#Lai Yarrow

[trollbreak]

Man I gotta get like. Any of my plots going so I can rant abt the details of it.

[bunwritesss]

Stolen Strawberries

Summary: As everyone in the group is sleeping, you get to enjoy a morning of peacefulness, a few hours without having to hear Shane fighting with literally anyone else in the group, or Carl and Sophia begging you to teach them how to do things. And as you're surrounded by wildflowers, Daryl comes from a hunt to make your morning even better. (Season 2 era) (Gender Neutral Reader)

Genre: Fluff 💕

A/N: Hiii! This oneshot is my favorite so far, because the Reader is really funny in this one. Still using the sunshine x grumpy trope, I really enjoy it to be honest ahah! As always, I apologize for the possible mistakes, I am writing these fanfictions to improve my english and am not fluent at all! Anyway, have a nice day/night, and thank you for reading me! 🥰

Nobody was up, except for Daryl who left your shared ''bed'' (he would have called it a nest of blanket but you were adamant on calling the thing a bed) hours ago to go on a hunt, and the veterinarian's family who was taking care of the animals and thankfully did not see you. So you were left alone to enjoy the fresh air, which made you happy. You loved your group of survivors, you really did, but you missed alone time.

It was early in the morning. The sun was rising, birds were chirping all around you, you were surrounded by flowers, and you felt like a Disney character. It was during these moments you did not regret the outbreak.

You peacefully stretched, arms up in the air, before picking some flowers for your flower crown.

You picked daisies, dandelions, poppies, and some yarrow, humming to yourself as you carefully pierced the stem of one of the flowers with your fingernail, in order to put another flower inside. You kept alternating flowers in order to get a cute colorful crown. At the end, you tried wrapping some sterms around the others to make the crown stronger, but gave up. Flower crowns were supposed to be ephemeral, and you would get bored of it within a few hours anyway, no need to make it last. So you started making other flower accessories to keep yourself busy.

Flower necklace, flower bracelets, and some flowers tucked behind your hair. At the end of your creation session, you turned your head in direction of the tents, a little smile gracing your lips when you did not see anyone up. So you happily layed down in the patch of flowers, face against the dirt, kicking your feet in the air in excitement. For the first time in hours, you felt good, forgetting about the dirty hair that stuck on your head, the dead creatures that wanted to eat you, or the fact that the farmer wanted you gone soon, and that you did not know where you would sleep in two days. You just felt good.

'Are ya fightin' with the flowers?'

An amused voice startled you, and you turned to see Daryl, with dead animals in the end and a mocking smile on his face.

'I'm fighting the flowers. Can't say they're defending themselves.'

You sat down to look at him, throwing a mock punch into the poor flowers, which made him chuckle.

You completely understood. He knew you did. He dropped his crossbow near you, and the rope holding the animals away from you, and sat down. He pointed a finger at your head.

'Was the hunt good?'

' 'T'was nice being alone for a while. Missed it.'

'Ya kept yerself busy.'

You smiled, a hand on your flower crown as he looked at it.

You talked a bit too loud, immediatly covering your mouth and turning to the rest of the tents, half a mile away from you. And thankfully, no one seemed to wake up.

'It suits ya.'

'Thanks!'

'They're all out like lights, no need to worry 'bout this.' Daryl said, and you sighed, nodding in approval.

'Sorry.' He said, putting the flower back before lowering his hand.

You dropped your head on Daryl's shoulder, waiting for him to tense and relax, as he did everytime you rested on him. He placed a hesitant hand on your head, tracing soothing circles on your scalp. Soon enough, you let out a sigh of contentment. It felt so good.

As he kept drawing circles and intricate shapes, he accidentally rubbed one of the flowers, which almost detached itself from the rest of the crown.

You immediatly took out the crown, catching his hand and putting it back into your hair.

'No, please, continue.' You begged, not caring about how needy you sounded.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes, but complied nonetheless, and the patterns started again. You could feel your whole body relaxing, and your eyelids growing heavier, and soon enough you fell asleep on Daryl's shoulder.

Which was expected. It was one of the things he loved about you, how predictable you were, how familiar you felt. He already knew you by heart before the outbreak, having memorized every single detail about you and your body language, but now it was almost scary. As he left for his hunt, a few hours ago, he saw the patch of wildflowers, making a mental note to remember to pick you up from your new favorite spot before joining the rest of the group. And as always, he was right. The hunter wrapped an arm around you, catching your flowercrown in his left hand.

You snuggled closer to him, half asleep and half conscient, and he smiled, thinking about the fact someone felt safe enough to fall asleep on him. Someone as sweet, as genuinely good as you. And if there wasn't dead but alive monsters that could be walking around at any moment, he would have someone to fall asleep on as well. His hand moved from your scalp to your temple, knowing exactly where to place his hand to make you feel perfectly fine.

You let out a moan of contentment and he smiled.

And now it was his turn to feed you strawberries. You opened your mouth like a starved baby bird and he fed you one of the biggest.

After a while, and as he were sure you were conscient but pretending to sleep so he kept massaging you head, he asked you, in a soft voice, if you had eaten. And when you said you were hungry but too lazy to get up, he took some wild strawberries out of his chest pocket, and you swore to yourself you would marry that man one day, as you squealed of excitement.

You had missed strawberries so much, and he knew this. Before the outbreak, you used to steal them from the garden of an old lady who was always mean to Daryl, every sunday of the summer. Sometimes hurting yourself on the barbed wire that surrounded her garden, but always successfully bringing back these fruits, proud to know she would be enjoying more sweet treats if she wasn't such a mean witch. You were making things right, and Daryl's eyes twinkled everytime he overheard her complain about wild birds stealing her fruits. You jockingly called yourself a vigilante, increasing your 'borrowings' every time she spoke badly of the man you loved. One day, she woke up and two whole plants were gone. You had woken up at three in order to carefully move them to Daryl's garden, placing them behind a pile of old car wheels. ''This way, we won't have to go far to get them!'', you had explained to an amused Daryl, hands covered in mud and a proud look into your eyes.

'These are even better than Mrs Jones' strawberries!' You exclaimed, as Daryl nodded in agreement, both of your chins covered in red juice.

You kept eating in silence, enjoying the sun and the peaceful atmosphere, both of your shirts ruined forever. You mindlessly pet the flowers surrounding you with a finger, careful not to break any petal.

'These are so pretty!'

'They are.' Daryl said, his eyes on you.

[bisexualhomelander]

Written for my dear @clockworkzeppelin aka "the only person I would ever write x reader for". May life always treat you gently.

morning glory; affection yarrow; everlasting love

Snuggling him, turns out, is an ordeal. There is a marked confusion in Homelander's eyes, and it takes away from what is supposed to be a very relaxed day.

He attempts to sit up and reciprocate. Her hand on his chest can do little to hold him back, but he lets himself get pushed down into the sheets again anyway. “No?” he asks, still confused. They are touching in as many places as possible, and she can feel him grow hard against her thigh. He clearly expects sex, but that is not what she is after.

“No,” she confirms, scooting down a bit to get better access to his chest. She peppers kisses on his skin, here and there, no rhyme or reason to her choice of spots on him to assault with tenderness. He shudders, a low noise caught in his throat, but it ends on a high note, questioning.

“What are you-?” -doing, he does not say. His surprise at her actions is as adorable as it is deeply tragic. Gentle touch is constantly seen as a prelude to sex, and denying him is met with a tilt of his head like he is a puppy confronted with an unfamiliar situation. She has to teach him better ways.

“I’m smooching you.” She underlines her words by leaving a kiss on his collarbone with an exaggerated smooch noise. “See, you’re being smooched. So lay back and let me smooch you.”

When she looks up at him, his eyes are wide, and the thin line of his mouth still tense. He has his hands fisted into the blanket, looking every bit the suffering saint.

She gently presses her lips against a cheekbone, drawing out the kiss until she feels him lean into her. “That’s good,” she praises.

He keens.

She takes his face into her hands, gently rubbing her thumbs over his cheeks as she kisses his brows until they unfurrow.

She rubs the tip of her nose against his, and he finally closes his eyes, hands relinquishing their hold, body going limp as a soft sigh falls from his lips.

His mouth, she saves for last. She allows her lips to linger over his briefly, making him expect her touch. When he leans forward to claim her in a kiss that only tastes of love and affection, not of heat and desperation, she knows he has learned his lesson.

[jungle-angel]

Master Of The Earth (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: Out of all the Daggers, Bob has the biggest green thumb of all

Tagging: @floydsmuse @callmemana @attapullman @bradshawsbaby @withahappyrefrain

It was one of those spring days where you knew summer would be right around the corner, bright and sunny, the birds singing and the fresh early morning air making its way into the house. You had been sitting out on the front steps, enjoying your morning coffee and relieved that your lesson plans for your class's sixth grade year were finally done and that all you would have to worry about were the Greek Games and the spring fair at the school you taught at.

You heard the faint playing of music coming from somewhere around the corner, just having finished a phone call with Bob's grandfather and wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you.

You wandered around the back to the backyard where the garden was already beginning to bloom, noticing that the greenhouse door was cracked open just a little to let in the fresh air. A cheeky grin played with your lips when you heard the bluetooth speaker playing "Shambala" by Three Dog Night and your eyes laying upon Bob who was dancing shirtless as he shoveled some of the bagged soil into the clay pots on the long wooden table.

"BOB!!"

"Jeebus FUCK!!!" he blurted out, jumping a little.

"Have you been in here all morning?" you asked him.

"Since five in the AM," he chuckled, drawing you in for a tight hug.

Oooh he was warm, so warm and a little sticky from the greenhouse humidity, smelling of fresh dirt and wet leaves. You kissed the curve of his neck and the tops of his pecs before he gladly and eagerly returned the kisses you had been giving.

"Oh, I've gotta show you these," he said excitedly.

He gently guided you to the bench where a whole pile of seed packets were waiting to be opened. "Oh my God," you chuckled. "Did you raid the entire Home Depot garden section?"

Bob had opened his mouth to say something. "I......ya know......it's funny you should ask that....."

"Robert Joseph......"

"(Y/n) I swear half of it was my dad's idea, I'm not lying."

You laughed and rolled your eyes. Bob, his dad Joe Floyd and Joe's father, Lowell, were the only three people on the face of the earth who would have willingly raided a Home Depot garden section and not given a single fuck hereafter. "Alright Professor Floyd," you said. "Continue with the lecture."

"Ah ok," Bob said. "Now we have here an assortment of plants that will be first put into clay pots and then gradually into bigger ones until they are ready to root in the ground. Now if you would like to flip through the pile of seed packets, you may feel free to do so."

You laughed and gladly flipped through the pile of packets, amazed at what Bob had been able to get. Calendula, oregano, cayenne pepper, chamomile, poppies, lavender, rosemary, mint, marigolds, valerian and a whole host of other herbs and flora that you swore weren't even native to where you lived.

"Ooh, yarrow," you said.

"That was always Meemaw's favorite," Bob explained. "I've also got tulsi, catnip and mugwort too."

"What else did you plant?" you asked him.

"Maybe a peach tree," Bob said, blushing a little. "For my sweet, juicy little peach of course."

You giggled, the heat filling you from head to toe.

"I've also got a few bushes too," Bob continued. "Blackberry, elderberry, raspberry.......maybe a camellia bush. Black cohosh will help with mom's hot flashes and keep the pests away. Nasturtium will grow hardy but they need wood dowels to climb up. I'd like to see about some mullein and nettle but I'm not sure where we'd put it. Hawk said he would come by later and give me some white sage seeds that he extracted from his daughter's garden too."

You could have listen to him babble on for hours about the plants and the experiments he was trying. You made a mental note to introduce him to Mr. Jenkins, the high school science teacher who was teaching his ninth graders some of the principals and techniques involved in holistic farming, as the two of them would have a day long conversation.

You and Bob set to planting the seeds, scooping the dirt and putting it into the pots along with the seeds and properly burying them just enough so they could push through to the surface when the time came. You watered and fertilized as you saw fit, taking pictures of new sprouts or buds and adding them into Bob's journal full of his drawings, writings and observations. You both had lost track of the time until you realized it was already noon and time for lunch. But thankfully, the day wasn't over yet and you could do as much more planting as the day would allow.

[abarbaricyalp]

Written for the @sambuckylibrary Valentine's Bingo fill: Secret Admirer

5 times birds try to tell Bucky he has a secret admirer and 1 time a human does

Rated T for brief Canon typical violence AO3 Link

Blithe Spirits, Higher Still and Higher

I.

Truthfully, Bucky was hiding. Not well. Not in any substantial kind of way. He was sitting on a bench almost directly outside the front door of the New Avengers Compound. Anyone on the south side of the building would be able to see him. Still, he was not anywhere near any kind of AI system that could tell people where he was or could ring out to him to join some inane meeting or the other. Bucky was not very good at the bureaucracy of this job. Sam said he was an excellent trainer and he established good relationships with the younger heroes that came through the compound, but Bucky was fairly certain that was where the compliments ended as far as his work here was concerned.

He hated it. He hated the building. He hated being in DC. He hated the transient nature of everyone who came through the door. He had a house in Louisiana where he was close enough to the Wilsons to stop by when he wanted. The only good thing about being here was that Sam was usually here as well.

So he took breaks outside as often as he liked. The bench was just big enough for him to lay out on without having to incline either his head or his feet on the armrests and the backing was tall enough to block out the sun after 1:00pm. He really liked this bench.

He was absorbing enough sunshine to stave away the AC chill in his fingers when a bunch of rustling interrupted the otherwise quiet afternoon. He dropped his arm away from his eyes and glanced to his left, searching for the intruder to his quiet afternoon. He expected one of the kids trying to wrangle him into a sparring match, or a handler trying to wrangle him into a desk.

Instead, there was a crow bouncing towards him with a bundle of wildflowers in its beak. It kept throwing its head back at him in some sort of display. He sat up on the bench and the crow jumped up to stand next to his leg. It deposited the flowers on his thigh.

“Where did you get these?” he asked with a small smile. The flowers were nothing extraordinary, so he didn’t assume the bird had taken them from anyone’s hands. Except maybe a nearby child who’d been collecting them on a walk. But Bucky disregarded this theory. They were of the usual suspects as far as flowers went. Some yarrow and laurel and even bluebells. The stems were chopped fairly neatly, which didn’t suggest that the bird had ripped them from the ground. 

Actually, if he thought about their origins much more, he was probably going to get a headache.

“What’re you gonna do with them?” he asked the bird instead, like it could answer him. He collected the flowers in a loose grouping and held them back out, but the bird didn’t take them. Instead, it hopped away again. “You’re leaving them with me?” he surmised.

The bird bobbed its head. It cast one more glance over Bucky and then flew away. Bucky took the flowers and, after glancing around to make sure no one could see him, closed his eyes and pressed them against his nose.

II.

Being back in New York felt much more comfortable than being in DC, even if he was once again stuck in a stuffy building. This time, he was doing more paperwork than he thought should be allowed of one person after saving the world for the umpteenth time. As soon as their assigned agent had turned his back, Bucky had vacated the office seat and headed for the nearest food truck.

He’d asked Sam to come along, but had been flatly denied. He was trying very hard not to take it personally, but he wasn’t really succeeding. Sure, he wasn’t half the flirt he’d been in the 30s, but he held his own in this brave new world. He picked people up fairly easily when he wanted to.

The only problem was that he hadn’t wanted to. Not for a long time. His attention had quickly and fully shifted to Sam. But Sam was remarkably resistant to Bucky’s attempts to woo him. Despite the fact that they got dinner together all the time, or went to see a new movie often, as soon as Bucky started asking with the express intent to make further moves on Sam, Sam became absurdly good at skirting his invitations.

This wasn’t even a move. He just really wanted a hotdog. He figured a walk in the sun would be good for Sam too. But, no. The paperwork and their deadlines and getting shit done.

Whatever. Bucky was in New York again. He wasn’t going to waste the precious few hours he had in his loud, noisy city again. Certainly not by embarrassing himself in front of Sam or pushing his boundaries.

Bucky knew this food truck and he was more than a little obsessed with it. When he’d been goading Sam into coming with him, he hadn’t lied by saying he literally dreamed about these hot dogs when he was in Louisiana. This line, the warm summer sun, it was all worth it as he got to the front of the line and reached for his wallet as he began to order without looking at the menu.

He stopped halfway through, which the vendor didn’t even clock, just mumbled, “Yeah, with the relish and extra mustard, I remember.”

“No, wait,” Bucky said and patted his pockets down again. The back ones and then the front ones and then his own waist, where his jacket would usually sit if he was wearing one. “I don’t have my wallet. I must’ve left it in my coat.”

“I think I can spot ya’ this time,” the vendor said in the sarcastic, but loving way, of a brash New Yorker. “You just knock my truck outta the way next time aliens attack.”

“No, no, I can’t,” Bucky insisted, the ghost of his mother’s good manners curling low in his stomach. “I was gonna get a handful. I don’t wanna put you out. Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.”

“Barnes!” the man called after him, but Bucky was already striding away.

He didn’t get very far. A very large pigeon posted up in front of him. Bucky tried to sidestep it, but it followed him across the sidewalk.

“I’m not in the mood,” he told it, which made someone walking past him snort. “Actually, I’m kind of in a rush and I’m starving.”

The pigeon didn’t budge. Instead, it reached under its wing with its beak and produced a twenty dollar bill. It threw the bill on the ground between them.

Bucky blinked at the bill and then at the bird. The bird cocked its head back at him. Did birds blink, he wondered. Surely they must. Flying in the air and everything. They’d need to protect their eyes.

“Go return it,” he said, nudging the bill back towards the bird without actually stepping closer to it. This bird was clearly a criminal. Who knew what it’d do next.

The bird picked up the bill and flung it at Bucky with a palpable distaste. What was going on here? Bucky was in a hunger and hotdog aroma fueled dream. His stomach chose right then to growl like he hadn’t eaten in years. He’d literally had a huge bagel this morning. (There’d been a point to prove to Sam about the frankly appalling bagels in DC.)

Still, his stomach was growling and no one was shouting about theft by bird or chasing this pigeon down. So…he took the bill and got back in line. The pigeon followed after him, letting itself get distracted by the scraps on the ground along the way.

“Found a twenty in my pocket,” he explained to the vendor when he got back up to the front of the line.

The man looked like he may have been skeptical but wasn’t interested enough to actually care. Bucky ordered two hotdogs with the promise he’d come back tomorrow for his handful. Not that he was going to get away with feeding Sam hotdogs two days in a row. Not unless one of them came with broccoli instead of mustard.

He started away from the food truck with his semi-ill-gotten gains in hand when all of a sudden a sharp pain stabbed through his ankle. He looked down with a scowl and found the pigeon basically glaring up at him. Again, with the birds having eyelids thing. He was going to google it as soon as he got back into the room him and Sam were locked in.

“What?” he asked. “It’s a barter system. I don’t have the money anymore.”

The pigeon bobbed its head like it knew what a barter system was. Then it looked pointedly at Bucky’s hotdog. Ah, Bucky thought. It was a barter system. He tore off a piece of his bun and tossed it at the pigeon. Without another look, the pigeon grabbed the bread and flew away.

Literally what was going on?

Read the rest on AO3 here!

[wolveswolves]

Hannah Bullen-Ryner Art

“My first day back in "the office" (the edge of a fallow field near my home) after my holiday, with some Welsh treasures that I squirreled home with me! 

My beautiful Wolf visitor is born of Mugwort, Yarrow, wilted Night Sky Petunia petals (rolled between my finger and thumb and pressed into the earth) a few fluffy feathers, some wilted deep purple Buddleia, lots of tiny Welsh river slate pebbles, a shell fragment, the edge of a buttercup petal, a few tiny darkened leaf stems, and a few other elements I had laying around from previous flows. 

With love and light. 

(For scale you could fit this entire piece on your outstretched hand.)”

[whiteshipnightjar]

AAAAAAAAnd there was a booming above you, that night black airplanes flew over the sea. And they were lowing and shifting like beached whales, shelled snails, as you strained and you squinted to see the retreat of their hairless and blind cavalry. You froze in your sand shoal, prayed for your poor soul; sky seemed a bread roll, soaking in a milk-bowl. And when the bread broke — fell in bricks of wet smoke — my sleeping heart woke, and my waking heart spoke. Then there was a silence you took to mean something: mean, Run, sing, for alive you will evermore be. And the plague of the greasy black engines a-skulking has gone east, while you’re left to explain them to me — released from their hairless and blind cavalry. With your hands in your pockets, stubbily running to where I’m unfresh, undressed and yawning — Well, what is this craziness? This crazy talking? You caught some small death when you were sleepwalking. It was a dark dream, darlin; it’s over. The firebreather is beneath the clover. Beneath his breathing there is cold clay, forever: a toothless hound-dog choking on a feather. But I took my fishing pole (fearing your fever), down to the swimming hole, where there grows a bitter herb that blooms but one day a year, by the riverside — I’d bring it here: Apply it gently to the love you’ve lent me. While the river was twisting and braiding, the bait bobbed and the string sobbed, as it cut through the hustling breeze. And I watched how the water was kneading so neatly, gone treacly, nearly slowed to a stop in this heat; frenzy coiling flush along the muscles beneath. Press on me, we are restless things. Webs of seaweed are swaddling. You call upon the dusk of the musk of a squid: shot full of ink, until you sink into your crib. Rowing along, among the reeds, among the rushes, I heard your song, before my heart had time to hush it! Smell of a stonefruit being cut and being opened. Smell of a low and of a lazy cinder smoking And when the fire moves away, fire moves away, son. Why would you say I was the last one? Scrape your knee: it is only skin. Makes the sound of violins. When I cut your hair, and leave the birds all the trimmings, I am the happiest woman among all women. And the shallow water stretches as far as I can see. Knee deep, trudging along — the seagull weeps ‘so long’ — I’m humming a threshing song — Until the night is over, hold on, hold on; hold your horses back from the fickle dawn. I have got some business out at the edge of town, candy weighing both of my pockets down till I can hardly stay afloat, from the weight of them (and knowing how the commonfolk condemn what it is I do, to you, to keep you warm: Being a woman. Being a woman.) But always up the mountainside you’re clambering, groping blindly, hungry for anything; picking through your pocket linings — well, what is this? Scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus? I see the blossoms broke and wet after the rain. Little sister, he will be back again. I have washed a thousand spiders down the drain. Spiders’ ghosts hang, soaked and dangling silently, from all the blooming cherry trees, in tiny nooses, safe from everyone — nothing but a nuisance; gone now, dead and done — Be a woman. Be a woman. Though we felt the spray of the waves, we decided to stay, 'till the tide rose too far. We weren’t afraid, cause we know what you are; and you know that we know what you are. Awful atoll — O, incalculable indiscreetness and sorrow! Bawl bellow: Sibyl sea-cow, all done up in a bow. Toddle and roll; teethe an impalpable bit of leather, while yarrow, heather and hollyhock awkwardly molt along the shore. Are you mine? My heart? Mine anymore? Stay with me for awhile. That’s an awfully real gun. I know life will lay you down, as the lightning has lately done. Failing this, failing this, follow me, my sweetest friend, to see what you anointed, in pointing your gun there. Lay it down! Nice and slow! There is nowhere to go, save up; up where the light, undiluted, is weaving, in a drunk dream, at the sight of my baby, out back: back on the patio, watching the bats bring night in — while, elsewhere, estuaries of wax-white wend, endlessly, towards seashores unmapped. * Last week, our picture window produced a half-word, heavy and hollow, hit by a brown bird. We stood and watched her gape like a rattlesnake and pant and labor over every intake. I said a sort of prayer for some rare grace, then thought I ought to take her to a higher place. Said, “dog nor vulture nor cat shall toy with you, and though you die, bird, you will have a fine view.” Then in my hot hand, she slumped her sick weight. We tramped through the poison oak, heartbroke and inchoate. The dogs were snapping, so you cuffed their collars while I climbed the tree-house. Then how I hollered! Cause she’d lain, as still as a stone, in my palm, for a lifetime or two; then saw the treetops, cocked her head, and up and flew. (While back in the world that moves, often, according to the hoarding of these clues, dogs still run roughly around little tufts of finch-down.) The cities we passed were a flickering wasteland, but his hand, in my hand, made them hale and harmless. While down in the lowlands, the crops are all coming; we have everything. Life is thundering blissful towards death in a stampede of his fumbling green gentleness. You stopped by; I was all alive. In my doorway, we shucked and jived. And when you wept, I was gone; see, I got gone when I got wise. But I can’t with certainty say we survived. Then down and down and down and down and down and deeper, stoke, without sound, the blameless flames, you endless sleeper. Through fire below, and fire above, and fire within, sleep through the things that couldn’t have been, if you hadn’t have been. And when the fire moves away, fire moves away, son. Why would you say I was the last one? All my bones, they are gone, gone, gone. Take my bones, I don’t need none. Cold, cold cupboard, lord, nothing to chew on! Suck all day on a cherry stone. Dig a little hole not three inches round — Spit your pit in a hole in the ground. Weep upon the spot for the starving of me! Till up grows a fine young cherry tree. When the bough breaks, what’ll you make for me? A little willow cabin to rest on your knee. What’ll I do with a trinket such as this? Think of your woman, who’s gone to the west. But I’m starving and freezing in my measly old bed! Then I’ll crawl across the salt flats, to stroke your sweet head. Come across the desert with no shoes on! I love you truly, or I love no-one. Fire moves away. Fire moves away, son. Why would you say I was the last one? Clear the room! There’s a fire, a fire, a fire. Get going, and I’m going to be right behind you. And if the love of a woman or two, dear, could move you to such heights, then all I can do is do, my darling, right by you.

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

So if you're making a food forest, you need to gently noodge the land towards something that looks a little like this

using all edible plants. Or at least all plants that function towards the goal of food production for someone or something within the forest.

Because we intend to make biomes within our food forest for each livestock pasture, tailored to the needs of the animal that lives there, we'll want each biome of the food forest that we rewild to feed either us or the pastured livestock intended to live there.

Take the chicken biome

At it's barest foundations, the chicken biome is centered around the following plants:

Mulberry and weeping mulberry trees, fig trees, yucca, raspberry and blackberry bushes, climbing roses, nasturtium, pumpkin and squash, wormwood, oregano, thyme, lemonbalm, yarrow, comfrey, clover, sage, plantain leaf, rosemary, dandelion, beebalm, echinacea, calendula, turnips, carrots, and beets

While the final ecosystem we cultivate will obviously have far more biological diversity than that, these are the starting blocks of the biome. Functional plants that chickens and humans both love to have easy access to, including some that help us measure the environmental impact of the chickens themselves.

While there will ideally be lots of room to range free during the days, the goal is still to coop the chickens at night, so a recycled wood coop with climbing roses trellised on it, recycled crates for nesting boxes, and hay or wood chip litter. Some chicken friendly puzzles around, a few climbers/perches, and a watering trough hooked up to a rainwater collection system. We want them to lay their eggs in the nesting boxes as often as possible because frankly I don't plan to go egg hunting in the biome or cracking open fertilized eggs that were laid fuck knows how long ago because who knows how long it took me to find them. So obvi we need the chickens to like the coop as much or more than they like the biome lol. And considering the biome will be really nice, this will involve both training and a serious dedication to making that coop a lil chicken heaven.

The form of all these things obviously can not be determined until there is actually specific land to be cooperated with for a variety of fairly philosophically overwhelming reasons. But having the amorpheous theme of what will need to take shape when that day comes is exceptionally helpful to hitting the ground running, so to speak. It lets me build up my ecosystem mentally beforehand so that I can begin as much of that rewilding work as soon as possible and let nature take its course with little nudges and suggestions from me. By far, my preference I think in how to tackle all of this.

And the really cool part for me is going to be seeing it all come to life and getting to cultivate my home into a symbiotic wilds.

[emyn-arnens]

trick or treat!🎃

Happy Halloween! You've got me in my Finduilas feelings now thanks to your fic, so here's a little Finduilas and Faramir ficlet for you. ❤︎

The door to Finduilas’ room creaked open, and Faramir’s dark head peered around it. He closed the door carefully, so that Denethor, a little way down the hall in his study, would not hear and worry that her rest was being disturbed.

“I brought you something,” Faramir said. In his hands was a small bouquet of moss roses plucked from the little plant that grew in Finduilas’ garden. He placed the flowers in her lap. They were slightly wilted from the long walk from the garden to her chambers, but Finduilas cared not.

“It was very kind of you to bring me these,” she said, smiling at him. She brushed the bright petals with her fingertips, and longing swelled within her for her home by the sea. 

Moss roses had grown wild and tumbling along the cliffs and shores of Dol Amroth and in her family’s gardens. They had been her favorite flowers since she was a girl, running freely upon the shimmering shorelines and dancing upon the windswept cliffs. Ivriniel had cultivated new colors and kinds, just for her sister, and they had grown in a wild tumult amongst the hydrangeas, geraniums, lilies, yarrow, and lavender that filled their family’s gardens.

Denethor had sent for Ivriniel’s seeds at Finduilas’ request, for she had longed to have some small piece of her home. But the seeds had been planted in too much shade (everything was in the shade when one lived in a city of towering stone), and the plant had struggled to break through the stony soil of the Citadel. And when it had, it had been a sparse, spare thing, drawing what little life it could from the cold stones of the city. She had thought it would not live past a year, but it had, clinging to life as she did in this city of deepening shadow.

“Do you feel any better?” Faramir asked, as he always did. His eyes were large and serious, too serious for a boy of but four years.

She cupped his cheek, warm from the sun and the life that thrummed through his veins. Her hand was cold against his skin. “If you bring me some of these flowers each day, you will make me feel much better.” She pressed a kiss to his brow and closed her eyes. How many more times would she be able to kiss his brow or touch his face? How soon would it be until the flowers he brought her were to be laid upon her tomb instead of her lap?

“I will,” he promised with a voice too solemn for a child his age.

Finduilas smiled and touched his cheek. “I shall look forward to it.”

When he left, the heavy silence of stone filled the room, and Finduilas bowed her head and wept.

— — —

Faramir walked down the marble flagstones of Rath Dínen between the pale domes and echoing halls that lined the street. In his hand he held a small bouquet of moss roses, taken from the little plant that grew on his windowsill.

His mother’s moss rose had outlived her, and when the plant had at last withered nigh unto death and had only one branch that yet lived, Faramir had taken a cutting and consulted the city gardeners and herb-masters. They had told him to plant the cutting in a place of ample sunlight, and so Faramir had placed it in a pot in his window that faced to the West, where it would spend many hours in the golden light of the afternoon sun. The plant flourished as it never had in the shadows of his mother’s garden.

He entered a wide, vaulted chamber where lay the wives and daughters of the Stewards. Many marble tables filled it, and on them lay the sleeping forms of the women of the House of Húrin, carved into stone.

His mother’s tomb stood near the center of the room, marked from the rest by the flowers that lay upon her breast. Her marble likeness was veiled, and her eyes were closed as if she were lost in dreamless sleep.

Faramir removed the dead flowers and brushed his fingertips over her stone hands. They were as cold as her hands had been in her last days, when she had brushed his hair from his face and bid him to have courage. He little remembered now the color of her eyes or the sound of her voice, but he remembered the feeling of her hands, cool and gentle upon his skin.

He placed the new flowers upon her breast, over her folded hands. “I have brought you something of your home, Mother,” he said. And he bent to kiss her brow.

[ask box trick-or-treat]

[archaeology-findings]

Adventures in Plant Dyeing: Part 1 - Yarrow

Last week while at our monthly re-enactment group training meeting, my friend Jess who is a very accomplished dyer pointed out that there was yarrow growing in the field we were in. Naturally I had to pick some and came home with an armful to dye with the next day. Yarrow is recognisable by its small white flowers and feathery leaves as shown in the photo (not mine).

Yarrow produces a greenish-yellow to bright yellow colour depending on the mordants used and the particular harvest you use. I had several undyed or otherwise cream-coloured skeins of yarn I could use, and I chose 50g of a wool-nylon blend yarn. A quick google check suggested that nylon does indeed take dye, although not as well as natural fibres like wool. For fresh plants you're meant to use about a 1:1 ratio of plant matter to fibre, however after weighing it I realised I had 120g of yarrow. I decided to use it all anyway because I didn't want to have the remainder laying around without anything to use it for.

Firstly I mordanted the yarn using alum granules, I used about 8g for the 50g of fibre. For this I set some water on the stove in a large metal pot (called a dye pot) and dissolved the alum in a cup of hot water. I poured the dissolved alum in the pot and added the wet yarn, then kept it at roughly 80°C (180°F) for 45 minutes. I then removed it and left it in the sink until it was ready to go into the dye bath itself.

To prepare the dye bath, I chopped the yarrow into rough pieces, not too finely (although I found sources that both cut up the yarrow and left the plants whole) and placed them into the dye pot in fresh water. I brought it to boiling then simmered it with the lid on the pot for an hour. After this I added the skein of yarn without removing the yarrow and kept it simmering for another hour. It filled almost the whole house with a strong scent of plants which was rather unpleasant, so I recommend doing this with the windows open. Then I turned the heat off and left it to cool down until about 9pm, which was about 6 or 7 hours later.

I removed the yarn and rinsed it until the water ran off clear, then I hung it up to dry overnight. In the morning I wound it into a ball for use in tablet weaving and braiding.

Here's a before and after photo for comparison. Overall I'm quite happy with how it turned out, especially since I probably didn't pick the yarrow at the optimal time and the yarn was a nylon blend.

[trollbreak]

Man I put on shuffle for eiteth brain and got yarrow angst instead. Hewwo??

[minhosimthings]

Hold Me Without Hurting Me

Chapter 10: Gladiolus and Gemstone memoirs

A/N: In which an old friend fills your life with flowers again, along a bumpy sided road.

Pairings: Ceo!Jay × Ceo!fem!reader, includes rest of Enhypen and certain other groups

Warnings: angst-fluff, hurt/comfort, friends to enemies to fake dating to enemies to lovers, Mentions of food and alcohol, swearing, jay comfort, nothing much but it's a bumpy story.

Story prompt: If I had a flower for every time I fell in love with you, I would walk in my garden forever. (This story is based on the language of flowers.)

SERIES MASTERLIST

"So where to today?" You slammed the car door close and adjusted in the familiar seat. "The flower markets. They're a big part of this city and it would be a pity if I didn't show my girlfriend who came all the way from Seoul, why Seattle is called The Flower Garden of America." "Fake girlfriend." You corrected him, a cheeky smile peeking up on your mouth. "Sure sweetheart." Jay shot back a quip, making your heart skip yet another beat. It sure had been skipping too many beats today since you laid your eyes on him.

"So how is Mr Choi by the way after the whole 'slamming him into his own chair' incident?" You quizzed Jay who rolled his eyes at you and pulled out his phone. Scrolling to the end of it, he shoved it into your hands and continued looking out the window, silently grumbling as if he was a sage who had been interrupted midway his meditation.

"He did what?" You basically screamed at Jay, looking at him with widened eyes. Jay recoiled from the sound and pressed his fingers to his ears dramatically. "He fucking forgave you? That easily?" You squealed like an excited child at Jay, bouncing up and down on the seat. "Keep screaming like that and I'll stuff your face with manure." Jay glared at you. "Oh really?" You raised an eyebrow, "Really Mr Dung?" You laughed hysterically. "Yah that was twelve years ago!" Jay looked at you, flabbergasted, "One time Y/Nnie. One time!" He raised a finger to increase the effect. "Y/Nnie?" You questioned, "What happened to addressing each other by our actual names?" "Caught in the moment darling." Jay adjusted his watch again. God he was attractive when he did that. "Oh we're here."

Jay stepped out the car door first before you could and swiftly moved across to open yours. Something felt like it burst in your heart, seeing Jay open the door for you, just like he always used to do.

"Ta da." Jay said, underwhelming tone beseeching his voice. Your world seemed to have stopped for a moment as you layed your eyes on the sights in front of you. Your mother had always said that flowers were how God decorated Earth. You never believed that theory but you were coming to the realisation now that she was right.

Flowers.

Hundreds of thousands of flowers decorating every nook and cranny of the earth in front you. It was a beautiful panorama of colours and textures and happy faces, heads decorated with straw hats, women dressed in pretty dresses which reached their knee, while the men preferred blue overalls. The prettiest sight ever, in your opinion. The air around you gave a pleasant scent, probably of the tons of sage leaves burning here and there.

"Like it, my yarrow?" Jay looked at you with uncertainty. Your face must have been one of eager awe, but you were far too engrossed in staring at all the flowers like a child scanning a candy store.

"It's so beautiful." You breathed out finally, feeling a lump form in your throat, not caring whether it was of sadness or just of pure wonder. "I knew you'd like it." Jay chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist. He didn't say it out loud, but he felt comfort, when you didn't flinch at his touch like you usually did. Progress, he thought.

"Anyway we're not here to buy flowers, we're here to plant them." "Say sike right now." You looked at Jay with an excited expression clouding your face. Adorable, Jay thought, the same adorable flower girl he knew. "Calm down Persephone." Jay chuckled, "Oh look there's our teacher." He raised his hand and waved frantically at someone in the corner. You saw a hand wave back, and a figure rushing towards you.

A woman, a pretty one at that.

Her skin was one of chestnut trees and leaves in autumn. With hair that shone so brightly in the afternoon sun, she looked like a Greek goddess.

"Mr Park!" She said jovialy, her deep voice surprising you. Jay shook her hand and pressed a small peck to her cheek, making your stomach turn. "It's so nice to finally have you and your girlfriend here!" She clapped her hands together excitedly, "Well don't just stand there come on the plants aren't gonna plant themselves!" With that she turned on her heel and marched into the market.

"Shall we go darling?" Jay said in a honey sweet voice, "Y-yeah" you stuttered out, still intoxicated by his cologne. It smelled like pine wood and honeycomb on a pleasant evening sky.

The market place was more prettier inside than out. Lines of flower shops selling one particular flower were all busy with women bargaining loudly and sniffing all the flowers to check if they were fresh or not. One thing that surprised you was the fact that everyone here seemed to know Jay, as they waved their hands happily with 'Good morning Mr Park!" coming out of everyone's tongue like a memorised script.

"Are you famous here or something?" You questioned Jay as an old woman selling pink camellias blew a sprightly kiss to him. "Well yeah I am the person who started this place." Jay casually responded, not taking his eyes off of all the flowers, as if he was inspecting them, "I think it's fair for everyone to know who gave them this heaven." "You started this?" A whisper rang out of your mouth, as you looked at him in disbelief. It felt like a sweet lie, for him to start this place.

"Hurry up Mr Park we don't want to keep the flowers waiting now!" The woman called out to the both of you. You had crossed most of the market place and had now reached what seemed like miniature greenhouses, not bigger than a one story house, coloured in hues of blue with bright flowers peeking out here and there.

Planting flowers, you thought, easy enough, for the daughter of a gardening expert.

"Now would both of you want to work in the same greenhouse then?" The woman questioned, snapping her bright eyes to you, which you were taken aback by. You glanced at Jay, who seemed to have done the same thing and turned back to the woman. "Yes we would." You replied shooting her a wide smile, "Perhaps Gladiolus? I noticed there were bags of those flowers lined up outside one of the greenhouses." The woman laughed heartily and led you over to the greenhouse where you had seen the bags. "You certainly have a good eye Mrs Park." She said, making your stomach leap into butterflies at 'Mrs Park'. She didn't seem to know your last name, so she resorted to calling you Jay's. "You know Gladiolus has a very special meaning behind it." The woman started, carefully lifting the bags and carrying it into the greenhouse. "It means victory right?" You followed her eagerly like a child, Jay trailing behind you. "Ah I see you know your flowers." The woman chuckled, "It's known as the flower of the ancient Gladiators. It is mostly rewarded for integrity and strength and as you said, victory."

"I think we can take it from here Sally thanks." Jay bowed to the woman. Sally, so that's her name, you thought. Sally bowed back to Jay and quickly scampered out of the greenhouse, leaving you and Jay alone.

"Should we get a start then?" Jay stepped forward to you, as you knelt down to check the soil. The soil was softer than it looked, with a lingering grainy texture. "This is really good soil." You commented, keeping your hand on the ground to stand up. What you hadn't expected was to accidentally bump into Jay's chest and have his arm wrap very tightly around your waist.

Oh crap, this can't get any worse, you thought.

It seemed like eternity in those few seconds that your eyes bored into Jay's. His arm still rested on your waist, preventing you from falling to the ground. Romantic right?

"Oh sorry." You apologised, feeling your ears turn warm. Jay cleared his throat awkwardly and pointed his head towards your right. "I was gonna get those gloves behind you." He mumbled sheepishly, looking at the ground, "sorry."

You had always been a fan of k dramas, especially the romantic ones, where the lead female character would accidentally bump into the male character and then they would frantically apologise, when their faces would be an inch close to each other and their stomachs would erupt into butterflies. It never really seemed plausible to you, until now, as you watched Jay get the black gloves and hand a pair to you, carefully taking off his watch and putting it in his pocket. If your guardian angel was watching you right now, she would have definetly told you that you were still stuck in your stupid teenage love sick phase.

"Alright wanna do this then?" Jay clapped his gloved hands together and kneeled down, carefully reaching to take a gladiolus out of the bag. "Jay wait no!" You cried, kneeling down quickly, making Jay stop and look at you with widened eyes. "What now?" "The roots idiot." You slapped his head gently and reached to get a watercan. You slowly poured the water into the mud surrounding the gladiolus and then poked holes in it.

"Gladiolus is a special type of flower, remember?" You lifted the flower into your hands and patted it down to the soft earth below you, "Always needs water before it gets food."

Jay was speechless. As he looked on at you gently tapping the earth and adjusting the pretty gladiolus flower into the soil, your hair falling onto your face, and your necklace dangling like a wild flower from your neck, he was completely without words. You looked exactly like the flower obsessed girl he knew fifteen years ago.

"Hey your dress is gonna get spoilt." Jay softly mumbled, as his eyes fell upon what colour of dress you were currently wearing. White, a stupid choice, he thought, a stupid choice for someone who already looked like an angel. "It's alright." You gently hummed, "It washes off easily."

"Well if it washes off easily then-" Jay smirked at you, and picked up a handful of mud in his hand, "Can I do this!" He flung the mud at your dress and flung back, holding his stomach as he laughed raucously. You looked down at your, now brown dress and glared at him, scooping up a handful of mad and throwing it at his white pants.

"YAH MY PANTS!" Jay screamed, frantically rubbing the mud off. "You ruined my dress!" You screamed back, picking up another cake of mud and throwing it at him. "It doesn't wash off Y/N!" Jay cried in between fits of joyous laughter as both of you had a mini war of throwing mud at each other.

By the end of the war, in which many white clothes were lost, you two slumped back against the greenhouse wall, panting and giggling from all the childish actions.

"Sally's gonna be real mad that we didn't do anything productive and just played around like children." "Oh so what? We had fun didn't we?" Jay giggled, getting up slowly and extending a hand to you, which you took gratefully and hoisted yourself up.

"Wanna explore the market a bit? Buy some flowers?" Jay offered, depositing his gloves before putting his watch back on. "Sure." You nodded, keeping your own gloves aside, "I wonder what Jungwon and Kayla are doing."

"Oh they're having ice cream together and exploring Seattle." Jay quipped to which you looked at him bewildered as to how he knew what your assistants were doing. "What? Kayla's a nervous wreck she keeps texting me frantically about how handsome your assistant is."

A giggle erupted out of your mouth at Jay's statement to which he chuckled in respond. It made your heart a bit sad, to hear two people doing all the things you used to do with a certain someone. Young love again isn't it?

"Do you want to go off and explore on your own?" Jay questioned, "I gotta go check the money buisness with Sally." You hummed in response to Jay's offer and smiled him goodbye as he went off in the other direction.

The honeycomb scent of the air seemed beautiful as you took a deep breath. It was almost evening now and as you had expected, tiny dragonflies flew in and out of the pretty painting of the atmosphere.

"Ah you're Mr Park's girlfriend aren't you?" An old lady approached you. She reminded you of your mother, hair tied tightly in a bun, an apron stained with dirt probably from experimenting with flowers, and fingers are marked with scars from thorns. "How did you know?" You asked to which the old lady laughed. "Ah our Jay talks about you all the time you know? He showed me your picture once!" The lady laughed again, "you're more prettier in real life I must say!"

You smiled widely at her compliment and bowed, thanking her. She had a piece of gardenia in her hair, which brought her face to life. "You are really pretty as well Ma'am." You said, to which she pressed her hand to her heart. "You're such a sweetheart aren't you? I can see why Jay fell for you." She winked at you.

You spotted Jay coming in behind her and waved to him. "Ah Jay!" The old grandma tottered over to him. Jay extended his arms widely and pulled her into a big hug. "How are you grandma?" Jay said, as the old woman kissed his cheek. "Ah I'm doing as I always do." She waved her hand, "you should have told me you were going to bring your girlfriend here! I would have whipped up something!" Jay laughed at the old lady's words, which melted your heart into pieces. His laughs sounded like the same melody you had relished for seventeen years.

"How did the money talk go then?" You questioned Jay as you gently stroked the flowers in your hands. "They're doing good as always." Jay hummed, not looking up at you, fiddling with his fingers. "Interesting choice for a bouquet Jay." You glanced at him, seeing that he had finally looked up at you. "What's wrong with them?" He quizzed, raising an eyebrow. "Oh come one now don't pretend." You rolled your eyes, "Blue salvia, sorrel and dwarf sunflowers." You counted the flowers in the bouquet, "Everything here screams adoration." You leaned closer to him, "Are you trying to tell your ex best friend that you love her?" Jay gasped dramatically to your words and crossed his arms, "as if I could ever love your dumbass." "Yah park Jongsoeng." You slapped his arm, "Don't forget who got you your first date in eight grade."

Jay smiled gently at you and turned his body towards yours, the mere five inches of bouquet separating both of you. "Well your highness who I am ever so grateful for, for getting me a date when I was thirteen mind you-" Jay said sarcastically, "- We have a party to attend tomorrow, so our deal might be ending sooner than we thought."

[quinnharperwrites]

Introducing...

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ The Isles of Blirrosia ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

{ a WIP by @quinnharperwrites }

CHAPTER ONE IS OUT NOW (this is a link)

(Just to let you guys know, I'm going to reblog this a couple times so more people can see it on their dash. I noticed that different chunks of my followers are active at different times. I might reblog it again in case I forget or need to add something.)

GENRE:

Fantasy; Superhero fiction

SETTING:

A fictional world in a fictional universe very similar to our own. Life was completely normal until a comet collided with a star called Blirrosia, forever altering Uzaria (now called the Isles of Blirrosia). The present story mainly takes place in the capital of Blirrosia--Rosia City.

SUMMARY:

Where is the line drawn between good and evil? Or, more importantly, who drew it? These are questions that plague Saffron Solis, a hero student at the top of her class, throughout the story. Since her parents are famous, retired heroes, she has an important legacy to uphold. It doesn't help that she and her family come from a long line of high-leveled aptitudes. Which she is very grateful for, don't get her wrong. Sometimes, the consequences of being the next generation's quintessential superhero can be too much to handle. Some of these include annoying date requests, or flowers that keep appearing inside her dorm? Weird. It's safe to say that Saffron's life is a house of cards built in the eye of a tornado. As if things couldn't get worse, the amount of supervillains in the city of have increased, and no one can explain why. Is there a bigger threat? And if so, will Saffron be able to fulfil her purpose before the pressure consumes her whole?

THEMES:

Good vs. Evil, Ambiguous Characters, Love, Death, and more to be revealed!

CHARACTERS (that I'm willing to reveal hehe):

SAFFRON SOLIS/AURA: She's our wonderful protagonist. Her aptitude is Aura Manipulation, and she's been training it for as long as she can remember. But it seems like there may be more to her aptitude than meets the eye.

LAI YARROW/CRIMSON DOVE: Saffron's best friend, but she's determined to be seen as more. Her aptitude is Pyrokinetics-- it's not basic! She'll be at the top one day side by side with her friends due to her own hard work, just you wait!

ZAIN BOLTON/(HERO NAME UNDECIDED): The third part to an unbreakable trio! Sure he joined a bit late, but who cares? His aptitude's Smoke Manipulation, and he doesn't really care about being a hero. Being close to his friends is enough for him, and he's always striving to be the best friend that he can be!

I asked @thewriteadviceforwriters (thanks again!!!) to design one of my characters for me, and it turned out wayyyyyy better than expected. There's a google form on the blog, so definitely check it out! The character designed for me is definitely my favorite, but he won't be revealed for a little bit.

After that one, I tried to AI generate the other characters. I'm still tinkering with it though, because some of them didn't come out as expected.

Taglist: No one at the moment, but let me know if you want to be added!

[jungle-angel]

🤭 Number 45 screeeams Rhett 🌸

YOOOO!!!!!! Abso-fucking-lutely!!!!! So guess what honey?? This one's on me (lol).

Rhett couldn't take his eyes off you as you wandered through the back field near the main house. There was no work to be done that day or in the next few days, the cattle all ready for auction, the horses having been tended to and Abigail, the milk cow, her calves and her mate all wandering happily in the pasture with the little bells on their necks.

His eyes stayed fixed on you in that pale blue and yellow gingham house dress you had made, the very one that showed off your legs and dipped low to reveal just enough of your cleavage when you bent over. You went about picking small handfuls of brightly colored wildflowers, mountain daisies, indian paintbrush, harebells, yarrow, goldenrod, bachelor's buttons, fairy slippers and black-eyed susans. You looked like a dream to him, a wonderful, heavenly dream that he never wanted to wake from.

Rhett sat right up when you lifted the hem of your dress, drawing it up so far that it revealed part of your deep-blue lace skivies. It was only for a minute as you scratched a rather annoying bugbite that had been there for quite a while, but the sudden sight made his inner desire flare to life.

You came back to him, letting out a rather sad little sigh. "S'matter my peach?" he asked.

"I always hate when July ends," you told him. "Means summer will be over and we'll be cooped up in the house for three or four months."

Rhett stood up from where he had been sitting under the tree and drew you to him. "I know peach, I know," he told you.

"Don't get me wrong, I love apple picking, Halloween and all that," you told him. "But I miss the flowers and the heat.....just being able to go outside."

Rhett tilted your chin up so that your faces met, pushing his hat back just slightly so he could kiss you easily. "So whaddaya say," he said, before kissing you again. "We make the most of it and have a little fun?"

You hummed happily as his kiss trailed from your lips to your jaw, Rhett's arms encircling your waist. His hips pressed against yours, the stiff denim of his jeans against the thinner fabric of your dress....and something else with it.

"A little happy now aren't we?" you said with a naughty grin.

"Darlin, ya'll have no idea," he chuckled.

The two of you moved away from the tree and into the tall mix of wild grasses and wildflowers as Rhett carefully laid you down on your back. He nipped at your neck, your collarbone and your breasts, the obscene sucking and kissing noises throwing you quickly into a blinding ecstasy you had become familiar with.

"Please don't stop Rhett," you begged. "Feels so good."

You felt his stubble covered cheeks and jaw tickling the insides of your thighs as he kissed a little trail, lower and lower down to your core, hitting all the right spots he had mapped out in his brain.

"Don't clench on me now, darlin," he chuckled when you squeezed the muscles together in your thighs.

You felt your insides fluttering as he slid your panties off and worked his tongue into your core and the folds around it, Rhett's strong arms hooked around your thighs to keep him off the ground. "God I forgot how good you taste sweetheart," he mumbled.

You could hardly control the moans that were falling out of your mouth. It was a waterfall of moaning, panting and breathlessness that was music to Rhett's ears.

But then it stopped.

"Rhett?" you asked him. "Rhett, why did you stop?"

"Gotta take my pants off," he answered.

You snorted and laughed as Rhett first removed his maroon button-down shirt and then his jeans, freeing the large, throbbing monster-cock that lay in wait for you. You felt him sit you right up and into his lap, his cock sliding into you with ease, much more so than it had done the first time he had fucked you in the back of the truck.

It was a whirlwind of deep kissing and groping, his hands roaming up your dress and popping the buttons on the back to slide it right off. It wasn't long before the two of you were completely naked, Rhett's hips shifting and moving against yours, making you moan with each thrust.

"Jeez darlin!" he exclaimed with surprise. "You're fuckin soaked!"

You couldn't deny it if you wanted to. The noises that came from the both of you, your hips slapping together, the slickness, the heavy breathing, it was all unholy.

And you loved it.

You let out a squeaky little cry when you felt something hot explode between your legs, your foreheads touching, eyes shut and your lips just barely brushing together. It took a minute for the two of you to catch your breath, guiding each other down from the dizzying high and waiting for your breathing to even out.

You both lay in that field, skin-to skin with each other, a little sprig of bright red indian paintbrush in your fingers and perfectly content in the moment. "We could always spread some of those seeds in the garden," Rhett remarked when he saw the little red flower.

You chuckled a little and kissed his lips. "Don't worry," you told him. "I have a feeling we've already spread enough seeds out here."

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 1

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 2400

Parts: [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

1. The Stranger

The Eastemnet was unnaturally empty and it felt eerie to drive along the narrow road, the reins in one hand and a long dagger in the other. The shepherdesses had seen a band of orcs in the vale that night. You knew those monsters were afraid of daylight but had brought the weapon just in case; better safe than sorry.

Soon a familiar rumbling sound began, steadily growing louder, until you rounded a corner and saw the mighty waterfall ahead. You would never get tired of the sight. A fine mist lay perpetually in the air and when you got closer a vibrant rainbow formed across it.

But you had no time to stop and admire the beauty of the Rauros Falls; just below them was your favorite bog moss patch and after the long winter you thoroughly needed to restock your supply of the absorbent material.

You had nearly filled your cart when a movement from above drew your eyes. Realizing what it was, you sharply drew in your breath. A boat? What idiot was riding a boat down that sheer drop?

That was all you had time to think before the boat crashed down, throwing the man it carried into the shallow part of the river while the rest of the vessel continued unperturbed.

You darted forward, catching him before the water sucked him down, and with all your strength you managed to haul him ashore. 

Frowning in concentration you swiftly examined the man. At first you thought he was dead, but then your experienced fingers found a pulse; weak, barely perceptible, but there. He must be within an inch of his life. His face was pallid and he had a long, ragged gash over his forehead where he had hit the rocks of the river bed, and from his chest and stomach several cruel, black arrows protruded, one of them broken. 

“Orcs,” you hissed between your teeth, nervously glancing around you, but thankfully the plains were empty. He must have been assaulted somewhere above the Falls.

You were grateful there was no safe way down the sheer cliff on this side of the river.

You returned your attention to the stranger. His wounds smelled oddly chemical. Some sort of poison you surmised, something that had petrified him, for as far as you could tell the arrows hadn’t pierced any vital organs. That meant he might live if you could get them out fast enough.

Knowing it would be a close call, you still never hesitated. You were a healer, and a patient was a patient, even if it was a stupid stranger who had tried to ride a boat through a swarm of orcs and down the world’s tallest waterfall. 

The man was big; tall and broad shouldered, and there was no way you could lift him into the cart by yourself, but with the help of the horse you finally managed to pull him on top of the soft, damp pile of moss. You wiped the sweat off your forehead and hurriedly drove home.

Back in the village, the palisade guards helped you lift the man into your house and put him down on your combined kitchen- and examination table. 

“Must be a rich fellow,” said Torsten. “Look at that golden belt and the embroidery on his tunic sleeves!”

“If you heal him, he gets to pay the belt,” Vidar decided, ogling it greedily. “And if he dies we get it anyway, obviously. For trying.” 

“Leave,” you ordered. You needed peace and quiet around you.

As soon as the door closed behind them you began working. You slid off the man’s long surcote and cut apart the tunic and shirt he wore underneath, wincing as you ruined the beautiful garments but there was nothing for it. Perhaps they could be mended later.

Then you started with the arrows, pulling them out one by one, thankful he was unconscious and unable to feel the pain. The broken one was a bit trickier to extract and you hoped you got all the splinters out.

You cleaned the nasty injuries with strong mead, adding a thick paste of honey, yarrow and other herbs to stop the bleeding and prevent infection. You covered them with wads of dried bog moss, the last of your old supply, and finished by wrapping his torso with snug linen bandages.

After working with such concentration you almost felt lightheaded when you paused to catch your breath, but there was no time to rest. You still had a lot to do if the stranger would survive. 

You took a quick detour to the kitchen, downed a cup of mead and put a slice of hard bread in your mouth. Then you continued, chewing on the dry food as you started on his head. 

A huge bump had formed and the entire area was red and swollen. You could not do much more than smear yarrow paste on it, hoping he hadn’t hurt his brain in the fall.

You checked his vitals again. By now, a little color had returned to the man’s face and the pulse was stronger. Whatever poison that had been on the arrow heads must have stopped affecting him as you got them out. 

His erratic breathing indicated he was on the verge of waking up. 

You returned to the kitchen, preparing a potion of poppy seed tincture, and willow bark for the pain, and mixed it with a nourishing broth. The man had lost a lot of blood; he needed his strength back. You also brought more mead.

Back at the table, the man’s left eyelash fluttered and opened. Immediately his whole side began to tremble as he struggled to move, and he slurred in an unknown language with his mouth twisted in a crooked grimace.

You knew from the frantic pulse on his neck that he was panicking, and no wonder. First nearly killed by orcs, then sent down the Falls, now unable to move. 

You tried to calm him, patting his quivering hand while mumbling in a soothing voice until he became still. Then you coaxed a spoonful of potion into his mouth; with luck, it would put him to sleep. 

But he had a hard time swallowing it.

That was not a good sign. You recalled old Ulf who used to be the village blacksmith; he had become crippled for life from a horse hoof in his face while shoeing it. Afterwards he was only able to move half of his face and body, and struggled to speak and swallow, and though he got slightly better with time he never fully recovered.  

If this stranger survived, it was possible he would end up the same way. 

You slipped more potion down his throat and followed it up with mead. He had stilled somewhat and his only open eye was beginning to roll back into his head. Then he went limp as the effect of the herbs and alcohol kicked in, and fell asleep.

The worst was over; now all you could do was wait and see. If the wounds did not fester he might make it.

You stretched your aching limbs. You could use some rest too, but duty called. 

Vidar was still lingering outside. “Did he die?” He sounded imprudently hopeful.

“Not yet. Get Torsten; we need to move him to the bed.”

The guards helped you carry the man to the only bed in the room, which happened to be yours. Normally patients would be brought to their own home after being treated, but this one obviously had nowhere else to go. You did not mind; you had a comfortable chair by the fireplace where you often slept.

The stranger stirred in his sleep and his left eye twitched. Again he mumbled something incomprehensible through his lopsided mouth.

“Is he a foreigner?” asked Vidar.

“Of course he is, you fool,” Torsten retorted. “Who in this land has dark hair like that?”

You regarded the man. It was true, he did not look Rohirrim. Was he from the north? You were not good at geography and did not know much about what kingdoms there were up there. He had costly clothes and his high boots, which you had removed to make him more comfortable, were of excellent quality. Though his palms were calloused, those marks must come from weapon use rather than labor, and his strong build was an indication as well; his wide shoulders and bulging arm muscles could have had ‘swordsman’ written on them. Was he a prince perhaps, or a high lord? 

But there was no time to idly wonder about the stranger’s origin, you still had a wagonload of bog moss that needed to be taken care of. “No rest for the wicked,” you told Vidar. “Will you help me unload my moss?”

When you were finally done it had grown late. Your stomach was growling but you were too tired to prepare a meal, instead you slumped into the chair and immediately fell asleep.

※

You woke early as was your habit and turned your head to look at the patient. Had he survived the night?

He had. Both his eyes were open now, albeit the right one just barely. He was moving the fingers of his left hand with an air of concentration, as if to test his limits. Despite his efforts he only managed a tiny wiggle and his features grew increasingly frustrated and desperate.

You felt sorry for him and what he must go through; it must be extra hard for a warrior to become paralyzed.

Your stomach growled and the sound drew his attention. You were surprised by the intensity in that one-eyed gaze. Yesterday he had been in shock, and later drugged, but he was perfectly clear headed and aware now.

His eye had an unusual gray color, in stark contrast with his dark brown hair and beard. The same color as the Falls where you found him.

He moved the good half of his mouth to speak. You still could not make out any words, but his voice was pleasant, deep and mellow. 

Upon hearing himself a faint blush crept up his cheeks and he immediately silenced. 

You went over to the bed, checking his forehead for a fever and whether his bandages needed changing. They did; dull red spots were blooming on the linen both on his head and chest.

“You were gravely hurt, my lord.” You told him where you found him, what injuries he had and how you’d treated them. If a patient knew what had happened to them, that could often ease their stress. This man had been near death. Coming to terms with such a thing wasn’t easy. 

The man did not reply and shifted his gaze away from you. 

“Do you understand?” you asked. You were using the common language but perhaps he did not speak it. Or maybe he just did not want to slur again and embarrass himself. 

You continued speaking, whether he understood or not. It was a bit like soothing a wounded animal; they did not know the words but the tone calmed them. “I am going to change your bandages now.” You did so, explaining everything you did, and apologizing for the pain. 

He uttered not so much as a grunt when you changed the bloodied bog moss and rebandaged his arrow wounds. Did he not feel it, or was he just stoic? If the former, that was worrisome; loss of sensation often meant the paralysis would last.

Then you saw a growing damp patch on his pants. 

He had noticed it too and blushed furiously, an expression of deep mortification passing over his features. He squeezed both eyes shut and turned his face to the wall.

You took it as a good sign. He obviously could not control his bladder yet, but since he knew what had happened he must feel it, and that gave you hope he would regain more mobility in time. 

You pulled the blanket higher, and under its cover you peeled off his soiled garments and cleaned him. While working, you told him what you had been thinking, partly to take his mind off the uncomfortable situation. “You see, my lord, someone who hurts their head and cannot feel a thing afterwards, they will often not get better. But I believe your senses are intact which means you are not so ill-fated. Even if you will never be completely healed, you might very well be able to learn to walk again – perhaps with a cane.” You put a bedpan strategically between his legs. “There, all done. Worry not about this, my lord; I have been a healer nearly all my life and there is not much I have not seen.”

Your stomach reminded you that you still hadn’t had breakfast. “Time to prepare something to eat.” You made gruel for both of you, but topped off your patient’s share with more poppy tincture and willow bark. As you brought it back you explained its contents and the calming, painkilling effect. 

“Swallow this,” you bid, holding a spoon to his lips.

He closed them into a thin line.

“Come on,” you goaded. “It tastes a little bitter but you can wash it down with mead.”

He did not obey. Instead he looked at you. Both his eyes were open now, but only the left one fully. 

His gaze was the most dejected you had ever seen. Filled with bottomless darkness and despair, as if everything, absolutely everything, was lost to him. He had given up. 

You read death in his eyes.

It frightened you a little. What had happened to this man to make him abandon all hope? Well, apart from nearly getting killed, obviously.

His hopelessness filled you with sympathy, and somehow he must have sensed that for his forehead suddenly creased and he turned away again. He did not want your pity, that much was clear.

With a sigh you left him alone. With time his hunger and thirst would make him weak and his pain become unbearable. Then he would hopefully accept the relief you offered.

※※※

A/N:

This fic is dedicated to Scyllas_Revenge who made me realize what an interesting character Boromir is. But I also wrote it for me. :) I have a thing for hurt, silent, stoic warriors…

Feedback is much appreciated!

※※※

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Full story: [ AO3 ]

[ohforficsakelibrary]

You Brought Me Poison Flowers

Chapter 2: Yarrow - It draws the attention of those you most want to see.

prev / series masterlist / masterlist

Series Summary: Joel and Ellie settle into life in Jackson, one more easily than the other, until Joel is reminded of what normal feels like. The kind of normal that he perhaps never had. A series of one-shot glimpses into a relationship (no true plot here, people.) Soft!Joel. Two touch-starved babes. Slow-ish burn.

Chapter subtitles taken from Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs by Scott Cunningham. Although herbal preparations are consistent with historic uses, nothing herein is to be construed as medical advice.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Herbalist!OFC (age-appropriate age gap)

Word Count: ~4.1K

Rating: Eventually explicit 18+ / Minors DNI.

A/N: Joel fucks up a plant ID. Lennie feels him up and has him hang out for three.

Thanks very much to everyone who read and left some love on the first chapter of this little adventure. I honestly love these two, and I hope you all will come to as well.

Lennie’s processing comfrey for drying when Joel returns a week later. The shop is empty this time, he figures probably because they’re serving lunch down at the Mess Hall. 

“Hey, Lennie,” he glances over at where she’s splitting stalks, “I brought you yarrow.” 

Lennie casts her eyes up momentarily and the sight of him very nearly makes her cackle. 

He’s freshly washed, having just returned from a morning patrol shift, silvered hair raked wet off of his face. Brow knitted. Mouth frozen in that scowl that he never quite realizes is perpetually plastered to his face. But he’s got a massive bouquet of white flowers clutched to his chest.

And not a moment after she looks away her eyes cut back to him. 

The comfrey is hastily abandoned. 

“Yeah, just, go ahead and lay that down on the table there.” Joel obliges as she wipes her hands on the edge of her apron and quickly swings around the bar. “How long ago did you pick those?” 

“Uh, dunno, an hour, hour and a half maybe, sorry, I know they wilted a bit…”

She considers his face carefully before glancing at up the clock that hangs above the door as she closes the distance between them. “Did you eat lunch before or after you picked those?” 

“Haven’t eaten lunch yet.” Suddenly she’s in his space, toe to toe. Immediately his back goes rigid.

“Ok, good,” she starts calmly before grabbing his face in her hands to hold him in place, staring intently into big brown eyes that have flown wide.

And now he’s been struck stupid.

“And you didn’t eat any part of those plants?”

“What? No.” 

Her hands are quick yet determined as she lays the back of one across his forehead for a moment. He’d daresay he’s amused. 

Bringing a woman flowers seems to go much farther these days.

“Open your mouth.” It’s a command. He does and she stands on tiptoes.

He finds himself enough to very nearly reach up to stop her the second she thumbs his bottom lip to get a better look. 

And he would have. If he wasn’t starved. 

The kind of hungry you don’t realize until the scent of food wafts in on a breeze. 

“Did you happen to touch your face at all after you picked them? Rub your eyes, your nose, touch your mouth?” 

“Uh, no? I dunno.”

“Are your eyes burning? Numb?”

“No.”

“Nose?”

“No.”

“Mouth?”

Yes.

“No.”

“Shortness of breath?” Her left hand is on his neck now, eyes on the clock, fingers gently applying pressure and readjusting until she finds his pulse and he swallows hard.

You mean not from this? What even is this?

His mouth drops open and “no” falls out. In response to her question, nothing else.

Christ, Miller. Like a fuckin sixteen year old.

“Sorry, what are you…” He finally finds his words, but she makes a soft noise to shush him. 

A few seconds later “good” comes out on a breath that’s meant more for herself than for him.

“Do you feel nauseous?” Her small hands take both of his by wrists she can’t fully encircle, carefully poring over his palms.

“No.” 

"And you haven't thrown up."

"No."

“Headache?”

“No.”

The backs of his hands fall under her scrutiny before she carefully examines his fingers.

“Sorry, may I?” She points at his chest and then at her ear. He nods before the thought finishes processing and in an instant she’s popped another button on his flannel and pressed her ear against his naked heart. 

“You feel dizzy?” Her head is still on his chest and he realizes that his hands are poised in space, hovering just above her shoulders. 

Yup.

“No.” 

“You’re more than likely going to be fine.”

The fuck does that mean. Good sense is back.

“Lennie, what is going on.” He takes a step, hands held up before his chest in surrender. “Is this from that plant? You didn’t tell me yarrow was dangerous.”

“It’s not,” she finally vacates his space but instead of relief he registers loss of warmth. 

“It’s actually incredibly safe outside of pregnancy and it’s one of the few things I can freely recommend for children, but you didn’t bring me yarrow.” She’s over at her bookshelf now, scanning quickly before slipping a text out of line. 

“You brought me poison hemlock.” 

Means you’re a fuckin’ idiot.

He glances down at the flowers. “What.”

“Poison hemlock,” she returns to him and perches on the edge of the table, feet on the bench. “Of Socrates fame. Take a seat.” He obeys her, mostly because he’s in a daze. “Hey, look at me.” He does. “It’s actually an incredibly honest mistake. You got any plans in the next three?”

“What the fuck Lennie, did I just…” big brown eyes are wide and he goes to scrub a hand down his face.

“Don’t touch your face,” she’s fast and grabs his elbow before he can make contact. “And no, you didn’t.” She stops meets his stare. “You’re more than likely going to be fine.”

“More than likely,” he nearly mocks, “how the fuck do you know? I thought you couldn’t touch that stuff.”

I know because its my fucking job to know, don’t test me, Miller.

“That’s a myth, all but the most sensitive people won’t have a reaction to just touching it and even then it’s just contact dermatitis, it has to get into your blood to do any harm.” She lets loose his arm as her words come fast and easy. “You didn’t eat it, so we’re good there, and you don’t have any fresh cuts on your hands, but you’re not sure if you touched your nose, mouth, or eyes, so that’s an open question.” She’s gone back to flipping pages, searching for something as she rattles this off. “Your pulse is strong, pupils a normal size, your heart is in normal rhythm, body temperature seems normal if a little warm, but we’re…”

“I run warm.” He’s not sure why he feels the need to clarify in this moment of all things.

“…concerned about cold here.” She finishes simultaneously. “You’re not sweating or salivating, no dizziness, nausea, or vomiting, no tremors, and finally, here we go.”

She appears to have found what she’s looking for.

“You’re staying here for the next three hours though.”

Ah. A finally a fuckin’ unit.

“You said I’m fine.”

“Symptoms can appear anywhere from 30 minutes to three hours after exposure.” Lennie reads out and clamps the book shut with one hand. “You haven’t touched your face since you’ve been in here, meaning the absolute last time any sap and therefore toxin could have made it into your system is right before you walked in that door. I figure give it three hours max for you to be completely in the clear.” She drops the book behind her on the table.

Somehow, he actually does follow her math. 

“And if I do show symptoms…I assume you have an antidote?” “There is no antidote.” Lennie leans over her knees so her face is level with his. “It works by paralyzing your neuro-musculatory junctions…”

The dazed look is back.

“Where your nerves control your muscles,” she rephrases, “and causes paralysis, which is a problem when it comes to, you know, breathing. But that’s not going to happen.”

Lennie springs from the table and moves behind the bar.

“Me not being able to breathe is not going to happen, but I have to stay here for three hours and you have no antidote.” He’s not quite yelling but he’s not calm either. 

“There is no antidote, and don’t touch YOUR FUCKING FACE,” she is though, seeing that he’s nearly gone to rub his eyes in frustration. “If you start to show any symptoms at all, I will notice, and I can get you over to Jane at the hospital sooner rather than later. She can treat the symptoms until it processes out of your system.” She drops down, disappearing for an instant before popping back up and dropping a pair of black rubber gloves on the bar top. 

“I need your knife.” Lennie crosses the distance to stand in front of him, hand outstretched. Joel weakly reaches back for the pocket knife he used to cut the blooms. 

She tosses it on the table next to the flowers.

“Come,” Lennie takes both of his hands in hers and he allows himself to be led to the sink. He’s not in shock, not by a long shot, but he’s not all here right now either.

These past few months here in Jackson have been the first time in the last twenty years that he didn’t want to. You know. 

He has a house. His brother back. He isn’t tossing fucking bodies onto a burn pile. 

He has Ellie. 

And now here he might have actually gone and done it to himself. Finally.

Unless he missed again.

The water runs cool and then warm against his skin before Lennie soaps up her own hands and massages the suds into his skin, idly taking note that his hands are massive. Strong square palms and thick fingers. 

Earth hands. 

She continues in silence for a full minute before reaching for a nail brush. It takes him another minute of her scrubbing before he speaks.

“I know how to wash my hands, Lennie.”

“Well, that’s good,” she guides them under the water until they run clean and then some. “Your face now.”

Joel looks down at her with an expression she doesn’t bother to unpack. Instead she holds the bar of soap up between them and he takes it. 

“Wash everything around your eyes and mouth first, keep ‘em shut tight.” Lennie calls over her shoulder as she heads back to the bar top. “Rinse for 30, repeat that once, and then gently take the soap over your eyes and mouth. Scrub that beard. And your neck too.”  

She slips the rubber gloves on and grabs the Reaper’s bouquet that’s resting on the table. “Keep going till I get back,” she calls, passing him on her way through the door to the left. He hears the creaking of something heavy and the click of a screen door and two full wash cycles later hears the sequence in reverse.

“You should be good now,” moments later a gentle hand rests on his back and a washcloth is pressed into his palm before she turns the water off. Joel dries his face first, then his hands and finally opens his eyes as he steps back from the sink. All he can manage right now is to slump down at the table. Face in his hands.

Behind him, Lennie is at the bar, pouring soap into a metal bowl. She fills it with hot water and drops it off near him, slipping the rubber gloves on again. She washes the table carefully, starting with areas she knows are clean, before moving in to where he was sitting before, anywhere he could have touched with sap-sticky hands. She’s so thorough that she wipes the cover of whatever text she was flipping through too.

Joel watches her while she works.

He’s not really sure what else to do.

Faded jeans are rolled up at the cuffs and at some point she had taken off her sweatshirt. Underneath she’s wearing a yellow t-shirt upon which Smokey the Bear urges him to help prevent forest fires.

What if you are a fucking forest fire?

He doesn’t know how he hadn’t noticed before but her left arm is adorned in a black and grey sleeve of foliage and bones. 

She has the arms of someone used to throwing heavy stuff around all day. He likes that about her.

What a fucking thought process. 

He’s hungry and delusional from nearly having poisoned himself, he figures. Or potentially having lightly poisoned himself.

“Elbows up,” she says gently from across heavy oak. She’s quick with the cloth and allows him to get back to sulking in no time at all.

Lennie spends at least five minutes on the spot where the flowers were before his knife is flipped open and dropped into the soapy water. She’s careful to clean that spot too. She takes the whole bowl to the sink and deposits it into the basin to soak before dropping the rubber gloves into the bowl too. Lennie then moves to the front of the shop, flips the “Open” sign to “Closed” and pulls dark blue curtains over the front windows. 

“Alright,” she turns around, resting her hands on her hips before pointing at him. He has no idea what she means, but knows it wasn’t meant for him. The kettle is filled and placed on the hot plate and she disappears again, this time through a door to the right, returning in five with a fork and a plate of thickly sliced ham, cheese, bread, and salad greens dressed lightly in oil. 

“Sorry it’s not very cohesive, but it’s the quickest thing I have.”

“It’s fine,” Joel tears into the ham, honey-sweetness on his tongue reminding him of his manners. 

“Thank you.” 

Ten minutes later there’s weird coffee in front of him and he could not be more grateful. She finally comes to rest opposite him with her own cup, and rakes a hand through her hair as he shoves a bite of crumbly bread into his mouth.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” he says as he swallows.

“Don’t apologize, Joel. It’s an honest mistake. And I probably should have made it more clear.”

A few moments pass in silence before he mumbles, “a thousand leaves.”

“What’s that?” 

“You said the leaves were the key. Soft and lacy. Thousand leaves.” He downs the last bite of greens, staring idly at a knot in the wood. “The leaves were different, that thing had carrot leaves.”

“It’s a member of the same family, yeah. Which is actually how most poisonings happen,” she takes another sip from her mug and rests a cheek in her hand. “Good observation.”

“What did you do with them?” He asks between bites of cheese.

“They’re in a lock box out back until I can process them.”

“Process?”

“Even poison plants have their uses.”

He’s curious but not ready to know.

“So what now?” He finally meets her eyes.

“Well, when you’re finished there I’m going to check you again for symptoms, and I’ll keep doing that every thirty until we’re clear.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Whatever you want Joel.” She stands and makes her way back to the bar. “You can read a book, tell me your life story, take a nap, sit there and scowl.”

At this, he throws a scowl back over his shoulder at her.

And for the first time today she grins. 

She runs through her checks again after he’s through, and much to her surprise, he opts to help her finish processing the comfrey, portioning and binding bundles for drying. After that he pulls a book from the shelf and takes a seat at the table facing her as she sets to work straining tinctures.

Lennie smirks when she sees what he’s chosen. The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien.

_____

They continue like this, in silence save for the clinking of mason jars and the metallic scrape of lids, speaking only for her to run her checks. 

And yet discomfort remains at bay.

She catches him occasionally, dark eyes angled at her up over Flann’s pages. She can’t see his mouth but from the knit of his brow she knows the scowl is there. He doesn’t dwell long each time, but each time he dwells longer than the last. 

He likes how she looks with her wild curls pulled back. Likes the rebellion of the errant ones at the nape of her neck. She isn’t a frail thing, whether from conscious nurturing of strength or what life has seen fit to deal. And yet the promise of softness in all the right places shows through baggy denim. Under the yellow cotton of her shirt. That gold against tawny skin. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat. 

A sip of water helps.

Lennie isn’t innocent here. She’s just sneakier. His hair has dried by now, accentuating the silver streaks in ashen brown. The way his massive hands make the novel look small. It’s impossible not to notice the way brown and red flannel clings to his shoulders, stretching around his biceps when he brings the glass of water to his lips. 

Those lips. Far more plush than they have any right to be. 

Man walks in with big hands and broad shoulders and you’re fuckin’ nineteen again.

Just the hands will do these days, apparently.

She takes it out on chicory root with a cleaver.

_____

About ten minutes after a third round of checks Joel pipes up again.

“Hey uh, you got a bathroom?” His bladder is protesting the coffee. Tea. Whatever the fuck that thing is, and the glass of water that she’s been keeping full for him.

Lennie is a good host even in a shit situation.

“Yup,” he watches as she looks up from where she’s splitting roots of god knows what and points her cleaver at the woodstove in the corner. “Left and then another left.”

He follows her instructions, seeing that there’s a mudroom to the right after the first left. He can’t help but take quick stock. A door to the back garden. Jackets for all seasons hung on cast iron hooks. An array of practical shoes lined up neatly in a tray. He idly notices the pair of rain boots far larger than its companions before he slips into the tiny wood-paneled bathroom.

“Soap you’ve got in there smells nice.” This when he returns.

She smirks as he walks back in, amused that this broad, rugged thing likes scented soap.

“Oh so it does know how to wash its hands.” She grins up at him before answering in earnest. “Thanks. Think I’ve got…ponderosa? In there?” She reaches out a hand.

It takes him a moment to realize she’s asking for his hand to confirm. He obliges, and a corner of his mouth twitches in amusement when she takes a quick whiff.

“Ponderosa. You want a bar? Give me a sec.”

She wipes her hands on her apron and turns behind her where small wooden crates are stacked nearest the window. She shuffles through a few boxes before selecting a bar for him.

“I don’t have anything to trade.”

“What are you talking about, you brought me poison flowers. Those are my favorite.” She returns to her chopping with a smile.

He very nearly laughs. Instead, he returns to his seat and his book, absently pressing the bar of soap to his nose as he reads. 

It’s funny how when everything went away, smells went with them. The good ones at least. Replaced with decay and dry rot. Gunpowder and shitty whiskey. Burning bodies. You stop paying attention. 

To register is to be repulsed.

It apparently takes scented soap to make you want to inhale again. Warm vanilla without sticky sweetness. Earth. Barely there lavender.

“How’d you do this?”

“Uhm,” she takes a moment to simplify down to component parts. “Soap is some kind of fat and a base. A few years ago I started using whatever was left over from the prior year’s infused oils and tallow as the fat and some janky steam distilling equipment to eek out a bit of essential oil from fresh plants to boost the scent. It takes a lot of material and it’s not a particularly productive process but I figure everyone deserves a little frivolity. Something normal like before.”

“But there’s benefit to the plants being in there?” He still has the bar idly pressed up under his nose in a way that makes something jump in the pit of Lennie's stomach.

“Great question, there’s more benefit to the infused fat than the essential oil, but the essential oils carry the smell.”

“Hmm.”

Is he learning?

He finally pops the bar into the front pocket of his flannel.

Thank god flits across her mind.

The way that pleasure registered on his face every time he took a whiff didn’t go unnoticed.

It sets something long-dormant to churning.

Twenty minutes later he says, “I think it’s time for you to feel me up again.”

She snorts and glances at the clock seeing that it is indeed.

Paying attention and learning. What a guy.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you’re beginning to enjoy this, Joel.”

She washes her hands and he stands up, smoothing the front of his shirt for a reason he can’t explain.

“Any shortness of breath?” Lennie starts, taking his face in her hands, studying his eyes in the late afternoon light. She can see easily that his pupils are a completely normal size, but now she notes softness in the brown. A subtle shade of gratitude.

She doesn’t bother with his mouth this time, leaving lips to tingle in unfulfilled anticipation.

She sees something flit across his eyes for a moment but doesn’t dwell. Instead, her fingers brush over his stubble to fit under his jaw. She’s learned by now that his pulse jumps just behind the bare patches in his beard. A handy shortcut that a part of her perhaps didn’t actually ask for.

Lennie breaks his stare to hold the clock’s gaze, and for a few seconds, Joel takes the opportunity to really look at her. He had noticed a round ago that her brown eyes are flecked with gold. But he can’t for his life figure out how old she is. Long strands of aggregated silver curl from her widow’s peak and temples. Faint lines in the corners of her eyes belie that perhaps at least she was able to find some joy in this hell.

Her mouth was impossible not to notice, but up close it strikes him that her lips aren’t chapped. They look—soft.

Soft? An adjective that fell to the wayside.

“Alright, good,” she breaks his reverie. “A little faster, but still within a completely normal range.” She steps back instead of leaning in.

“You’re not gonna listen?” He points loosely at his chest.

“Do feel out of breath?”

Gasping.

“No.”

“Like it’s skipping?”

Fuckin hopscotch.

“No.”

“Racing?”

A mile a minute.

“No.”

“Do you want me to?”

He takes too long to answer and she takes it as a “no.”

She returns to the bar top and her roots and Joel sits back down and finds his last-read page.

_____

The next thing he remembers is the hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?” He sniffs as his eyes pop open. The shop is filled with pink light.

“You’re free to go.”

“It’s three hours?”

“It’s a little over four, but you looked like you could use the rest. You’ve been asleep for about two. It’s getting to dinner time and I figured Ellie would be looking for you.”

He scrubs his eyes with the heels of his palms before lightly scratching his beard.

“You didn’t wake me up to check.”

“I checked your breathing every fifteen until you started snoring, so I just listened for any change.” She slips him a scrap of paper on which is scribbled a few time entries and numbers next to them ranging from twelve to fourteen.

“Every fifteen?”

He lets it go without units.

“Well, you weren’t awake to tell me if anything started feeling off.”

“You really do care," he snarks.

“I mean, I try.” Lennie smiles and rakes a hand through curls that she’s freed from the scrap of fabric she had tied them with.

He stares at her for a second, hair wild from what she’s just done. Her sweatshirt is on again and she’s got her hands stuffed in the back pockets of her jeans.

“Yeah. Yeah, I should head out.” Not because of the time, though. He stands and tentatively stretches his back. “Can I borrow this?” Joel asks, holding the book up.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You comin’ to Mess?” He slips his clean knife into his back pocket.

“I’ve actually got some leftovers from a rabbit I trapped the other day, so.”

“Yeah. Yeah ok,” Joel starts for the door and turns back. “Hey, thank you, Lennie. For today.”

He sticks out his hand again and it makes her want to scream.

He does that. His reserve. Makes her want to scream.

“Yeah, of course,” she gives it a firm shake instead. “Anytime you uh, feel like you’re dying. Hit me up.” She grins. 

He returns it. With teeth.

“Have a good night, Joel.”

“Goodnight, Lennie.”

She latches the door behind him and presses her back against it before sliding down to the floor.

Heavy breath hisses from her lungs.

“Not what I needed.”

Exactly what she needed.

“Fuck.”

next

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