first time the break up euro final buddy cheering monkey up monkey's background zoo adventures training days kimmy the babysitter when did she grow up so much? quality time with auntie kei baking in the williamson household

— social media

reunited again | monkey's lioness debut

— mood boards

buddy moodboard || monkey moodboard

© scribblesofagoonerr

[aheathen-conceivably]

When Zelda arrived at Hines ranch later that afternoon, Antoine was still riding Silver through the desert, now with Abraham and Banjo by his side. But when she looked around the farmyard, the only sign of them was the absence of two horses in the enclosure and Mabel on the front porch with her youngest children.

Mabel wrestled the restless toddler on her lap and waved Zelda over familiarly, giving Will a small shake of her head that meant he had permission to run off with Violette. Only Violette required no such approval from her mother, and she set off after William without a backward glance the moment she saw him.

Zelda settled onto the swing, listening to children’s laughter echoing through the desert as she and Mabel lapsed into easy conversation. It was easy to remember why she liked it here, because everything about it reminded Zelda of the time she had spent on her cousin’s farm as a child. It had always been full of liveliness; and even if she hadn’t been the one playing games or making noise, it had pleased her to experience it through others. 

In comparison, her quiet house with her only daughter sometimes felt so different than the life she had imagined when they moved out here. Part of her loved the quiet; but sitting with Mabel she could hear her childhood again, and imagine what a house filled with more sounds and more children might be like…

Her growing reveries were interrupted by the approaching sound of horse’s hooves and then the patter of her own child’s feet, seemingly more attuned to the comings and goings of her father than even Zelda. 

He rode through the entrance of the ranch moments later, face splayed with happiness and the confidence of a man who had been doing this his whole life.

He hopped off his horse the moment he saw Zelda and wrapped his arm around her to lead her to the towering animal standing behind him. Zelda had of course seen the horses when she visited Hines ranch, but had always avoided coming this close to them. It was like they could sense just as much as she could, and their hyper-observant eyes peered into her soul.

She took two small steps forward, comforted by Antoine’s arm around her but admittedly unnerved by the horse’s gaze. Antoine looked at Silver’s large suspicious eyes as though to say, be on your best behavior, and then spoke as he placed his hand on her face, “Miss Silver, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Duplanchier.”

He took Zelda’s hand with its ring glittering in the afternoon sun and moved it toward where his had been. Silver sniffed at the woman in front of her and then looked back at Antoine, who’s small nod of encouragement Zelda would have assumed no animal could have understood. But upon seeing it she closed her eyes and let Zelda rest her hand near her face. Near silently Antoine spoke to Zelda, “You see? I told you she’d like you.”

A small shuffling sound in the sand alerted Zelda to her daughter’s growing impatience near their feet. Antoine stayed looking at Silver, mitigating her uneasiness about the new arrival by keeping his hand on the side of her neck. Zelda nudged at him softly, turning his attention down to the green eyes who were just waiting for him to look at her. The moment he did she lit up, “Happy Birthday, Poppa! Did you get to ride her? Did you finally do it? Will she let me try now?”

He swooped down to pick her up, bringing her close to Silver, who had now realized her second favorite person was there too. “I did, Princess. And we can try if Momma says it’s alright.”

Now that Antoine was there Violette was sure to give Zelda her sweetest gaze, asking for permission before running off on her own again. Zelda simply wanted to be with them, to sit with Antoine as the sun set and listen to Violette laugh with Will. But how could she say no to their excited eyes, even if it meant she was going to be left out of their games again?

The sound of hooves trotted away and Zelda felt a twinge of anxiety in her stomach. It happened sometimes when Violette ran from her toward Antoine, or when they spoke for hours on end while she only gave her the quickest responses. It was hard to identify the feeling, mostly because it was so enmeshed with happiness for Antoine and the relationship he had with their daughter. But she couldn’t stop it, even as voice spoke from behind her, “They’ll be just fine, honey.”

Zelda turned at the sound, only to see Mabel with a soft look in her eyes. Zelda was confused by her words until she realized that she must have seen the worry in her posture. “He learned to ride from Abe, I promise you have nothing to worry about.”

Do you ever worry your child doesn’t like you? Like they would rather spend time with anyone other than you? But before she could speak, Lillie Mae ran at them full speed. Mabel bent to pick her up, nodding at the never-ending stream of words coming out her mouth. Zelda looked at them and felt the small anxious twinge again.

She brought her hands to her stomach and then looked out to the horizon where the figures of Antoine and Violette were becoming smaller by the minute. Then she looked back at Lillie Mae and allowed herself a thought that she had been trying to nudge to the back of her mind month after month. Maybe today had been just as lucky for her as it had been for Antoine. Maybe it had finally been the day.

[no-psi-nan]

So many posts like "Kusuke should go to therapy".

Comrades.... who exactly are you proposing he gets therapy from??

To him, going to therapy would be like going to the farmyard to pick out a surgeon.

You think he's going to trust a random monkey to know better about his own mind and outlook than HE does??

Kusuke's never gonna go to therapy willingly, and even if he was forced to go, it wouldn't do him any good because he would just not cooperate or engage in good faith. At BEST he would troll the fuck out of the therapist.

No..... if he's going to become a better person, he needs to be challenged by someone he respects and recognizes as a fellow human being.

And the way Kusuke's brain works, it has to be someone of equal or greater intelligence, as proven via PVP games.

So basically, the perfect person to make Kusuke a better human being is Akechi Touma. Open your eyes.... 👁️ 👁️

[pinchofhoney]

Could you write something for rick grimes? like stepdad rick

tell me that you'll keep me safe

rick grimes x fem!reader

word count: 3.6k

warning: not proofread, where's lori? i don't know, don't ask me; not here, anyway, our lovely reader is cunning and sly adorable and innocent, and the plot is set during the second season on the greene family farm<33 oh, and there's an age gap, but everything's legal

summary: You're not the one who needs to be helped, yet pretending you do? Surprisingly fun.

a/n: no need to say more! hii<33 thank you so much for that not-really-requesting request, and i mean that because you gave me the space to write something that has been on my mind for a week now!! it’s not a stepdad!rick, but i hope you don’t mind; it’s just i really wanted to write this. i hope you’ll enjoy it anyway (and feel free to drop more detailed stepdad!rick ask, so that i can write your request as best i can!!<3)

pages that may interest you: masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ who i write for

Between everyday chores, laughter danced on the breeze, casting an unusual lightness upon every person at the farm. You hummed a soft tune, losing yourself in the simple joy of gathering wildflowers near the barn. Each delicate petal added to the bouquet, and your wind-tousled hair fluttered in a carefree manner, enhancing your appearance of innocence.

Or, at least, that's what you wanted Rick to believe; in your innocence and vulnerability.

As you plucked the flowers, a playful smile waltzed on your lips, hidden behind a facade of pure illusion. You relished the game you were playing, fully aware of the potency of this delicate act.

Your thoughts wandered, assembling the pieces of your innocent little puzzle, born out of sheer boredom in the world you unexpectedly found yourself living in.

Despite being aware of your strength as a woman, you secretly enjoyed the allure of Rick's caring gaze, surrounding you whenever you fell within his line of sight. Each move you made was a subtle manipulation, inviting him in, conveying your vulnerability while secretly pleasing him with your shrewdness.

The plan was simple; steer clear of guns and walkers, and simply ignore the looks from your family, who, naturally, knew you very well. Your hunger for independence before the outbreak was one thing, but now you found a satisfying enjoyment in the protective embrace with which the older man shielded you. Not to mention that playing the lovely, helpless niece of the farmer brought you a lot of fun.

It was a delicate and subtle cooperation between reality and illusion, a dance where you held the strings without letting them peek.

The sun lounged lazily in the sky, bathing the family farm in a soft glow. It was one of those days when time stretched without urgency, enveloping the world in a cocoon of ease. The morning air carried the tender scent of dewy grass, and the swaying trees whispered tales about the world that was once so familiar to all of you. For a fleeting moment, the chaos beyond the fence—the groans of the walkers—seemed distant, cloaked in a serene atmosphere.

Rick approached you, casting a glance over his shoulder at the rest of the group, each person engrossed in their own tasks. He sidled up next to you, maintaining a respectful distance, and observed you absorbed in your flowery world.

“Hey, shouldn't you be with the others?”

You lifted a surprised gaze, sparkling with calculated innocence, quickly meeting his steady eyes. You had been so entranced by the hum of the melody that his footsteps had gone unnoticed. Catching sight of Rick's familiar face, you offered him a gentle smile and straightened, showing him the flowers clutched in your hand.

“Oh, I was just picking some flowers for the kitchen. They brighten up the place, don't you think?” Your voice carried the soft tone of someone who seems delicate.

While Rick nodded in agreement, he had no intention of leaving you alone here. Despite the familiar faces that showed up in the farmyard every now and then, he wanted to be the one to keep you safe.

“Let me walk you back. It will be safer that way.”

Hearing his words, you fought the urge to roll your eyes and shoot him a look insinuating he was unnecessarily exaggerating the danger. Instead, you just nearly sang out with your soft voice, “But there are no walkers here,” pointing it out before quickly stepping away and crouching by a clump of daisies.

“Maggie asked you to head back to help her trim her hair,” Rick's words lingered as his eyes stayed fixed on you.

You chuckled to yourself, hiding your true feelings behind a mask. You were pretty sure Maggie didn’t actually need your assistance, especially not with a haircut, but playing along was all part of the game to achieve what you were aiming for; his protection and, above all, attention.

You weren't one to treat people as pawns in your game, but when you first set eyes on Rick the day his group arrived at the farm, you couldn't resist the idea of having a little fun.

After all, in this world, everyone was destined to meet their end sooner or later, right?

“Just a few more,” you replied casually, not exactly acknowledging the man's words.

Gathering more flowers for your bouquet, a soft breeze toyed with the delicate fabric of your dress, causing one strap to slip off your shoulder.

Rick's attention quickly shifted to your shoulder when he noticed the strap slipping, but just as swiftly, his gaze returned to your face before flickering toward the flowers you were reaching for.

That strap seemed like a subtle detail, a fleeting imperfection in the flawless image you'd been effortlessly painting all along.

Standing tall, a proud yet gentle smile graced your lips as you lifted the vibrant bouquet, its wildflowers creating a vivid contrast against the soft, bright shades of the dress you were wearing. Rick's protective instincts sharpened instantly at the sight, drawn to shield someone who appeared delicate yet strangely captivating. As you rose, an effortless adjustment to a slipped strap caught his attention, smoothly getting rid of the minor imperfection without a hint of concern.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” you asked, shifting your gaze from the bouquet to Rick's face, awaiting his praise. He simply nodded and gestured towards the house, prompting an eye-rolling chuckle from you.

As you both strolled in the indicated direction, you maintained your composure, your calm demeanor unwavering. However, a mischievous sparkle danced in your eyes when Rick wasn't looking.

The subtle playfulness in your tone and the glint in your eye hinted at a more foxy truth beneath your facade. You enjoyed the sway you held over his protective instincts, delighting in the security and dominance he offered in this unpredictable world.

Back in the cozy warmth of Hershel's kitchen, the wildflowers you had picked now found their place in a rustic vase, their colors standing out against the worn wooden table. The smell of fresh flowers mingled with the aroma of a recently finished breakfast, filling the air.

Rick leaned casually against the door frame, his gaze fixed on you. There was something captivating about the way you delicately arranged the flowers. Catching his eye, you smiled with a playful glint dancing in your eyes.

“Thanks for walking me back, Rick,” you said, your voice as gentle as the petals you'd just arranged. “It's nice having someone who cares.”

Rick nodded, his smile softening. The sight of a man smiling wasn’t common, so you cherished every moment he gifted you with one, even if it was small.

“We gotta look out for each other,” he replied, and you could hear the obvious sincerity in his tone.

As you breezed by him in the doorway, your fingers lightly grazed his rough hand, a touch so delicate it could almost pass as accidental. His eyes met yours, a flare of surprise dancing across his face, but you effortlessly kept up an air of innocence, saying nothing.

Instead, you just made your way toward Maggie's room upstairs, supposedly to lend a hand, humming that familiar tune that lingered in the barn's air before.

Leaning against the hallway wall leading to the kitchen, Shane crossed his arms, quietly observing the entire scene. His sharp eyes tracked your every move, a knowing smile quirking up the corners of his mouth. When you passed by, words weren't necessary—his expression said it all.

He saw through your facade, catching glimpses of your true abilities hidden beneath your innocent front. The playful energy you emitted lingered in his thoughts, and he found himself personally impressed by the subtle game you were playing, deftly toying with Rick's protective instincts.

“Maybe you should teach her how to shoot?” Shane suggested, pushing away from the wall and walking into the kitchen, passing Rick. Before he could react to Shane's unexpected presence (especially considering their increasingly strained relationship), he continued, his tone somewhat mocking. “What if something happens to our little sunshine? You know, there might be times when you can't always be there for her,” he pointed out, particularly emphasizing the term sunshine when referring to you.

Rick pushed himself away from the door frame, ignoring Shane's tone and took a few steps deeper into the kitchen, stopping by the table where a vase sat. He rested one hand on his hip, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Y/N has never held a gun in her life. She won't hit a walker even if it's lying in front of her, waiting for her to shoot him right in the head,” Rick replied, gently caressing the petals of a flower in the vase.

In response, Shane let out a chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, poured water from the tap, and took a sip, turning to face Rick. Leaning against the countertop, he grinned.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, still amused.

Rick furrowed his brow, giving Shane a questioning look. “Believe what?” he asked, seeing that Walsh wasn't planning on elaborating.

“She's playing you, man. Playing you like a fiddle,” he replied with a smirk on his face as he took another sip of water.

Shane walked a few steps, standing on the opposite side of the table. He casually rested his free hand on his pistol at his belt, looking at Rick with a grin. One might think a grown man couldn't be so naive, but clearly, something must have gone awry in his friend's mind.

“Take her to that shooting lesson, or I'll do it and prove she's bluffing” he stated, then without waiting for Rick's response, left the kitchen shaking his head, leaving his friend alone.

You stood on the porch between the two men, fidgeting nervously from foot to foot.

“Are you sure it's safe?” you asked, your worried eyes darting to Rick, your eyebrows gently furrowing, giving yourself an even softer look.

Rick stood beside you, hands on his hips, scanning the courtyard as the sun stretched its rays across the landscape. He turned his gaze to you at your question, a hint of care flickering in his eyes.

“Yes, I'm sure,” he reassured, nodding to emphasize his certainty. “You know nothing's goin’ to happen to you, right? Hershel thinks it's a good idea,” he added.

At the mention of your uncle’s name, you straightened slightly, a glimpse of unease crossing your face briefly. Thankfully, Rick didn't seem to notice, but from the corner of your eye, you caught Shane leaning against the porch railing, shaking his head while releasing a quiet chuckle.

“You talked to him?” you asked, brushing off the other man's reaction.

“Yeah, he seemed a little confused, but,” Rick started, only to be swiftly interrupted by Shane with his seemingly innocent yet biting remark.

“He's probably worried about his favorite niece, isn't he?”

Your gaze shifted to Shane, who looked at you meaningfully with an almost genuine smile playing on his lips. Before you could respond, Rick nodded and cleared his throat before speaking.

“Meet me at the car in twenty minutes, okay? Got something else to take care of,” he said, and as you agreed with a quick nod, he headed toward the tents scattered across the yard where he and his group were staying.

As Rick's figure moved away from the porch, you both remained in silence. Once he was a safe distance away, you turned to his friend, your eyes holding a hint of seriousness and your jaw gently clenched.

“How did you come up with that, huh?” he asked, amusement twinkling in his brown eyes as he crossed his arms.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” you replied shortly, with no intention of elaborating on your actions to anyone.

Shane's laughter was muffled in response, his head slightly tilted back. When he focused on you again, a touch more serious now, he pushed himself off the railing and stepped closer, leaning in slightly.

“You can toy with Rick, it's cool, but not in front of me, sweetheart,” he said, watching your reaction closely. “Seeing you act like a clueless kitten just to get his attention? It's a real pain in the existential department” he added in a slightly softer voice, carefully enunciating each word to make them sink into your head.

You gazed into his eyes silently, pondering how many others had caught onto your little game. It was clear your uncles, Maggie, Beth, and Shawn had noticed your shift around Rick and had commented more than once. But was anyone else in his group as sharp as Shane to see through you?

“Better head upstairs to freshen up,” Shane's teasing tone snapped you back to reality, and you blinked a few times. “Gotta impress Rick, right, sweetheart?” With those words, he strolled past you, heading into the house.

Glancing over your shoulder after him, you let out a deep sigh and shifted your gaze to the side, catching Carl's eye. You flashed him the warmest smile you could muster and raised your hand in a friendly wave in his direction.

“Dad mentioned he'd teach you to shoot today,” the boy said, strolling toward the porch. You closed the distance, meeting him.

“Yeah, we're heading out soon. I'm getting a little stressed,” you chuckled softly, slipping back into the facade momentarily disrupted by Shane.

“You've never shot before?” Carl asked, peering at you from beneath a large sheriff's hat.

“Never had the chance,” you replied, a small tug at the corner of your lips as you bent the truth, shaking your head slightly. Leaning casually against the porch railing, you cast a glance down at the boy.

“It's not too tough, you'll catch on quick,” he reassured you with a genuine smile before heading off.

As he left, you stood there for a moment, taking in the peacefulness of the farm. The gentle buzz of life surrounded you, and you sighed softly, feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders. With a determined shake of your head, you pushed away from the railing and headed towards the barn, the dusty path crunching beneath your boots.

Before meeting Rick at the car, you needed to take a short walk, wanting a moment to yourself before diving into the lesson where you'd have to feign clumsiness, pretending you barely know how to hold a gun in your hands.

“Focus, Y/N,” you heard Rick's voice coming from not too far behind you. There was a hint of annoyance in it, but Rick was trying hard to keep his emotions in check. He was definitely better than you, and it was clear he wanted you to learn something from this lesson. If someone under your care had been messing up like this, you'd have hopped into the car long ago, heading back to the farm and leaving them to their own fate. It was a bit of a natural selection.

You turned to Rick, wearing a defeated expression, and lowered your gun. “This is too hard, Rick,” you complained, puffing out your lower lip in a delicate manner.

A tired sigh escaped him, followed by Rick stepping closer, his gaze calm as he looked down at you. “Alright, let's give it another try, shall we?” he asked, and in that moment, it felt like you were seven years old again, sitting at the kitchen table with your dad trying to teach you math.

Rick stepped closer, his eyes studying the way you held his revolver. He adjusted your grip, his touch firm yet gentle. “See, Y/N, it's all about balance,” he explained, standing right behind your back, his voice calm and steady. “You want your feet shoulder-width apart, like this,” he positioned your feet, his closeness making you hyper-aware of his presence. “And hold the gun steady, elbows slightly bent. It gives you better control.”

You nodded, trying to focus on his instructions, but it was hard with him so close. Even though you were perfectly fine with a gun, suddenly all your knowledge and muscle memory just flew out of your body. You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Now, line up your shot. Take a deep breath,” he continued, his breath brushing against your ear as he spoke. “And when you're ready, squeeze the trigger gently.”

You followed his guidance, trying to ignore the tingling sensation his closeness caused. The gun felt more stable in your hands, and you took a deep breath, feeling Rick gently move back, giving you space. You slowly let the air out and squeezed the trigger as the man instructed.

The shot rang out, hitting the target dead center.

“There you go,” Rick praised, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You just needed a little adjustment.”

For a moment, you gazed at the shot can in silence, a brief worry crossing your mind that this one accurate gunshot might have shattered the delicate image, which you had been working on since the first days of Rick's group on the farm.

Lowering the revolver slowly, you mustered a happy smile, then turned to Rick with skillfully feigned excitement.

“I did it!” you exclaimed, watching the smile that appeared on the man's face.

“I knew you could do it,” he replied, nodding his head in appreciation. “Now try again, but without my help.”

As you prepared for your second attempt, determined to maintain the facade, a sudden noise echoed through the trees – a guttural growl followed by clumsy footsteps. Both you and Rick turned toward the disturbance, realizing it was not just the forest's regular sounds.

“Walkers,” Rick muttered, a sense of urgency in his voice.

You clutched the revolver tightly, and your true nature came out on your face as you stared seriously into the wall of trees from behind which the noise was coming. Rick, left with only a knife, looked around for a potential threat, stepping out in front of you and protecting you with his own body, even though you were the one holding the weapon that could help you.

“Stay close,” Rick instructed, the earlier playfulness fading from his tone.

The groans grew louder, and shadows emerged from the edges of the forest. Panic set in, and you knew that your delicate act wouldn't cut it in the face of real danger. With a deep breath, you took aim over Rick's shoulder at the approaching walkers. The gun bucked in your hands, and the bullet found its mark, hitting a walker square in the head.

Shock crossed Rick's face as the undead figure crumpled to the ground.

“Nice shot,” he said, stealing a quick glance at you. Yet, there wasn't time for praise. More walkers were coming, drawn by the noise.

In a blur of movement, you kept shooting, stepping closer to the horde of the dead, each shot finding its target flawlessly. The walkers fell one by one, halted in their tracks by your accurate shots.

As the chaos settled, you stood there, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Rick's eyes remained fixed on you, a blend of awe and confusion reflecting in his gaze. Lowering the revolver with a trembling hand, you avoided meeting his eyes. This unplanned revelation had caught you off guard; you hadn't intended to expose yourself so quickly.

The air hung thick with silence, the only disruption the faint rustle of leaves. Finally, Rick broke the quiet, his voice softer now, edged with a hint of curiosity. “You're not as innocent as you made everyone believe, are you? Is that why Hershel seemed surprised when I mentioned teaching you to shoot?”

Your hand trembled as you held out the revolver to Rick, choosing silence over words.

"We should head back," you suggested, your voice an attempt to diffuse the mounting tension. With a sidelong glance at Rick—allowing yourself just a moment of eye contact—you turned toward the car.

You didn't want to talk about what had just happened. You found yourself in the role of a liar, but wasn't that exactly what you were? Playing along, crafting an image to draw the protective care of an older man, the attention you'd been missing since the apocalypse broke out.

As you walked, you couldn't shake the growing sense of shame. How were you supposed to look into Rick's eyes now, knowing the truth had slipped through the cracks of your carefully constructed facade?

The car was a welcome sight, a haven of familiar metal and worn seats. You climbed in, the door shutting out the remnants of tension that clung to the air outside.

Rick joined you, the silence stretching between you two like an unspoken agreement. The engine roared to life, drowning out any attempt at conversation. The only sound that permeated the vehicle was the rhythmic hum of tires against the gravel.

As the landscape passed by in a blur, you stole another glance at Rick. His expression was unreadable, a mix of understanding and something else you couldn't quite pinpoint. The tension remained, settling into the fabric of the car like an unwelcome passenger.

Neither of you spoke and the truth lingered in the air, a silent companion on the journey back to the farm.

[feefymo]

For the angst game, "you scare me" for james or jimmy?

tw: mention of sex and violence. Discrimination. a/n: hoping you'll enjoy my choice, doll! -It's about time you joined us, Y/N!- -Linette and I had a bet and, damn, I lost! You are really here, in the flesh! - -By the way: where is Linette?- you asked, sipping from a straw so as not to ruin your lipstick. Alice gestured to the door with her eyes. - So you're no longer a… woman of the world? In short, do you no longer have fun with the beautiful hunks that fall at your feet? - -Maybe she wants to try something different.- -She doesn't get married anymore, anyway. We all know that.- There were times when you couldn't stand having to share the farmyard with those chicks. You often avoided events like this and eventually met them individually. This time, however, you had decided to participate but you wouldn't go too far with your supposed friends. The more they teased you, the more you smiled plasticly or smoothed the skirt of your black dress with small, lilac flowers. Margareth, or maybe Barb, was about to ask you a question when Linette came out with a stupid expression and a drunken walk. Except that she hadn't yet drunk, therefore, she was altered by very different sensations. You didn't have time to show curiosity when Alice invited you with a mischievous gesture. It was your turn.

Without batting an eyelid, you got up from the chair and greeted the perfect wives with a flirtatious gait and from there, the change of atmosphere was such that you felt like you were in another house. In another city, even. The soft light was streaming as if on a poker game but there was no sign of playing cards. A silhouette soon became clear to your eyes but not lying on the bed as you had anticipated. He had his back to you and he was looking out the window; you had been so cautious that that man with "magical powers" only realized your presence when you let out a light cough. At first he turned quickly - so much so that his honey curls bounced in unison - then he recovered the minimum composure required and put on a languid but strong-willed expression. While his gaze painted you as one does on fences, you observed him carefully and noticed how simple it was for him to bring a summer morning into a rainy afternoon like that. It felt good, you couldn't deny it. Beautiful with an elusive beauty, which you fear will disappear with the end of the warm months. How could his face embody the august sun and, at the same time, bring refreshment? His irises were the color of liqueur peat. The perfect nose, the lips that reminded you of cherry indigestion. The more you studied it, the more a sense of corrosion clung to the walls of your stomach.

-Jimmy Darling, at your service.- he introduced himself -Don't worry, doll. Come closer, don't be afraid… I'm here to make you feel good. Don't you want a taste of summer?- he found you attractive, you could tell from the glittering expression and the way he tilted his head. Easy-going, golden, with a rebellious air… he took a step. And so you did. One, two, three. A breath away from him, you reached for his hands but he kept them in his pockets. They were the highlight, you could swear. -What if I liked winter?- you teased, spelling into his half-open mouth. It gave off a nostalgic fragrance of decidedly ripe fruit and you smelled it thoroughly so that he would give in and show the gifts that the Lord had given him. Eager to touch you, he wasn't such a disciplined prostitute after all. Before going around him, you disheveled him. Soon after, you loosened the hairstyle and used the headband to tie the claws behind his back. Jimmy made a dry, guttural noise, you could hear the satisfaction in the grain of his voice and against the fly of his trousers, once you came face to face with him.

-The ladies present here say that you work miracles.- -Well… - Jimmy held back, putting his jaw forward. - … I'm certainly not a creature of God. - then, you remained silent and stared at him. The breathing that came together with that of Mr. Darling but for probably different reasons. -Indeed. You're not.- Your face had suddenly changed. Now arctic and glowering, it gave Jimmy an idea of ​​what you would do next: without warning, you spit in his eye. He couldn't have mistaken the gesture for something erotic because contempt took hold of your features. -You're just God's waste, Jimmy Darling.- you added in a sharp voice. For his part, Jimmy was an impulsive and proud young man, so he tried to free himself not without difficulty. -What is this, a joke? An… erotic fantasy of yours or something? I don't like it.- It was when he found himself on the verge of tearing off your hair band that you pointed a Swiss army knife at his abdomen. -You don't have to like it. If you're good, I'll pay double.- you motioned for him to kneel in front of the bed, hissing: -Monsssster.- but Jimmy hesitated. He was furious: his cheeks on fire and a vein pumping angrily in the middle of his forehead. Yet, he knew his position in there and so did you. That's why you laughed when you saw him reeling in his anger. -Do you want to bring more money to your mommy? So behave like a good abomination and don't protest. You are just an object. Maybe useful, if I don't look at yourself in your entirety. Anyway, you won't caress me. You won't even touch me. You shook both hands of the Demon and he fused yours. - The Lobster Boy, forced to suppress the constant humiliation, was hitting rock bottom that day. He panted as he stared at the toes of your designer shoes and craved alcohol with all his heart. The gush of bile that rose up his throat was of no consequence. When he slowly looked back at you, you had taken a seat on the mattress. Sitting with your legs apart, you slowly pulled up your wide skirt. Planting a heel in the middle of his forehead you pushed so that the mark remained. In this regard, Jimmy did not shy away and, in fact, pushed himself to the point of injuring himself.

-At least you got a beautiful face so now you'll eat my cunt. And you better do it very well. - the young circus performer groaned in frustration, his teeth creaking from the vice in which they were forced. A few seconds passed before Jimmy felt a dull burning sensation. You had slapped him and he understood that he had to humor you. Moistening his dry lips in vain, he began to bend between your thighs. He pinned you down with his eyes wide open, trembling with fury.

-You scare me.- -I said: lick. Me.-

[mobileleprechaun]

oubgh Tagged Game

I was kindly tagged by the eminent @femboty2k, thank you so much for tagging me!

This one is about introducing yourself with the following:

- One tv show

- One movie

- One album

- One game

However, she went the extra mile and did two each, so I'll do that as well!

TV Shows: Whatever Happened to Robot Jones and Making Fiends

I'm not entirely sure what it says about me that both of my picks here were ill-fated and obscure cartoons cancelled before their time, but I certainly hope it's nothing premonitory about the trajectory of my life!

Robot Jones was a full-on obsession for me when I was young. It's about a robot child having to attend junior high in the 1980s so he can understand humans better, and all the awkwardness that goes along with that. Something about it struck such a chord with me – probably the fact that the protagonist was a sheltered misfit who couldn't understand his peers. I was homeschooled until college, and all of my interactions with other kids were painfully awkward along those lines, so I guess I just felt seen?

It's a weird show, and the tone is pretty bleak. He's mercilessly bullied by both peers and authority figures alike, and episodes rarely ever end with anything working out for him. Maybe I felt seen by that too. It's kind of fucked up, and I'm 70% certain bits of it didn't age well, but for what it's worth, people still really enjoy the one episode where RJ comes to the conclusion that he's nonbinary. It's also lost media at this point, so there's an inherent rewarding feeling that comes with being able to find it at all.

Making Fiends is also pretty bleak, but in a very silly and fun way. It's about a town that lives in mortal terror of Vendetta, this extremely cruel grade-schooler who is able to make monsters (fiends) that can serve her every whim. However, her nasty little gangster baby life is turned upside down when a very dense friendly girl named Charlotte comes to town, and Vendetta finds herself terrorized for a change.

I was obsessed with this one too and was a young stan of its creator. I love that it's about two girls just being dumb as all hell and having weird and fucked up things happen to them. Nobody's boy-crazy, either – both of these little gremlins just get to be people. Neither of them are particularly deep in terms of characterization, but they're so much fun to have a romp with, and they get to fill that slapstick-heavy role that's usually only reserved for male characters. Also, the humor is super fucked up and morbid, but the way everything is delivered will just keep you hooting. It's definitely less emotionally exhausting than Robot Jones.

Movies: Chicken Run and The End of Evangelion

Weird pair, I know!

Chicken Run is another of my childhood obsessions that persists to this very day. It's a fun and surprisingly poignant tale of an insurrection on a farmyard and the brave hens (and one mostly useless rooster) who make it happen. Aardman just knocks it right out of the park with the quirky designs of their ensemble cast and just how rooted it feels in its 1950s setting. The villains are fun, the heroes are fun, somehow Mel Gibson doesn't completely ruin it, and I dunno, it's just very cozy. I could rewatch it over and over again. Also, Mac is best girl.

End of Evangelion is not cozy at all! It's the fucked up and horrifying ending to a fucked up and horrifying anime, and it pissed a lot of people off at how mean-spirited it felt, but like... it's a fucking masterpiece, like it goes incredibly hard. Every element of it – the music, the voice acting, the visuals – it's all stunning, like all the way through. Yes it's sad and upsetting and very strange, but that's just how the anime went. None of it feels out of place, either. I can go back and watch Episode 1 again and not feel like EoE mismatches tonally. I still think about it on the regular, and I still bop to Komm sußer Tod.

Albums: Spirit Phone and Act II: The Father of Death

I've picked these two because these are both albums I always feel the need to listen to as a whole rather than piecemeal. There's some other amazing albums that I feel dirty not including here, but these two are just the ones that hit me the hardest as albums, and I have to be fully honest with myself about that.

Spirit Phone came into my life when I desperately needed it. I had just lost my youngest brother and was trying to find my first apartment after years of being my parents' adult subject. It was such a heady and wonderful thing for me, all these skrunkly-ass songs about the occult and the inherently fucked up nature of American culture. I played it on repeat for almost a solid month, and it gave me the strength and optimism I needed to muscle through the most terrifying time of my life. It's still such a cozy and wonderful thing for me, and I thank Neil Cicirega from the bottom of my heart for putting it together.

The Protomen: Act II wasn't something that got me through a crisis, but it was a fucking crazy-ass bop and a solid goddamn chaser to their first album, which I also love listening to as a whole. The story of Thomas Light's descent into living as a pariah in his own city after his own friend turns on him is masterfully told by this band, and every track hits like a truck. The whole subplot with Joe was incredible, too, and that guy who sings as Wily is so fucking good, and Panther is ridiculously versatile... I still get goosebumps thinking about Breaking Out. Gorgeous album through and through.

Games: Sonic & Knuckles Collection and Cave Story

It might be cheating to include the whole collection as one game, but I don't give a phuck!!!!

I was like 7 or 8 when I got the Sonic & Knuckles collection on CD-ROM, and holy fuck, y'all. I knew I loved The Adventure of Sonic the Hedgehog on TV, but getting my hands on that game about spoiled me rotten. It just felt so perfect in every way. Having gone back and played earlier entries in the Sonic series really gives me an appreciation for how well they perfected the formula here, it's just so smooth and refined. Going back through each stage playing as Sonic, Tails or Knuckles is so good, too, like you really get a feel for how much there is to explore with their different styles of movement. I just love it so much, it's so cozy and so jammed to the brim with pure fun.

Cave Story was something I encountered later in life, and was pleasantly surprised to find as a free download. I was not adequately prepared for what a ride this humble-looking little platformer would be. God, it was such a wonderful challenge, sometimes frustrating, but always so compelling as to keep me coming back. And what a beautiful story, too, and what a gorgeous setting. I full-on cried at many points. Pixel just put his whole heart and soul into this game, and it's so sickening and unfair that he got fucked over by that shitty licensing deal. If you haven't already, please show this man's work some love. It went hard enough that when Undertale was first announced, I assumed it was going to be a Cave Story fangame. 😝

waow that's media!!! I must tag four people; @sammytoesis, @fetus-cakes, @johannesson and @badgrlebie. But if you wanna do it too, DO IT!!!!

[realllyrandommann]

AMfP Paintings Part 1

This is the first part of my file on the paintings and a couple of other images found in the game. I haven’t been able to identify all of them, since some are obscure (I’m looking at you, Mr Herring), but the majority are relatively well-known paintings. For the second part see here.

Title: Highland Scene near Dalmally Artist: Myles Birket Foster Year: c. 1885

Title: Spring Morning Artist: William J. C. Bond Year: 1863

Title: Dalton Collecting Marsh-Fire Gas Artist: Ford Madox Brown Year: 1887

Title: Applicants for Admission to a Casual Ward Artist: Luke Fildes Year: 1874

Title: A Special Pleader Artist: Charles Burton Barber Year: 1893

Title: The Blind Fiddler Artist: David Wilkie Year: 1806

Title: The Babylonian Marriage Market Artist: Edwin Long Year: 1875

Title: Farmyard Friends (Farmland Friends?) Artist: John Frederick Herring Jr

Title: The Bean Feast Artist: Jan Steen Year: 1668

Title: The Turnip Cart Artist: John Frederick Herring Jr

Title: The (Great) Tower of Babel Artist: Pieter Bruegel Year: 1563

Title: New, Old Pig on the Block Artist: Ian Schoenherr Year: 2012 About: a remake of Schoenherr's earlier picture ‘Young Pig Lincoln’, based on a photo of William Wallace Lincoln

Title: The premature burial Artist: Antoine Wiertz Year: 1854

Title: The Death of Sardanapalus Artist: Eugène Delacroix Year: 1827

Title: Triptych of the Temptation of St. Anthony Artist: Hieronymus Bosch Year: c. 1501

Title: Hunger, Madness, Crime Artist: Antoine Wiertz Year: 1853

Title: The Greeks and the Trojans Fighting over the Body of Patroclus (Ver I) Artist: Antoine Wiertz Year: 1836

Title: The Greeks and the Trojans Fighting over the Body of Patroclus (Ver II) Artist: Antoine Wiertz Year: 1836

[blackjackkent]

Food Shopping :)

(From this ask game: “Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!”)

This one's pretty much pure fluff and has been sitting half-done in my drafts for a while. XD After their arrival at Rivington, Karlach gets left behind at camp while Hector scopes things out by the gate, and she and some of the other companions take advantage of the downtime to replenish their food stocks from the Rivington market.

Inspired by this art by @raintides which is incredibly fkn adorable. XD

Snippet:

“Ah, hello and good morning!” Gale calls with a good-natured grin as she emerges from the tent. “Welcome to the realm of mud.” “Holy fuck, no kidding.” She laughs, looking around. The abandoned farm where they’ve made camp is ankle-deep muck. Gale has dried a long pathway around the fire and between the tents, but the surrounding ground is a filthy wasteland that bears only the slightest relation to its former life as a farmyard. Experimentally, Karlach takes a step off the makeshift path and grins at the sucking sound her boot makes as it squishes into the mud. “Nice. Like punching a lemure.” “Well, you’d know better than I.” Gale sits down next to the fire and peers into one of the supply bags pensively. “I'm sure Rivington is an absolutely lovely destination in the general run of things, but our first few days have been altogether too damp for my liking. I think I speak for everyone when I say I am displeased with the accommodations.” “I dunno. I've kind of liked it,” Karlach says with a crooked grin. “Cold rain's a nice balm on the old engine, and the Hells never had much of it.” “That's the spirit,” Wyll puts in good-naturedly. He's sitting in the flap of his tent in trousers and undershirt, pulling his boots on. “At the very least, it's a nice change of pace from the Shadow-Cursed Lands.” “Anything would be,” Shadowheart murmurs. She’s sitting near Gale at the fire, her knees drawn up to her chest, staring into the flames pensively. Karlach cocks her head to one side, then drops down to sit next to her.“You doing all right?” she adds in a lower voice.  Shadowheart flinches slightly at the question. “I'm fine,” she answers, too sharply.  No way she's fine of course. No one falls into the Shadowfell, turns on their goddess, and gets dragged through a torment dimension, and then comes out fine. Fine people don't chop their hair up and dye it white overnight. Fine people don't go completely silent for the whole journey to the city.  But Karlach has plenty of experience being not-fine herself, and she knows there's no point in trying to talk about it before Shadowheart is ready. So she just smiles. “Good,” she says mildly. Then, louder - “What’s for breakfast, Gale?” “Cheese!” Gale says brightly. “About all we’ve got left - and just on the edge of turning, too.”

[knithacker]

UPDATED! "Knit & Crochet Games, Toys & Puzzle Patterns For Playtime Fun" … Tic Tac Toe Anyone?" - Check out these farmyard friends from Fluff&Fuzz! 👉 https://buff.ly/3mjcvWv

[8-bit-britt]

Is there any more to your story?

I didn't know how to answer this until I realized I have a google doc of some comic idea rough drafts. So I'll share some! These are in order starting from before Redmond was transported to Genron.

Redmond is still mourning the death of his mother and is leaning against the wire fence of the farmyard. A rabbit approaches him.

-Red's First Fight-

"Get a grip man, you're STILL sulking? I didn't think you could get any more pathetic. If you didn't do a fool thing like leavin a big hole in the fence for that weasel to get in, putting us ALL in danger, mind you, she would still be here."

"Sigfried, enough, the boy just lost his ma."

"No, no. I can finally talk to him without Gloria gettin' on my case, I'm gonna say what I want. Poor little Redmond, babied all his life and it still wasn't good enough so you had to chase the 'american dream', is that right? They didn't want you, else you wouldn't still be on this farm. Don't belong as a human, don't belong as a rabbit. And now that you don't got your mama's hip to cling to, you only amount to bein' one thing. Useless"

Redmond finally raises his head and you see a tired pair of eyes narrow. He's had enough. "You think it's so funny to kick someone while they're down. Well . . ." Red finally turns to Sigfried. "How would you like it if I put my foot up your ass?"

There are collected murmers and sounds of shock and even Sigfried looks a little taken back. He chuckles sarcastically. "Oh! Looks like lil Rey-Rey finally grew a pair."

It then cuts to Redmond getting in a fighting position as Sigfired continues. "Let's see what you got, mama's boy!"

-Pressure-(Predator and Prey)

In-game cutscene of Spanx and Redmond walking through the boiler room. Red looks troubled and finally breaks the silence.

"Don't you think it's weird? A weasel and a rabbit working together . . ."

The tone is tense. Red looks to Spanx in a half-lidded daze.

"Aren't you gonna eat me?" Redmond crosses his arms and looks off into the distance like it hurts him to admit the inevitable. "I know you've been thinking it. Honestly, I've felt like you've been tenderizing me the whole time. Are you waiting to catch me off guard? Saving me as a nice meal once you're done with me? "I mean it's not like you actually need me for this. Who are you trying to fool?"

[Here I really want to convey that Red is coming from a place of self-depreciation and not in a way that's trying to piss Spanx off] "I don't like surprises, so . . ."

It then cuts to a close up of Spanx, looking absolutely horrified at what he was hearing. The final part of the sentence ringing in his ears. "Just get it over with."

Then like a switch, Spanx looks offended that Red would assume this about him and flick Red on the forehead before walking past him, the tension for the readers easing off. Red comedically covers his forehead and his eyes tearing up from the 'pain' as he screams "RUDE!"

-A Change Of Heart-

We take a look at what was going through Redmond's head when he left Spanx and why he decided to come back.

One scene to add: Red is so close to freedom he can taste it, but suddenly he feels himself fighting to reach for the door. In a glimpse. you see the ghost of a chain attached to him as it pans out to the ghostly figure of Spanx. Red is feeling guilt and he doesn't understand why and starts arguing with himself.

As he's arguing, you get flashes of what's currently going on with Spanx. Looking pathetic and helpless as he's trying to fight the CEO by himself, ducking under and behind furniture as the CEO tries to pulverize him with a cane.

"He doesn't care about you, why should you care about him?"

"He used you."

"But it was self defense, wasn't it? Doesn't matter, he could of used something else, anything else."

"He's by himself now . . . he can't defend himself without me. Argh, he doesn't NEED you! All he cared about was escaping . . . We were escaping together, it wasn't just him."

"He's tougher than he looks, he can make it out on his own."

"What if he doesn't."

The comic ends with Red looking behind him, a somewhat petrified look on his face as he and the reader come to the conclusion that he's made up his mind.

-Sides-(Stay on Your Side)

Days of Freedom: 1 Week 2 Days

One of the early days of them being in the cave. Redmond is being picky about how they sleep while they're still chained together and draws a line in the dirt. They are to stay on their respective sides while they sleep. Spanx just shrugs and curls up on his side. They fall asleep.

Redmond starts to get really cold and is shivering. He grabs Spanx's tail and wraps up in it. Spanx wakes up and annoyingly tugs his tail back, causing Red to wake up in alarm.

"Hey, what gives?" Spanx points down to the line between them with a stern expression. "Yeah, but . . . I'm cold." Spanx just shrugs his shoulders like "Not my problem" and lays back down, back turned to Red. Red groans and lays back down, turned away from him and huddled in a ball. You can see the frustration on his face as he clutches his arms and tries to fall back asleep.

Days of Freedom: 2 Months 1 Week

Time passes and Spanx wakes up to the chattering of teeth. He looks over and Red is asleep, shaking violently. Spanx rolls his eyes and spoons Red, wrapping his tail around them. The chattering stops and the two finally get some sleep.

-Bullet-

While out foraging for berries, Spanx finds himself in the crosshair of a hunter. Redmond acts quick and blocks the shot, taking the bullet in his chest. This sets Spanx off and he attacks the hunter, causing him to drop his rifle and run off.

Spanx is left there cradling Redmond, convinced that he's dead until Red comes to. "I can't believe that actually worked . . . I knew I had tough skin but wow, I really stopped a bullet! If Genron was still in business and wasn't a hellhole of a company, they should sponsor me for this!" He shivers. "Ew, I can still feel it in me . . ."

He then looks to Spanx, completely unaware of how distraught the weasel was beforehand and his current reaction. "But at least it hit me and not you. You're okay, righ-" Spanx violently grabs Red by the shoulders, pained anger on his face.

Cut to where they're back at home and Spanx is trying to dig the bullet out of Redmond's chest. It's a very awkward scene as Red feels guilty for worrying Spanx. Red tries to make light of the situation by making a joke, to which Spanx is not amused.

"I'm . . . Sorry I worried you. I didn't think you would react to me passing out like that as bad as you did. I was only trying to protect you." After a long pause, Spanx pulls him into a hug, to Red's surprise.

[mx-plugs]

Fanfic Commissions

So, along with bills for my car repairs my new second hand phone died. I can get the money back for the phone, but it's an extra expense at a time I really don't need one.

So if you can't commission me, please re-blog to spread this. <3

DM if interested.

My Rates

£20 per 500 words, or the current exchange rate worth of £20 in your currency. As the pounds value has fallen my prices may be cheaper than you expect! I will write up to 3000 words. I won’t charge extra for going slightly over word count but I will always reach it.

Here is a link to my AO3 for examples of my work, mind the tags.

Short TOS

Will Do

Transformers fanfics.

Other fandoms if you can provide reference detail.

NSFW fics with few hard content limits.

m/m, f/f, m/f or any combination of genders.

OC/canon, OC / OC.

Won’t Do

Anything you’d have to tag as ‘underage’ on Ao3.

RPF (real person fic, unless a self insert.)

Bestiality involving ‘real’ animals.

I am happy to keep your fic entirely private and never post to Ao3, or say the fic was written for an anonymous individual. There is no extra charge for privacy!

These commissions are for over 18s only!

More details and TOS (including of nsfw commissions) under the cut.

TOS

I will refuse commissions I am uncomfortable with for any reason.

You will pay a deposit of half the commission’s price before I start work.

I will inform you of my progress and share drafts with you via google docs for feedback. Or your preferred file format.

SFW DETAILS

Will do

G1 Transformers cartoon continuity.

Other Transformers continuities (some reference material may be needed).

Other fandoms with material to reference.

OCs that have references for how to write them.

Reference material means showing me necessary fanon and canon material so I can write fics for fandoms I am more unfamiliar with. However, please be considerate of my time and financial situation - for example I cannot afford to buy nor have time to read every Game of Thrones book. But I can watch a few Steven Universe episodes to refresh my memory of Lapis and Peridot’s dynamic.

I am happy to write OC’s! But I will need information about their appearance and personality to write them.

Won’t do

Dog abuse*.

Graphic child abuse.

*As in a non sapient average dog being abused. Furries and talking cartoon dogs are fine.

NSFW DETAILS

Will do.

Any Transformers fandom specific kink.

Ageplay, ddlg ect

noncon, dubcon

incest of any flavour.

Vore hard or soft

oviposition

tentacles

feeding, weight gain ect.

BSDM

If your fetish or kink isn’t listed here do not worry. I have seen a lot of kinks in my time and will not judge anyone for what floats their boat. Including if the kink is quite literally boats floating.

Won’t do.

Again, anything that would be tagged as ‘underage’ on Ao3.

Bestiality* involving ‘real’ animals.

*If it is a mundane animal that wouldn’t pass the Harkness test, I’m not writing it. A robot that looks like a panther is fine, dragons are fine. A normal farmyard cow doing hanky-panky isn’t something I’ll write.

If you read this, thank you!

[theolikeworld]

Peter Cushing’s Twelve Days of Christmas

[From: Past Forgetting]

I got an idea of what to write from a chance remark of his in a recently received letter, in which [Peter Gray] had written ‘Thank you for your two telecoms (’and a partridge in a pear tree!...)’ Those bracketed words end each verse of that seasonal song ‘The 12 Days of Christmas’, which irritates me intensely with its constant repetitions. So I set about doing my own version, and as Peter enjoyed it (’It’s good enough for Punch’, he chortled), I reproduce it here, in the hope that you may also be diverted by this taradiddle.

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS

My own true love,

What a delightfully unique present you sent to me- a partridge in a pear tree. I’ve planted it in the greenhouse, and the dear little game bird seems so happy and at home in its branches. Thank you, thank you so very much for such a sweet thought. With all my love- ME

ON THE SECOND DAY OF CHRISTMAS

My own true love, Well! Well! A second gift has arrived! Two adorable turtle doves plus another pear tree with a partridge in it! You really are too generous, my sweet, but I do appreciate your thoughts. I’ve put the doves in a cote in the greenhouse, and Percy (as I’ve christened the first partridge) seems very contented to have a playmate.

With all my love- ME

ON THE THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS

My own true love,

I wonder if there’s some mistake? Today I received yet another pear tree with a partridge in it, two more turtle doves, and three French hens! I’ve built a coop for them, and put it in the greenhouse amongst all the other livestock, and planted the two extra pear trees. But perhaps you meant these prezzies for someone else, and put my address through force of habit? Do let me know, dear, if this is the case: things are getting a little overcrowded, and Percy has turned nasty over the new arrivals. With all my love- ME

ON THE FOURTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

Luv- Aren’t you overdoing it a bit, or have you won the pools?!!!? Carter Paterson has just delivered four singing blackbirds, two more turtle doves, three more French hens and another pear tree with- would you believe it- a partridge in it! In haste- affc. yrs- ME P.S. I’m having to extend the greenhouse.

ON THE FIFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

Look, this is getting to be too much of a good thing. It’s costing me a small fortune in bird seed and glass for the greenhouse. Today I not only received five ore of everything which came yesterday, but five gold rings to boot, which I’ve had to pawn to help pay for above. And I’m getting sick of the sight of partridges in pear trees. If you must keep sending me things, please don’t keep repeating them. Yours- ME

ON THE SIXTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

What are you trying to do to me, you old bat? Mother’s up to her waist in bird droppings, and is threatening to leave home, when there arrives, by special delivery, one pear tree, one partridge, two turtle doves, three French hens, four singing blackbirds, five gold rings (those I was glad to get) and a cartload of six oversexed geese laying eggs all over the place. ME

ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS

YOU HAVE GONE TOO FAR THIS TIME. I’ve had to get planning permission to build a farmyard and dig a pond to accommodate the seven swimming swans which arrived today, along with the other pests. I’ve been kept awake by all those damn doves cooing at each other all night, the neighbours are beginning to complain about the noise, and I’m driven balmy by colly birds twittering all day, French hens clucking, partridges fighting, and the thud of dropping eggs. Stop it, d’you hear? - STOP IT. I’m losing patience, as well as all my friends. ME

ON THE EIGHTH, NINTH, TENTH, ELEVENTH AND TWELFTH DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

Tweedle, Dum and Dee Solicitors, Carey Street, LONDON, E.C.

Dear Madam, Before our client left the country for an indefinite period (desnation unknown) he instructed us to get in touch with you regarding the following items, as to what you’d like done with them. (He did make a suggestion, but in the interest of common decency, we have decided not to pass it on.)

12 Partridges (extremely aggressive) in a like number of Pear Trees 22 Turtle Doves 30 French Hens 36 Blackbirds (singing) 40 Gold Rings (pawn tickets) 42 Laying Geese 42 Swimming Swans 40 Milkmaids 36 Drummers 30 Pipers 22 Dancing Ladies 12 Leaping Lords

A total of 364 gifts, plus innumerable goose eggs.

We would appreciate the favour of an early reply, owing to the fact that there are now cows available to keep the maids occupied, and hostilities have broken out between the drummers, the pipers and the leaping lords, all seeking the attentions of the aforementioned maidens and ladies.

The behaviour of the fauna is equally disgusting.

We regret to inform you that our client went beserk when offered roast partridge stuffed with pears for dinner, and that the goose eggs have addled.

We are, Madam, your obedient servants. HY AM DUM (Signed for and on behalf of Tweedle, Dum and Dee)

[teamcuriosity]

This ask is meant for Dr. Ryan Alston

It has come to my attention that you may have information about the fantasy creatures known as 'Sheep' that are famously featured in the cube game 'Minecraft'. Is this true and if so, is it true that they also need to be shorn like their real world equivalents Mareep and Wooloo?

-Professor Bellamy Amaryllis

Why is it that every time we cross paths you insist on giving me a headache? I pity the ones you love.

Anyways. Sheep are real animals. They just don't exist in this universe, I assume because the ecological niches were already filled by the pokemon of similar form and appearance. Domestic sheep—ones bred for wool production specifically—need to be shorn twice per year on average. There are some domestic breeds that don't need this treatment, and wild breeds can also naturally shed their wool, but the sheep that most people think of (beyond politics) are the farmyard types that need to be shorn or they'll overheat and die.

And of course, none of this knowledge matters here because I might as well just be spouting fantasy world gibberish to you. Fantasy world gibberish about my actual lived experiences. You're a professor, surely you have more important things to worry about.

Like a broken rib.

—Dr. Alston