#blackberry brambles are the worst

[wishingstarinajar]

Will I, a sickly woman with no energy or muscles, be able to take down a shoulder-high bramble-infested garden with a newly bought brush cutter?

I don't feking know, man, but someone has to do it.

[caterpillarinacave]

So you choose not to step through the door, after all why mess with nonsense when you're already in nonsense? You check the items in your pockets, your phone you shut off to conserve power, the dog tag, key and top clink together but offer no help, and when you fiddle with the walkie-talkie you manage to get it to turn on, excitedly you call out to the void but only static responds, which is disappointing but predictable, so you put the items away and hunker down for the night, looking at the sky you can see that the stars seem strange, though you're no expert, and the moon seems to have a second smaller moon near it which looks pretty cool but is a stark reminder of how not on your own world your predicament has landed you.

In the morning you begin looking through the nearby bushes and plant life taking note of anything strange, you notice the berries you had been picking before you stepped through the door are also growing around here, they look and taste the same, and some other plants seem pretty similar to the forest from before as well, although the further away from the door you go the more unfamiliar plants you come across (of course that may just be your lack of familiarity with plants) and the few animals you have noticed are bizarre in a way that you can't explain, like the people from town, they seem almost perfectly familiar, just a little off and the noises they make have you thinking they wouldn't be able to communicate with their counterparts either, brushing aside another branch you come across a strange funnel made of metal which you pocket and what looks to be a regular whistle, you wipe it down and blow but hear nothing aside from the air going through, you consider it is either broken or maybe a dog whistle, as you go to put it away you hear something big running in your direction, before you can decide how to react a large creature storms out of the bushes and stops in the clearing before you, it's huge as a horse with paws and sharp teeth it licks as it looks around and spots you, it shakes its head again reminding you of a horse, then steps closer before turning and staring expectantly, you get the feeling it's waiting on you, impatiently, and you realize it seems to expect you to get on its back. Do you get on?

Yes.

[bonefall]

so burdocks represent hard traditionalism, honeysuckle is regular traditionalism and thistles are thistle law.

Do you have set plants for Fire Alone/soft traditionalism bordering on Fire Alond

I hadn't, because the idea of using burdocks to represent cats like Mudclaw had only struck me so recently, and then it hit me. I know EXACTLY what flower represents Soft Traditionalists.

It's blackberry flowers. Bramble.

It looks a lot like a completely white Forget-Me-Not, which is the flower of Fire Alone. Five petals for the five Clans.

Like honeysuckle, it grows in tangling, hardy bushes, preserving the old metaphor that "fighting makes the Clans strong"

But unlike a honeysuckle, it bares sought-after fruit and has protective thorns against outside threats.

Softer Traditionalists, like Heartstar and Tallstar in hindsight, will frequently use diplomacy and agree that rules of engagement are a sensible idea. They try to soften the violence of the battle culture and are open-minded to some reforms, but, they typically don't want to go much further.

And Bramblestar himself is pretty emblematic of that. At his WORST he's more of a perfectly mid-line Traditionalist, but at his best, he's here. He'll use diplomacy until it's just getting in the way, he feels like going any further with a compromise is just letting ThunderClan "get pushed around." Ultimately he still agrees that the 5 Clans should be separate, unless there's an outside threat they need to unite against. Like an invasion or a natural disaster.

He didn't have much of a problem with attacking the Sisters, after all. Regardless that his decision was heavily influenced by wanting to hurt Squirrelflight, he justified it to himself with his political feelings about "protecting the Clans."

In the modern era, the Clan's overton window has massively shifted towards Fire Alone. So Soft Traditionalists are really common, and "true" Traditionalists are what we'd consider right-leaning instead of JUST centrists.

To recap the flowers:

Thistle Law = Bull Thistle

Hard Traditionalism = Burdock

"True" Traditionalist = Honeysuckle

Soft Traditionalist = Blackberry/Bramble

Fire Alone = Forget-Me-Not

SkyClan's politics are different because of their unique origin, and they like to use leaves instead of flowers to represent themselves due to their relationship with oaks.

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Blaze in the Dark - (5/10)

Chapter Title: Tell Me to Run

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 5: Nature

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

Lucien Vanserra was going mad.

When he was a child, his mother once told him a tale of a boy who went out into the forest intending to bring back food for his family. As he went, the boy happened across a blackberry bush, filled with berries that were oddly ripe for the season. He picked enough to fill his shirt and when he was prepared to take them home, he caught sight of another bush further down the path. Then another, then another. In the end, the boy picked far more than he could carry, and they spilled from his shirt throughout his journey home. Later that night, a pack of wolves followed the sweet scent of berries to his front door.

It was an unhappy story. Lucien had never much enjoyed it, though he couldn’t help feeling he was the boy, tangling his fingers through the bramble of thick hair that smelled of jasmine and honey.

Time passed differently in sleep. He could not tell if it had been hours or mere minutes that he’d spent holding his true love, savoring the silence that was disturbed only by her steady breathing.

A moment like this, so tender and quiet, should have been peace-giving.

Instead, he was holding his true love in his arms, and he felt nothing short of agony. It was so wrong—so wrong that she was married to another man, who had treated her so poorly on their wedding night that she’d come to him in tears. And equally it was wrong that he was with her at all, when his own wife was in the waking world, eating dinner on her own, sleeping in an empty bed.

He hadn’t expected to like Elain. That was the worst thing of all—that his wife was lovely. Beautiful and kind and disarmingly clever.

Lucien had meant to suggest to her that they take on lovers outside of their marriage. For weeks, he had planned what he would say to her, rehearsing it in the quiet so that when he finally came face to face with his wife, he would be prepared. Never, in his imagining, had she had such rich brown eyes that could cut through him to the very core. With one look he was no longer a prince, nor a scholar, nor a gentleman capable of articulating himself, all because she had pink, bow-shaped lips that curved into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen.

Not that it mattered, that she was beautiful. What mattered was that each time she spoke, he found himself hanging on to her every word, eager to know what she might say next, what insight she gleaned from the world when she thought no one was watching. Suddenly, it was excruciating to suggest she find fulfillment with another man, when he doubted that any living mortal could match her for wit.

He hadn’t said what he was planning to say—what he ought to say. She deserved honesty, and equity, especially given that she was a woman of grace and honor. And yet, here he was. Holding another woman on his wedding night.

And that muddied his feelings all the more. Because he knew this woman was his true love, his perfect match in every way, and he felt equally beguiled by her wicked temper and sweet soul. It was not that he wanted his wife more, it was that he wanted her equally. Greedily seeking a second berry bush when his shirt was already full.

The problem with the boy from the story, the problem with Lucien, was that he wanted too much. He wanted to allay his true love’s grief. He wanted to protect her from her husband. He wanted Elain to smile at him. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted his true love and he wanted his wife and he wanted so many things that he thought he might simply be torn apart by the number of contradictions he chased.

Lucien knew he could not have them both. Elain was not his true love and his true love was not his wife and he was going to die trying to decide which should matter more. True love seemed obvious, but there would be no escaping his marriage to Elain. It would follow him as long as they both lived. They could stay on separate sides of the palace, but she would be an ever-present fixture in his life and he thought, if they were both willing to give it a chance, they could be happy together.

His true love was… a dream. One he could chase, but never hold, not past daybreak.

She belonged to another man.

She was in so much pain.

She smelled like jasmine and honey.

Letting her go sounded as inviting as peeling off his own skin. She felt just as much a part of him. No. No. He had to be honest with Elain and tell her that he intended for them to take on lovers. And then he needed to get his true love away from her husband.

“Are you still awake?” his true love asked, voice soft and berry-sweet.

“No,” he said lightly. “You and I are both asleep.”

She laughed. It was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard.

“Where are you from?” He couldn’t resist. Now that he’d made up his mind, he needed to move quickly. “What kingdom?”

From the fragments of information she’d shared with him, he had his suspicions, but he needed to know. If she was close enough, he could ride out to her as soon as he escorted Elain the rest of the way to his estate. In his head, he saw it playing out perfectly. He would pay off his true love’s husband and her back to the Eastern Kingdom, where she could live in a cottage nearby. He could visit her regularly without needing to offend Elain by putting them in company of each other.

His true love did not answer him. Lucien understood why she was scared to tell him. He had the capacity to ruin her by going to her husband and telling him what they’d done together. Even with good intentions, if he handled things inelegantly it would result in scandal. She didn’t know that he was a Prince, and he hesitated to tell her lest that terrify her, too.

“It can’t be the North,” he said. “There’s not much to farm up there this time of year, and certainly the conditions are too severe for a poor farmer’s daughter to get her hands on a butterfly. To me, that narrows it down to the West or the South. But I have a suspicion, from the way that you speak, that you must be from Carterhaugh.”

Carterhaugh, the land of eternal spring. He was just there, which was utterly predictable. Of course the Cauldron would put his mate and his true love in the same duchy. It felt like the Mother was mocking him.

When his true love tensed in his arms, that told him everything he needed to know.

“I’ve been to Carterhaugh several times,” he told her, pointedly excluding his most recent visit. “Did you know that there is a garden there open to the public that boasts every plant grown naturally in the Southern Kingdom? There’s a hedge maze in its center. Meet me there in two days time.”

“I can’t.”

“Name any sum of money.” He knew he was beginning to sound desperate. “However much you think you’ll need to make the journey, I will send it.”

“I can’t,” she sounded desperate now, too. He braced himself for the return of her tears.

“I understand.” And he did. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her distress. Seeing her in person was a selfish desire, and it would no longer be worth it if it would pain her in the process. “It will be difficult to escape from your husband so soon after marriage.”

“It will be impossible,” she corrected. “We’re on our honeymoon. Not to be disturbed for the next 30 days, at a minimum. What excuse could I possibly have to leave the house without my husband?”

Lucien was painfully aware. She would have as little excuse to the leave the house as he would. What would Elain think if he left for Carterhaugh only three days into their honeymoon? From the way that she’d looked at him just before she’d shut the door in his face, he wondered if she would even care.

“If I can ensure that your husband will be out of the house that day, and if I could send you the means to attend, would you consider it?”

“I don’t know how you would possibly—”

“Would you consider it?”

He could feel her silence like a chasm yawning open in his chest, some ever growing wound of rejection that flared at her uncertainty. He was teetering on a sharp edge, suddenly terrified that she would say no and he would be left to face the painful reality that even his true love had decided that she did not want Little Lucien Vasnerra.

Damaged, scarred, impure.

To think he could come to her stripped of labels, with no name or title to live up to, bearing only the truth of who he was at his core, and she would still find him insufficient. Well, he supposed that was to be expected.

“I’ll consider it,” she said finally, allowing him to breathe once more.

“Good,” he murmured, wishing he’d managed to sound composed, but his short breath gave him away. It hardly mattered. She would consider it, and for that he gently turned her chin so he could kiss her cheek. “Then tell me what you might say to me, so that I can know it’s you.”

“It has to be something so unusual that it couldn’t possibly be mistaken,” she said, sounding lost in thought. He allowed her a moment to consider it, patiently stroking his hand through her hair where she laid against hist chest.

“I know,” she said finally. “I will come up to you and I will say, ‘I can hear your heart beating through the stone. Can you hear mine?’”

Lucien smiled. Had she come up with that because she was, at present, listening to his heart beat? Did she hear it stutter with his affection for her?

“And how will you know it’s me?” He asked.

“Call me your sweet soul,” she hummed. “And perhaps I will bring some sweet alyssum with me, so that I may cure you of your wickedness.”

Lucien liked the way her voice warmed when she teased him. She could get him to do anything, so long as she spoke to him in that voice.

He lowered his mouth to her neck, crooning, “I fear it is too late to save me from my wickedness.”

“Then perhaps I can save myself,” she said. Now she sounded breathless, and he liked that, too.

“Hmm.” It was an effort to keep his hands off her. He knew he ought to, after what she had endured tonight, and yet she was so soft, so pliant beneath his touch. And when he kissed her neck, he could feel her arch further into his touch. “I have the sense you don’t want to be saved.”

Just as she was turning into him, finally beginning to take charge in the form of throwing her leg across his hip, the darkness around them began rippling. He groaned, sliding his palm to her cheek so he could steal one final kiss from her lips.

“Think on it,” he said against her mouth.

Then he was torn from her, startling awake atop the covers of a foreign bed, the oak door rattling beneath a pair of fists. He was still in his damn wedding clothes.

“What?” He called, too irritated to summon any eloquence. If he didn’t need to be awake, he would have appreciated a few moments longer with his true love.

“We need to leave at daybreak to make it to the manor before nightfall, your highness.”

Lucien cast his eyes to the window in the corner. It was tedious to travel in winter, when the length of daylight was so greatly reduced.

“It is not yet dawn,” he said in complaint.

“No, your highness. But neither you or the princess had any supper—”

“Elain didn’t eat?”

“No, sir. She has not left her room, nor responded to any knocking. We’ve left her trunk in the hall, but we thought perhaps the two of you would prefer to have breakfast before we depart.”

Lucien had known she was upset—though, truly, it perplexed him given that she had agreed to the arrangement. He hadn’t realized that would mean she would deny herself dinner, or even a fresh pair of clothes. He swore, thinking of the state of her dress when he’d last seen it. She hadn’t slept in the wet clothes, had she? Was she so stubborn that she would deny looking after her health as a means of spite?

Quickly, Lucien changed into a pair of fresh trousers and a white linen shirt. While he and Elain weren’t married in the traditional sense, he felt no compulsion to dress himself up as though they were strangers. She was his wife, and he could knock on her door in a loosely buttoned shirt without being improper. Or so he hoped.

She didn’t answer after one polite round of knocking, so he tried a second, then a third.

Losing patience, he called through the door, “Elain, I hope you haven’t attempted to escape out the window. I’d feel wounded to discover you’d sooner brave the winter than be my wife.”

“I am here,” she called, feintly.

“Can you come to the door, then?”

“I am indisposed.”

Her voice was small—embarrassed. Ah. Lucien turned his eyes downward, spying the trunk that rested just beside the door.

“I have a change of clothes out here,” he said. “Will you let me in?”

“Absolutely not!”

“I am your husband. It won’t be improper to assist you.”

When Elain said nothing, he sighed. “I promise to close my eyes?”

It was an absurd solution, and while he waited for Elain to snap at him for it, he pondered if there was a maid in the inn who might be able to assist.

“…okay.” It was a meek, defeated concession.

Lucien blinked. “Okay?”

He hadn't expected her to agree, and for all his assurances that it hardly mattered between a husband and wife, he felt his pulse jump the slightest bit.

“You’re going to need to unlock the door for me, then.”

Lucien leaned down to lift the trunk into his arms. As he straightened, the locking mechanism clicked, and the door handle angled downwards as though Elain were pulling it on the other side. But the door stayed shut.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“As my wife commands.”

“Are they shut?”

“Yes,” he said, with a laugh.

The door creaked open. Lucien stepped through carefully. He was heaving the trunk with exaggerated ease, catering to some juvenile idea that Elain might be impressed at his strength. Though from the sound of it, she was scrambling to shut the door in such a hurry she wasn’t at all paying any attention to what he was carrying.

“Where should I set this down?”

“Just on the floor,” she said. “At your feet.”

He complied, trying not to entertain the thought that Elain was standing just before him in some state of undress—completely naked, if he had the liberty to imagine, but perhaps that was a step too far for the prudent Elain Archeron.

“Would you like me to go?”

When Elain didn’t immediately say yes, he straightened, surprised.

After what seemed like a great deal of consideration, she asked him, “Do you have experience lacing a corset?”

“I fear answering that question,” he said, but his sly smile would give an answer all the same. “Though I feel I could manage it competently.”

“Competent enough to do it with your eyes closed?” She challenged.

“I don’t like to boast,” he said.

Elain padded across the room to him. He could have been imagining it, but even her steps sounded haughty. A little vixen, set on proving him wrong. He liked that she was competitive. He hadn’t expected that from her.

“Go on then,” she said. Now, he could tell she was just in front of him. He could smell lavender, and also a hint of firesmoke, like she’d fallen asleep in front of the hearth.

Cautiously, Lucien extended his hand forward. He’d underestimated how tall she was. His fingers grazed the bare skin of her shoulder blade, and she gasped.

“I…” It was unreasonable to feel nervous. But her skin was so soft. He cleared his throat. “This may require a fair bit of touching. Is that okay with you?”

Elain’s voice was stern. “You may touch my waist and my back. Nothing more.”

Gods. Lucien reminded himself that he was a gentleman, though his thoughts were far from that variety. He’d just woken from a night of holding his true love, and one would think he’d be satiated, but all he could think as he gathered up her hair was how desperately he wished to pull, just to see what noise she would make. No wonder the Mother had punished him by marrying his true love to another man. He was not deserving of either woman.

Lucine shook his roguish thoughts long enough to follow the path of her spine down to the unlaced corset at her waist. After finding that Elain was securing both stays in place, he felt blindly along the edges for the first eyelet, before he began threading the lace through. It was clumsy at first. He needed to prod often with his fingers to verify he was looping through the correct hole, but as the stay tightened around her body it became easier. A shame, because he had less of an excuse to trail his fingers over the curve of her hip.

“Not bad,” she hummed, once he’d finished tying the knot at the top.

Lucien smirked. “I think I’d do a better job unlacing it, if you’d like to compare.”

“Rake. I thought you said you weren’t boastful.”

How could he not be boastful, when his hand was still on her hip and she was not stepping away from him? The recollection of what she tasted like flaunted through his mind. She’d kissed him back standing on that altar, lips honey sweet and petal soft. He felt dizzy at just the memory of it.

“What’s there to boast about in untying a corset? The compliment is the company of the woman wearing it.”

Elain snorted. “Do all princes have such smooth tongues?”

He needed to bite back a crude remark about how smooth his tongue could be. He had been honest when he’d said he wanted them to be friends, and the snide comments certainly weren’t helping.

“I could answer honestly, Elain, but I’ve already told you that I am not boastful.”

“How fortunate that my husband is so humble,” she said dryly.

“Can I open my eyes?”

“Not yet.”

Lucien couldn’t resist smiling, albeit ruefully. It would be a long journey to the Eastern Kingdom.

[dracopetal]

First lines

Thank you for tagging me @sitaz

Rules: List the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

My Love Is a Curse: Harry’s fingers are cold when Draco takes them in his hands, but Draco doesn’t mind. (Draco/Harry)

In the Woods Somewhere: Draco gets out of bed slowly, even though he’s alone with no one to disturb, and pads quietly over to the fire, the floor chilling his feet even through his socks. (Draco/Harry, Draco/Fenrir)

dirty filthy secret: The air in Sirius’ shitty bedroom at Twelve Grimmauld Place was stale with sweat and in some distant corner of Sirius’ mind, he knew this was wrong, somehow. (Sirius/Draco)

Black Mass with Fangs: Draco is first aware of the harsh light, even through his closed eyelids. (Draco/Harry)

her eyes. : It’s her eyes that are the worst part, the part Narcissa finds the hardest. (Narcissa/Charity)

Skirt (microfic): They keep skirting around it. (Draco/Harry)

Sucker: Harry begrudgingly came back to Hogwarts at the behest of McGonagall, to complete his final year with no distractions, even though the castle hadn’t been completely rebuilt yet. (Draco/Harry)

Travel (microfic): “Would you come with me?” (Draco/Harry)

a voice reaching out in a piercing cry: You can’t see. (Draco/Harry)

Bramble: Long fingers pluck a blackberry from the bramble bush, and place it onto a pink tongue. (Draco/Harry)

I don't think there is much of a pattern personally, let me know what you think!

Tagging: @indigo-scarf, @elskanellis @the-paper-monkey @nelweensfic @toxik-angel but no pressure!

[thedragonagelesbian]

Cyrus and Wyll: 14, 5, 33

Cyrus and Halsin: 7, 12, 34

Cyrus and Karlach: 21, 26, 36

BG3 Cyrus and Meredith (redacted): 13, 10, 12

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Ship asks :DDDDDD

CyrusXWyll

14. How would they describe one another if asked?

Cyrus about Wyll: Wyll is... gods, where to even begin? He's handsome, silly, charming, joyful, poetic, but most of all he's good. The kind of good that makes you believe in good again.

Wyll about Cyrus: Cyrus is a bit like a blackberry bush: sure, there are brambles and thorns, and even the leaves will prick you, but there's a great deal of sweetness to be found if you've a steady hand.

5. What’s their love language like? Are they compatible with one another?

Cyrus shows love through acts of service and likes to be shown love through physical touch.

Wyll shows love through words of affirmation and likes to be shown love through quality time.

They're immensely compatible, Wyll's words of affirmation make Cyrus blush and Cyrus' acts of service make Wyll swoon, and whether its sparring or gardening or listening to Wyll compose, they love to just be near each other.

The one fault line is Cyrus' desire for physical (and sexual) touch. They both have their hesitations-- Wyll's idealized chaste fairytale romance and worry about Mizora impinging on his intimacy, Cyrus' anxiety about being that vulnerable with someone again, it makes a lot of sense for both of them that they don't sleep together until Act 3, but even for non-sexual intimacy, it takes some time & negotiation & exploration. Very regency-esque. The first time they hold hands????????? woag...

33. Who was the first to say ‘I love you’?

I'm not sure yet, I have to play through more of Wyll's romance first, though I'm leaning toward Wyll, since this version of Cyrus has a much harder time with those words (which is heartbreaking given how readily he otherwise says it).

CyrusXHalsin

7. What do they argue about?

They're both so non-confrontational & default to prioritizing the other's feelings, it's hard to imagine them arguing. Even dealing with Cyrus' martyr complex, I picture Halsin being much more patient about it (if no less firm) than, say, Anders (as far as exasperated cyrusXhealer ships go). I could see them arguing about having children that were theirs in a deeper sense than the communal care for the orphans in the epilogue, as something Halsin might want but Cyrus really wouldn't. And I think they 'argue' about whose fault it was that Halsin got kidnapped by Orin, insofar as they both blame themselves.

12. What would they say each other’s worst quality is?

They'd say the same thing about each other: the impulse to minimize their pain.

34. Who is more stubborn?

Hmmmmm I'd say Cyrus but I think Halsin is uniquely well-equipped to manage that stubborness by triggering Cyrus' 'im not arguing with a thick hunk of an elf whatever you say beautiful' mode (especially when it comes to accepting care).

CyrusXKarlach

21. Who is better at games? Does the loser take it graciously?

For Cyrus, games are more a reason to hang out with people than something he actually cares about playing. For some games, especially those that involve gambling or deception, he'd much rather just be at the table watching his friends play & getting drunk & snuggling than actually participating.

I can see Karlach getting super competitive, and you're 80% sure she's exaggerating & playing it up for fun, but like... maybe she is really going to flip the table. At the same time, she handles losing better than Cyrus handles her losing. He roots for her very hard and (depending on how drunk he is) gets very sad on her behalf.

Also if they're on the same team for like a couples game or something, they get very loud and very excited together very fast.

26. Do any of them have bad habits that the other can’t stand?

Cyrus is much more on the fence about using the soul coins than Karlach is.

If Wyll reinitiates his pact with Mizora in Act 3, Karlach has a line to the effect of "you know, there's such a thing as being too good of a person. Someone should tell Wyll Ravengard." She feels similarly about Cyrus' worst sacrificial tendencies, especially when he's considering becoming a mindflayer at the end of the game.

36. How long have they been friends? Would they consider each other best friends?

Cyrus and Karlach kind of pass over becoming friends and skip right to wanting to jump each others' bones really bad. Especially because in my original playthrough, I ended up recruiting her super late (between defeating the goblin camp and the tiefling party), they hit the ground running with 'now i just need to find me a fire retardant lover' and 'i want to ride you until you see stars' and Cyrus giving himself third degree burns trying to hold her hand

Of course, in the absence of physical touch, they do develop a very close friendship leading up to Karlach's second round of engine repairs, but they'd name other party members as their besties (Shadowheart for Cyrus, Wyll for Karlach).

[REDACTED]

I was NOT expecting asks about this relationship, these took me out of left field & hurt a lot (<3)

13. What would they say each other’s best quality is?

Cyrus: her conviction

Meredith: his loyalty

10. How do they make up after a fight?

Cyrus apologies first; Meredith is always quick to forgive him, stressing how glad she is that he did the right thing so they can move past something that was probably her fault. If it's a big fight, she keeps avoiding him until she can be sure the apology will happen while she's seated in her court on her throne.

12. What would they say each other’s worst quality is?

Cyrus: her harshness

Meredith: she thinks he's perfect; even more inconvenient traits for the right hand of a tyrant, like his kindness, can be easily turned to her advantage

[sweetfirebird]

A Suitable Bodyguard!! only six days away!

I forgot to do a ONE WEEK!! screaming post so please enjoy this SIX DAYS!!!! screaming post.

Several hours had gone by when he and Tahlen began to pass heavy thickets of green vines off to the side of the road, some full of chattering birds happily feasting on the dark berries that must not have been ripe enough to pluck when the rest of the berries had been harvested.

Zelli turned his horse in that direction without thought. He slid from Lemon Blossom’s back in his excitement and was gathering blackberries over the sound of Tahlen’s bewildered, “You’re berry picking?”

Zelli had hunted for berries before in his life, although the small bushes down in village were nothing to the wild bramble in front of him, so tall that Tahlen would likely have to stretch to see over it. Zelli stood up on his toes to reach berries deep within the tangle, snagging his sleeves and then his hands on nearly invisible thorns. He ate some berries before gathering more, then, after fighting with the thorns to get free, brought spilling, sun-warmed handfuls over to Tahlen, who was standing beside Starfall and giving Zelli that odd look again.

“The last of summer’s gifts,” Zelli said, holding his hands up so Tahlen could take some berries. “It’s not childish,” he added when Tahlen hesitated. “We need food, and they’ve already harvested this patch, else there would be berries everywhere.”

“You’re bleeding,” Tahlen observed, but let Zelli fill his palms with blackberries.

Zelli’s hands and wrists were bleeding, in fact, but only in two places. The purple stains on Zelli’s fingertips more than made up for a few cuts.

“Barely,” Zelli dismissed this before devouring several more berries. “If a beat-of-four can wear a sword and risk being killed by one, I can bear a few scratches and have purple fingers for a while.”

Tahlen pulled in a long breath. “I wish more of them had your ideas.”

“No!” Zelli poured the remaining berries into Tahlen’s hands and pushed them up toward Tahlen’s face to fill his reckless mouth. “No wishing!” he ordered, not teasing, then snatched his hands away. “I should… I should offer some of the berries to them, though they can pick their own.”

He hurried back to the thicket, offending a few birds by taking more of their berries. No offering place was obvious, so Zelli brought his handful to a stunted and bare apple tree nearby and set the berries on the ground at the base of the trunk. “No wishes,” he told any listening fae, “only a greeting. We are family, after all.”

He’d known that. Everyone who saw Zelli knew that. But no one had ever called them that until Tahlen, and then two outguards. Even Grandmother usually only spoke of their shared fae blood, not of their shared fae family.

“Zelli, come back here, if you please,” Tahlen requested gruffly, all his berries gone, his lips only hinting at a darker color. Zelli looked apprehensively at the corner of Tahlen’s cloak, which Tahlen had soaked with water, thinking Tahlen was going to tell him he had blackberry juice all over his face. But Tahlen took Zelli’s hands, one at a time, and washed away the trickles of blood and the worst of the purple.

It would stain the cloak, but Zelli would see it replaced if it could not be cleaned.

Tahlen focused on his work, so Zelli studied Tahlen’s bent head and the length of his braid fallen over his shoulder, and how he had to stoop to get near to Zelli’s level. Tahlen had nice ears. Zelli fantasized about covering them in cuffs like the one that outguard had worn. Not gold for Tahlen, though Tahlen deserved it, but a shining metal like silver or platinum. Necklaces and cuffs and bracelets, with jeweled clasps climbing his braid.

Then Tahlen’s eyes came up and Zelli thought warmly that Tahlen needed no decorations. Maybe Zelli could pay a trader to bring him moonrise vine seeds so he could plant them and see the blooms for himself. Maybe, if his alliance turned him into the sort of beat-of-four to wear jewelry of his own, he would commission clasps in the shape of flowers, so he could imagine them in Tahlen’s hair.

Imagine only, he reminded himself. He pulled his hands from Tahlen’s grasp and smiled shakily.

A Suitable Bodyguard--April 22nd in ebook and paperback!

Is there a plot? Sure. But who cares when you have mutual care and hand-feeding your beautiful hunky guard some blackberries????

[tanoraqui]

short, pure fluff for Valentine’s Day, also on AO3

“There is the smile when he knows he’s about to win a bout.”

”Or the soft, satisfied smile when he is braiding your hair.”

”Or the soft, pleased smile when he is braiding your hair.”

“Or the sharp smile when he spins around in battle and there is blood in his teeth.”

Celechwes and Maedhros both took a moment to sigh in reverie. Fingon was unjustly beautiful with blood in his teeth.

Celechwes shook her head, propped up on one hand.

”No, I still truly think the best Finno smile is when he realizes someone else has started smiling because he was. That’s always when the smile-on-principle becomes real.”

“Yes…”

Maedhros gave his own quiet, thinking-about-Fingon half-smile, like the glimmer of sunrise on his sober face. Celechwes traced it with one finger, her own face flushed with fondness.

Maedhros pushed himself upward in the bed.

“Ah, but what about the one when he’s illicitly fought a blackberry bush just before a formal appearance, and there are brambles in his hair, cuts on his hands and juice on his teeth, and he’s pretending to be guilty but really he’s just self-pleased and victorious?”

”I think I’ve only seen that once,” Celechwes said curiously. “Yet you speak as though it’s recurring.”

Maedhros’s smile was rueful and wistful, typical of talking of the past. “There was a huge blackberry bush in one of Grandfather’s gardens. We were all menaces with it, really, but Findekáno was one of the worst.”

“I’m a delight and you know it,” said Fingon, shrugging off his cloak as he walked into his bedroom. “Are you thinking of going berry-picking? It’s early, but I’m sure we could find some!”

“There are good bushes by the southern wall,” Celechwes offered. She eyed her bright-eyed loves with a small measure of concern. ”You both know you can simply ask the bush for berries, right rather than fight every bramble it has?”

”Where’s the joy in that?” Fingon asked, as he joined them on the bed. “And blackberry bushes always want their blood price from someone. It may as well be me!”

He grinned, sharp with challenge and bright with earnest joy and anticipation.

Maedhros raised his eyebrows at Celechwes and tilted his hand. A strong contender?

Celechwes nodded.

“Contender for what?” asked Fingon, catching the gist of the thought. “What am I contending for? The blackberries?” Gold beads clinked as he proudly tossed his head. “I shall win them all for thee, my loves!”

Celechwes kissed him. Any smile under her lips was always one of the best.

[katebishopofearth]

Flowers At Dusk [an our flag means death fanfic]

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death Relationships: Blackbonnet Characters: Stede | Ed Rating: T for canon-typical language Other tags: fae AU | fairy tale logic | fae!Ed

|| Prompt from @kronosa113: Maybe Stede has a dream similar to Ed's vision? i.e. Ed's a mythological creature and meets Stede as a merman? ||

I misinterpreted took massive creative liberties with the prompt, and combined it with my niche interest in folklore and an embarrassing amount of research into flower languages and gardening.

i. autumn's turn

Stede had always loved the woods. Ever since he was a little boy, he had felt at home in the hush beneath the trees, the winding paths left by countless feet before his, the sunlight that dappled through the branches. He could spend hours in here, wandering between ancient trees, picking flowers and herbs, following the tracks left by dozens of little creatures that hid themselves from a human presence. Here, he felt like he was worlds away from the village where he lived and its petty troubles – the children who bullied him, the father who looked down on him, and, later, the wife who was constantly disappointed in him.

Oh, he had always been different, ever since he was old enough to understand what that meant. “Head in the clouds”, the village wise woman said when he was a boy – always daydreaming, picking flowers, and trying to befriend the birds and beetles. Never quite understanding the people around him, only sensing the mean-spiritedness behind their snide comments and cruel snickers. The other children were the worst – and children who threw rocks and punches grew up into adults who threw barbed words like fists.

He thought it would be better once he was married and had children of his own – and for a short while, it was. He and Mary never loved one another, that much was clear, but there were far worse people to put up with, and they both loved their children dearly, even if they were little strangers who mystified him. But his hopes of finding someone who understood his immense loneliness and the solace that the forest brought were no more than a daydream. The one time he brought Mary into the woods, shortly after they got married, she had been scared of everything and wanted nothing more than to emerge from the creepy half-light and go home. As for the kids, Mary forbade him from bringing them with him on his walks, claiming that he would forget to keep an eye on them and they would wander off and be eaten by wolves. He had to admit that she had a point. He could never do anything right – not by her, and not by the children.

The woods were his escape from all of that. Among the brambles and bracken, the larks and ladybirds, he could walk until he left behind the weight of all the expectations that he could never live up to. Until all the traces of human civilisation faded, and it seemed as though the forest – ancient, infinite, wise – was all there ever was and all there ever would be.

One cloudy autumn afternoon, when the air began to nip and the leaves started to curl and brown and the trees smelled especially, deliciously crisp, Stede was wandering in the woods, as he tended to do. He followed the footsteps of a fox, then he found a blackberry bush and feasted on its tart fruit. A breeze picked up then, blowing the brittle leaves from the trees, so he let their orange palms beckon him deeper and deeper into the woods. They eventually led him to treasure – a patch of foxgloves, their tiny bells a shade of purple-pink so deep they were almost violet.

It was late in the year for them, but maybe they were late bloomers. Stede reckoned that not every bud made it in time for the summer, and these guys were doing beautifully – they were so vibrant that they almost glowed in the shadowy undergrowth. Stede wished, not for the first time, that he had any kind of artistic talent – or pigments – for capturing their luminosity. Instead, he sat down next to them and tried to imprint their exact hue upon his memory.

He wasn’t very good at that, though, because he soon got distracted by all the other details. Even when his feet were still, his mind was wandering. He noticed the coo of a dove somewhere, the rustling of pampas grass as the breeze ruffled their fluffy stalks, and over there – a shrub of fragrant thyme. Delighted, he plucked a handful of stalks and wrapped them in his handkerchief to take home.

Sprigs of thyme safely bundled and tucked in his pocket, Stede stood up and realised that he was deeper in the forest than he had ever gone before. There was a smell of wildness in the air – here, the human world, with all its silly rules and orderliness and practicalities, was no more than a half-remembered dream. The only law was that of the forest itself. Here, anything was possible.

Dusk was gathering above the canopy, and the light that reached the forest floor was growing dimmer by the minute. He should head home – while it was still light enough for him to find his way back. He walked in the direction that he thought he came from, hoping that it would take him home. He stepped on a twig – its snap preternaturally loudly. He was struck by the sudden realisation that he was just another tiny creature in the wild, vast woods.

“Are you lost?”

The deep voice made Stede jump. He spun around to locate where it came from. Almost missed him – in the shade of a hawthorn tree, almost melting out of the shadows, was the most gorgeous person he had ever seen in his life. He was slender and strong as a young aspen, with silver-and-black hair loose about his shoulders, a sweeping beard, and tattoos that seemed to glow in the gathering gloom.

“Um, I’m –” Stede hesitated. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that mysterious strangers in the woods – mysterious, beautiful, otherworldly strangers – were probably up to no good. On the other hand, he really had only the foggiest of ideas on which direction home was, and not nearly as much light as he would be comfortable with to blunder his way back.

The stranger stepped out of the shadow, into a patch of fading light. His eyes, wide and warm, held Stede captive like a beetle stuck in amber tree sap. “If you’re heading to the human village, it’s that way.” He pointed to Stede’s right. “I can show you, if you’d like.”

Was it a trap? A trick? Stede looked into those gorgeous brown eyes – the colour of a leaf just before a gust of wind plucks it from a branch, the colour of molten honey dripping from a comb – and sensed no malice in them. Unlike the people who lied just to mock him for how easily he gave his trust, or those who took his kindness for foolishness, this man had no trace of falsity. And Stede didn’t really have another option, other than blindly trying to retrace steps that he took over a whole afternoon of not paying attention. So he said, with a flourish of his hand, “Lead the way.”

[continue on AO3]

[kontextmaschine]

Feel bad for getting less than I could done in a day but then I remember I have no deadlines and I'm still making progress.

Well, I need to do the earth ramming for the side ramp while there's still moisture in the dirt, and planting some cover will be month-dependent but I honestly don't even know what and I can do that next year at worst, I'll be here for a while.

Doing weeding after the first rain since a lot of stuff started to sprout, used the soil pulled out to construct a ramp of solid ground back onto Blueberry Hill where I can smash up the remainder

…and fill in with debris from the power line downed branches which I've been smashing up against Strawberry Ridge

Seeing more and more people take that path, part of it it lines up a good shot down to a respectable park/elementary school/cut-through to a shady route to walk/bike south, but I can even overhear from their comments walking by that part of it's just they like the side yard as I've made it and prefer to come that way, it makes me feel really proud, I remember moving in when it was a total mess with a worn-muddy path through a field of broadleaf weeds with a tree-of-heaven nest (that it was a right bitch to untangle and cultivator mattock the roots from) and a blackberry bramble hanging from my (then-intact!) fence

But then again I remember – less than a decade ago! – when multiple houses on the block had bars on the windows.

In planning for the future of Karafuto I'm considering the possibility that before it reaches end-life the neighborhood will densify to the extent you at least want wrought-iron fencing if not window bars, that drifter knocking on my bedroom window from the backyard today reimpressed that that there are things that scale of defense is for

[cedar-sunshine]

Unusual associations tag!

taking this from @willtheweaver

Gonna use this as an opportunity to introduce (jazz hands) another wip!! Weird magic dystopia futuristic sci fi fantasy shit! I'm going to do this for one of the characters (not all 7 rn unfortunately), Lucky.

Seasoning: ghost pepper or carolina reaper salt. Probably ghost pepper because you can definitely still taste the salt it's just very upsettingly spicy.

Weather: dead of summer, too hot to be comfortable, everything is still and there's no wind or clouds. Asphalt underfoot.

Color: deep red/auburn, burnt sienna and pale wheat gold.

Sky: overcast noon.

Magic power: uhh. Is mentally snapping someone's neck if they look at your boyfriends wrong a magic power? No? Weapon summoning then

Plant: himalayan blackberry brambles. Thorny knots of stem with few leaves and fewer berries.

Weapon: shotgun. They wield double pistols and a rifle but they're a shotgun person

Social media: oh god idk social medias. My heart says Twitter but idk

Makeup: smeared black eyeliner that they havebt noticed yet.

Candy: what are those little brown caramel butterscotch things. Those. You know what I mean.

Fear: those they love not being theirs. They are very possessive, and their absolute worst fear is all of their people being taken from them.

Method of long distance travel: I associate them with horseback immediately but also old (not vintage just old) cars. Not that they use either

Art style: action painting, specifically the ones thst look violent and unintentional.

Mythological creature: dragon, instantly. Typical western dragon, big red guy with a hoard.

Stationary- torn-out pieces of lined paper with illegible writing on the back and a lot of eraser marks.

Celestial body- black hole is too on the nose, so my second association would be hypergiant star.

I hope I can do these for the other six! What do y'all think of lucky?

[isopodshenanigans]

So, with the advent of summer, it is fruit picking season! We actually did this weeks ago, but thats what backlog does! For the record, all of the fruit was turned into various very very yummy things. Syrup, cobbler, jam, canned peaches, etc.

I forgot to get pictures of that process, whoops. Did get pictures of them helping pick the fruit though!

Queen Bee getting some blackberries from the vine! There's so many of them!

Minato up here helping too, he's doing so well.

Seafoam and Lepus, since they can't fly, are helping grab the ones they can reach from the ground.

Squishy helping out with ground ones too, be careful with those vines though! They're sharp!

Kitsune those aren't ripe yet, the black ones are the ones you're collecting. I know those ones are out of reach above your head, but maybe it's for the best, you are a white isopod and blackberry juice is very good at staining white things.

Otodus investigating a sharp vine(and maybe stealing some of the blackberries to munch on instead of bring back)

Aw thank you for helping with that Minato, Lepus! It's so sweet of you!

So many! (This was not, in fact, all of them, we had an entire nother container. This is normal, there's so many blackberries.)

At a later date:

Investigating the box(and also hitching a ride on the wagon)

Huh, weird, what's that? (A peach, albeit a small one, Otodus refused to believe they could get any bigger.)

Chat Noir making double sure they know what exactly they're all looking for. Fuzzy, reddish, probably bigger then them.

Whoops! Who left Otodus alone with the peaches! They'll try and bite them all!

Whoops, careful there kitty. No peaches here, maybe look a little closer to the tree? Where it's safer?

Otodus found peaches! Someone really needs to be assigned to keep them out of trouble.

Otodus has discovered a new friend! (It was such a pain to take a good picture of the ladybug and Otodus, and none of them are that great still)

Chat Noir and Queen Bee looking around the tree branches for more peaches. They're not the most successful. Probably because they're a little too small to really find much in a timely manner.

Wow look at all those peaches! So many of them! So yummy! Otodus don't you dare.

Looking out the back as they ride the wagon back! We had one more box/wagon actually, this was over 50 pounds of peaches. No the isopods had no idea what that meant, only that it was A Lot. It was a fun adventure though!

It was kinda easy taking pictures of the isopods at odd angles for the blackberries because I could just kinda stick them on a spike and they'd hang out there. Fear not, no one was stained, and no one was hurt except for me because I got scratched by blackberry brambles. That's fine and normal, blackberries are a hazardous fruit to collect. August was The Worst time for them to ripen because it's Hot and you need long sleeves and pants to get blackberries without being scratched to kingdom come.

[lenniershairlessredacted]

I wanted to go out and do some yard work in the last couple hours before sundown but it’s still 95 F (35 C) out :/

[bonefall]

Could you tell us anything more about our girl Cricketclaw? I have vague memories of you mentioning she just took Graykit and dipped to make sure they would both survive the plague. Queen, honestly. Did she have strong political leanings? Bffs? Hobbies? Opinions on Darkstripe becoming a huge dick? Depending on who mentored her that could be a lot of tension between the two.

Hopefully I will have her summary out soon, but sure! Casual jumble about Miss Cricketclaw, daughter of Dappletail, sister of Darkstripe and Graystripe.

NOTE: you're completely correct, I initially planned for Cricketclaw to nab Graykit and bolt for a while as the worst of the plague washed over ThunderClan before TPB. On further consideration though, I NEED to change it to Darkstripe for dramatic purposes.

The sibling who saved Graykit's life dies to his brother's claws in the end, in defense of Firestar. Do you understand my vision?

So with that in mind!

Cricketclaw and Darkstripe are Dappletail's first litter.

They were suuuuuper super close as kits. Always getting into trouble, thick as thieves with the mischief to match.

They once wandered off during a bad storm and came across a lone badger. Bluestar arrived just in time to kill it all on her own, but lost a life in the process.

For Cricketkit, that was formative. Her loyalty to Bluestar is absolutely unshakable.

(Darkkit was more just traumatized by it, it affects his ability to fight even though he doesn't want to admit it)

Their paths really started to diverge when they were apprenticed. Darkpaw was given to Tigerclaw, Cricketpaw went to Redtail.

Both siblings really idolized their mentors, remaining close into their adulthoods.

Dappletail and Cricketclaw were some of the few cats who where always a bit... iffy, on Tigerclaw. They kept quiet about it though, because it was VERY vibes-based.

Dappletail (the educator) kinda felt... dismissed? By him. And Cricketclaw was seeing how her brother was changing.

Like, since when was Darkpaw interested in advanced battle moves? The only finesse this guy ever displayed was the finesse to not get jabbed by a blackberry bramble. What happened to her nerd of a brother who could tell a red knoutberry from a raspberry at a thousand foxlengths?

But... Tigerclaw was strong and respected. He wasn't like his mentor, who always gave Dappletail and her friend Rosetail issues.

And it was good that Darkstripe was finally a strong, capable warrior.

He was a lot grumpier and gruffer than he used to be but, that's growing up.

Cricketclaw was named for being the more standoffish of the two. She's the fighter, the one who was more disciplined and battle-ready. It was odd and ironic to her that Darkstripe was becoming the more aggressive one, the more time passed.

But anyway, enough of her relationship to him! She has a ton of ambitions in her own right and has a pretty strong personality.

She LOVES practical jokes. When Graykit and Featherkit were born, she was ecstatic because it meant she was going to have little siblings to confuse

She's outgoing and funny. She inherited her mother's resting bitchface. Don't let it fool you.

Like other warriors though, she will defend the territory ferociously. Bluestar is a big inspiration to her, she is brave.

I imagine she is friends with Goldenflower, though I'm not sure why. I feel like they just get along, somehow.

(In canon, she greets her in the nursery. Cricketclaw is the BB version of the "Distinctive Tabby Queen")

Depending on some timeline stuff she might have a rivalry going on with Willowpelt. They both want to be Head of Hunting eventually.

When Darkstripe skedaddles with Graykit, she wishes she thought of it first. But won't abandon her mother after they just lost Featherkit.

When Darkstripe comes back she LOUDLY defends him. For a moment, she has hope that they might reconnect, but it doesn't happen.

She is an ally of Firepaw from a young age, but can be harder on Graypaw. Mostly because Gray is her little brother, she feels more responsible for him when he acts like a brat.

Cricketclaw is the sort of person who would tell a mean xenophobic joke, but regret it if Firepaw winces.

Or, worse, she comes up with one, says it in the wrong company, and then suddenly Darkstripe is saying it unironically.

I'm not entirely sure when she dies, but it's probably at some point in TNP. She is the sort of person who would die throwing herself at something very large, like a boar, or running back towards collapsing trees to save other people.

Anyway, her favorite food is blackberries.

[thesmokingguns]

Blackberry Ink

Our love story is written in blackberry ink. Swirls of berry colored words with seeds for periods between our adventures.

Our lips were blackberry kisses. Teeth stained from picking berries from the nearby bushes, crushing them under our bodies as we found each other on dirt paths. Lips wet with juices, sweet from the snack of berries we picked and the taste of each other.

I used to trace hearts in the juice of crushed berries in the points of your shoulders all the way down to the crevice of your back. Over and over if I let my name swirl on your skin with wine colored stains from my crushed blackberry pen. You laid in the warm sun, wishing we could stay like this, that I could be this person for you all the time instead of sporadic visits.

Our love was short like blackberry season. It grew wild and over the top. One second I was in a cabin trying to detox and then there you were like a Norman Rockwell painting walking down barefoot to fish. We fell in love at the start of spring and by fall it was all thorns and brambles in our hearts. You wanted me at my best and hated who I was at my worst. You picked me when I was ripe but now I was rotten.

Sometimes, laying in bed in LA, I think of the one time you visited me here. The way your nose crinkled in disgust and how you walked around the mansion I had thrown too much money at and the silence that hung between us was noticeable. We made love in a bed and you didn’t seem to know what to do with all the space we had. So we just let it get between us.

One morning I found you, barefoot in the garden planting a blackberry bush in the corner, hands bleeding slightly from the sticky branches. You told me it was there so I wouldn’t forget it. It was at that point I realized we weren’t going to last. That this was your goodbye to me.

You stopped answering letters and when I went to visit you your cabin was bare of you, filled with just cans of blackberry jam. Preserving the best part of summer. I took three, I think you wanted me to have them because you knew I’d come back looking for you.

I eat it now on bread I learned to toast in an oven and think of that summer love affair. The sweetest love story always has the worst ending.

Taglist: @ayablackwood @rocknrollsoul76 @greeneyezblackheart @lady-jane3 @rocketgrrrl27 @slutforstradlin @theoutsiders25 @fispapercrafter @bbyamberx @brezeblog @samanthasgone @aggressive-slytherin @clover270 @grayxiu @another-obsessed-with-duff @badfvith @bia003 @queenbae18 @axl-roses-rose @d-ahliaa@beebemarie @guns-n-roses-gal @themoonbelongstome @pinksweetgirl18 @cemmia @bieberhoodforever

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Push

Warnings: noncon sex, oral, mentions of violence, abuse, and death.

This is Lee Bodecker (who is already dark!af) and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your daddy’s in business with the Sheriff but a dirty cop has not limits.

Note: This is my first Lee Bodecker fic. Obviously it’s a dark on so mind the warnings. Lee is just awful. Like what a bastard, the worst!

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

‘She said "I don't know if I've ever been good enough I'm a little bit rusty, and I think my head is caving in”’

-Push, Matchbox Twenty

🚔

You traced the small crack along the lip of the plate. The dinner set your mother had been so proud of was wearing away. Everything had started to since her death. The farmhouse seemed darker, more desolate amid the sentinel pines, your father's shed more sinister though the childhood tales of what was within had long since been dispelled. The walls shuddered with each gust of late autumn air.

The house was empty but for you. Your brothers were at about their usual business, Arn and Cal at work at yard and Will in his classes, though more likely bumming cigarettes behind the church. Your father had rumbled off in his old Ford pick-up not an hour ago but hadn't given you a reason. He never did and it was better that way. Better you didn't ask questions or speak out of turn. Focus on yourself, in the work that needed to be done as the men bustled in and out of your purview.

You set the plate on the mat to dry, a soapy bubble dripped down the back as you plunged your hand back into the water. You piled the dishes one after the other, scrubbing and scouring. The clink of the thick glass painted with faded petals and the old silverware was thunderous in the chilly kitchen.

You heard an engine, quieter than your father's cantankerous truck. The gravel mulched under the tires and you grabbed a rag to dry your hands as you walked through the front door. You peeked out the window as the cruiser pulled up; the old black and white with its blue and red crown.

Sheriff Bodecker came around maybe once every two weeks. You didn't keep track, you never spoke to him. Your daddy always took him to the shed for a beer and a chat. The uniform took a cut of the profits from your father's sill. The moonshine sold better than the beer sold at the store in town but wasn't allowed on the shelves. the lawman turned his eye for a percentage and the occasional jug of the brew.

You watched the sheriff brace himself against his door and lift himself out of the car. His jacket was zipped up against the impending winter but could barely contain his stomach. He reached into his car and plopped his hat on his head before he slammed the door. His boots were just as loud as his tires as he rounded the vehicle and paced towards your daddy's shed.

He turned back, hands on his hips, and peered across the empty lot. The big blue truck always greeted visitors, not that there were many. You watched the sheriff retreat and as he neared the porch, you let go of the curtain and pressed yourself to the door.

Your brothers and your father were the only people in your life. You minded the house and spent your spare time with one of your mama's old books or a needle and thread. 

The door shook as he knocked. You blinked and slowly turned. You grabbed the handle but didn't pull. He must have known your daddy wasn't there. A fool could guess that.

He banged again and you twisted the knob. Slowly, you pulled the door open just a crack. You looked through with one eye as the sheriff felt around impatiently in his pockets.

"Daddy ain't here," you said quietly.

He tilted his head and grinned. He scoffed and ripped his hand out of his jacket.

"I guessed that. Be a shit officer if I couldn't," he snickered. "Pardon the language, miss."

"I don't know when he'll be back," you said.

"I got time," he checked his watch.

There was a moment of silence as he looked at you. You gulped, uncertain.

"Sorry, we don't get many visitors. Guess I should invite you in… I got coffee? Tea?"

He considered you through the inch between the frame and the door. "You gonna have to open up for that," he said, "you got anything sweet?"

"Some leftover cake from Arn's birthday. It's probably stale." You answered as he placed his hand flat on the door. "It's strawberry cream."

"Mm, you make it yourself?" He asked as his other hand rested on his belt.

"Mama's recipe," you explained.

"Well,” he pushed on the door, "Can I come in then or am I eatin' on the porch?"

You stared at him and slowly stepped back as he put more weight against the door. He dropped his arm as you were flush to the wall and he stepped inside. You looked at his boots as he pulled the door from your grasp and threw it shut behind him. He chuckled as he turned to you again and looked at his feet.

“Not meaning to mess up your floors, miss,” he wiped the treads on the mat.

“It’s fine. My brothers never did care much either,” you waved away his words and retreated, “I’ll get you that cake.”

You went to the kitchen and took the glass lid of the cake dish. That was your mother’s too. The long crack up the side made you want to cry. If she could see how the life she’d left behind had become so distorted. You took a plate from the mat and dried it before you laid it out. You cut a slice from the cake and carefully angled it onto the saucer.

“Should I put the kettle on?” You asked as you looked over your shoulder.

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it over a chair before he sat. The wood groaned under him. He put his hat on the table decisively.

“You got milk? I had a coffee on the way.” He sat back in the chair and spread his legs wide.

“Milk,” you repeated as you neared and set the plate on the table then grabbed a fork from the drawer. You handed him the silver then went to the fridge, “Should be enough.”

You poured him a glass and put it down beside the plate as he greedily cut a bite out of the sponge with his fork. You went back to the sink and stuck your hands in the tepid water as you fished out the last few bowls and scrubbed them one at a time. You could hear him chewing behind you as the metal hit the porcelain with each bite.

“You really don’t entertain much, do you?” He asked.

“Sheriff?” you pulled the stopped and grabbed the dish towel to dry your hands.

“You know, I go ‘round folks’ houses and the wives, they smile, flip their hair, even excuse themselves to powder up,” he remarked, “And here you are doing your washing. Your back to me and everything.”

“I told my daddy I’d have ‘em done,” you shrugged. “Besides, I wasn’t expecting ya.”

“I rarely announce myself to shiners,” he rolled his eyes, “Must be quite the life, hmm? You cleaning up behind four boys. You look old enough to have a man of your own to worry about.”

“Maybe,” you wrung the dish towel. 

“Most girls your age are outta their daddy’s house and settled down with a babe on their hip. Even two.” He said.

You frowned. “Well, Sheriff Bodecker, are you married?”

He squinted and tilted his head. He smirked and said ‘no’.

“You’re older than me. Maybe you’re the one who’s overdue.”

“Not too old,” he stabbed the last morsel of cake.

You turned away and grabbed a cup and wiped it dry. You went about drying each piece as he sat quietly. You sensed his gaze as you put away the dishes. The tension mounted as you snapped shut the cupboard and he tapped the plate with the fork.

You were relieved when you heard the gravel crunching outside. Your daddy was back. The putter of his old truck was a welcoming sound.

“That should be him,” you said as you went to the table and picked up his plate. 

He set the fork atop it and grabbed your wrist before you could back away. “You take good care of a man.”

You swallowed and resisted the urge to pull away. “Not too many men can take care of themselves,” you uttered.

He laughed and let you go. He stood and you quickly scurried away to dump the plate in the sink. “Probably right,” he said as he took his jacket and pulled it on, “Definitely not in the ways a woman can take care of a man.”

You turned the faucet as the front door clattered. “Sherriff?” You father called down the hall, “You in here?”

“Here, Rhett,” He flipped his hat on and winked at you, “Son of a bitch, I’ve been waiting long enough.”

🚔

There was a cluster of brambles deep in the woods. A carpet of red, orange, and yellow leaves slowly wilted to brown beneath your feet as you climbed through the brush. You clutched your basket in one hand, your fingers cold even inside your gloves as the winter crept nearer with each day. 

You were the old scarf with the uneven edges. The first one you knitted yourself after your mama had shown you how. Your fleece jacket was hand-me-down from Cal, the sleeves were too long and it puffed out from your body when you zipped it, an old oil stain along the left side. Your skirt, your own creation from two of your mama’s, hung to your knees, your stocking barely thick enough to keep out the chill. The heel of your right boot flopped as it threatened to fall off entirely and made the trek all the more treacherous.

You tossed walnuts into your basket every now and then if they weren’t crushed or caked in mud. The trees muffled all noise the deeper you got and the trees loomed darker above. You stopped at the overgrowth of leaves and vines. Blackberries and raspberries hung plump in the last harvest of the season. You preferred the wild berries to the grocers; they were larger and juicier.

You set down your basket as you pushed through the sharp, thin branches and began to pick. You knelt to grab those hidden at the bottom, dumping handfuls atop your collection of walnuts.

You heard a rustle behind you. Subtle, soft. More likely a deer than a bear. You peeked over your shoulder but didn’t give much heed to the disturbance. There was always some creature flitting around in the forest. You tuned back to your work, your gloves dappled with the dark juices of the berries as some were so soft the burst on touch.

The bushes behind you shook and a twig snapped.

“What you doing out here all alone? I thought you were a bear.”

You stood as you recognized the voice. You dropped the berries in your hand into the basket before you turned and clapped off your gloves. “I thought the same of you.” You blanched as you saw his gun in hand. “You hunting out here with that?”

Sheriff Bodecker looked down at his pistol and scoffed. “Maybe,” he looked up as he kept his gun in hand, “How you know about these berries?”

“They’re wild. There for the taking,” you turned back and pushed through the brambles as you plucked berries from the bunch, “Mama used to take us here when we we’re kids.”

“You lookin’ to make another cake?” His boots crushed the leaves and sticks as he neared.

“Conserves; jams,” you answered bluntly as your basket filled with each handful. “Too bad strawberries are all gone for the season.”

You sensed him watching you as you stooped again. He reached down to your basket and took a raspberry. He popped it in his mouth as he straightened. You glanced over, his gun was pointed at the ground but still in hand. He knocked it gently against his leg as if thinking.

“Tart,” he said, “I prefer strawberry. Sweeter.”

“Mmm,” you grumbled as you dug through the bush, “Well, they charge too much down at the grocer for ‘em.”

It was quiet but for you pushing past the bramble and filling your basket. You could hear him breathing above you as he watched, transfixed by your simple ritual.

“Never told me why you’re all the way out here,” you said as you contented yourself with your haul. “Should I be worried? Some criminal out here hiding in the branches?”

“Sitting by the river on my break, as I do,” he shrugged as you lifted your basket. “It’s a far way back to your daddies. My cruiser’s closer. I can take you home.”

“I prefer the walk. Gives me an excuse to be away.” You smiled and made to step past him.

“We can take our time,” he caught your arm.

“Thank you, Sheriff, but I can find my own way back.”

He turned you to him and raised his gun. His eyes searched your face as he pressed the muzzle to your cheek.

“Ain’t much on the first look but after a while, you’re not so bad,” he said as you stiffened, “If you didn’t dress like a matron, you might even be pretty.” His gun fell to the collar of the jacket. “Usually men don’t offer favours to girls who ain’t pretty.”

“Let go of me,” you pleaded softly, “Sheriff…”

He pointed his gun skyward and released you. He holstered the pistol and laughed to himself.

“You go on lift up that skirt and give me a good look. Then I’ll drive you back to your daddy’s. You have my word as an officer of the law.”

“Pardon--”

“Shhh,” his hand lingered on the pistol, playing with the little strap that would snap it into place, “No one needs to know. Just a peek.”

“Sheriff--”

“Girl,” he cleared his throat, “Ya gonna do what I tell you or I’m gonna make you do worse. Now go on.”

He snatched the basket out of your hand and you let out your breath, relieved at least that he no longer had his fingers on his pistol.

“It’s cold out--”

“You argue with your daddy this much? He don’t seem the type to bide it and let me tell you, he seems a lot more tolerant than me.” He took another berry and chewed it, “So lift your skirt and we’ll be on our way.”

You stared at him. He smirked and licked the dark juice away from his lip. You hands shook as you bent and clumsily felt your skirt. You gathered the hem and stood. You bunched up the fabric around the bottom of the coat and he tutted in satisfaction.

“Turn around for me, girl,” he softly swung the basket, “Bend over so I can get a nice look at you.”

“Sher--”

“I really don’t wanna knock ya around and you don’t want that either,” he warned. “Two seconds. That’s all it will take.”

You gulped as bile burned your throat. You turned, careful not to catch the loose heel of your boot, and held your breath. You bent forward slowly.

“Further,” he ordered. The thin cotton of your underwear stretched across your ass. “Well, you got a much nicer backside than I expected.”

You let out a sharp breath as he pinched your ass and you stood suddenly. You stumbled forward and dropped your skirts. He laughed as you spun to face him. He shoved the basket against your chest. 

“See how easy that was,” he leered at you as you took the basket. “Who you hidin’ that body from? Maybe your daddy’s a selfish man, hmmm? Keeping you from all the men.”

“Can we go?” You muttered as you tried to hide behind the basket.

His blue eyes bore into yours and he shifted on his feet. His hand rubbed the front of his pants as he side stepped you.

“Sure, cruisers ‘round the bend.” He waved you past him and waited. “Come on, you said you wanted to go.”

You walked past him along the trail and he followed, close as his loud breaths filled the air. He pointed you down the path with curt orders and you came into sight of the broad river. His car was parked just off the sideroad that led back to the town. 

His keys jingled as he brushed by you, dragging his hand across your rear as he did. He opened the passenger door and looked at you. You neared and quickly got in, sitting on the long seat within. He closed the door harshly and rounded to the other side. The car dipped with his weight and he shoved the keys in the slot.

“Come here,” he gestured with two fingers, “Closer.”

“What?”

“Put the berries down,” he pointed to the other side of you and you placed the basket on the seat.

“I should be home sooner than later. I gotta start cooking--”

“I’ll get you there,” he grabbed your arm and slid you over the seat. He flipped his hat off and dropped it over the basket. He slung his arm over your shoulders. “Go on, put me in first.”

He gripped the wheel with his other hand and you blinked dumbly. You realised what he meant and pushed the shifted into gear.

“You cold? You’re shivering,” He said as he carefully turned the car, “Just tryna warm you up, girl.”

“I’m fine,” you crossed your arms as he drove at a snail's pace up the dirt road.

“I’m cold,” he gave an exaggerated ‘brrr’, “Do me a favour. Unzip me.”

“What?” You tried to pull away and he bent his arm around your neck, his hand along your chest as your head was nearly on his.

“I’m hard as fuck. You did that. Now take care of it.” He growled. “Get these damn pant unzipped and finish it.”

“Let go--”

“You don’t start listening and I’ll tell you’re daddy what a whore you are. Up in the woods flaunting your ass to the wind.”

You stared down at your stitched skirt. Your mama’s. You only wore her clothes. They were modest. You’d once worn a dress your friend Laverne had given you, more modern, with a shorter skirt. Your daddy belted you until it was ruined.

Your hands trembled as you felt along the Sheriff’s stomach and fumbled beneath. You unbuckled his belt clumsily and found his fly ready to burst. You pushed his zipper down as he groaned and he lifted his arm over the seat. His underwear was tight to his bulging cock.

“Now don’t keep wastin’ my time and take me out,” he snarled.

You pulled the elastic down and he popped out above it. You hesitated as you stared at his throbbing tip.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” You confessed.

“Christ, girl,” he snickered, “Grab it and just… move your hand.”

You shuddered and wrapped your fingers around his cock. It was as thick as the rest of him. You gripped it but still had no idea what to do next.

“Up and down. Like your polishing a shotgun,” he urged, “A nice long barrel.” You bit down and slid your hand along his length. “Tighter,” he gritted through his teeth, “Faster…”

He purred as you played with him. He drove a little faster and steered with one hand as his other hand clawed the back of the seat.

“Fuckin’ don’t know, girl, feels like you know exactly what to you,” he uttered, “Got me close already.”

You stared at the middle of the steering wheel, the silver emblem, and tried not to think about what you were doing. His hand fell to your back and he caressed the back of your coat. He grasped the cloth in his fist as his grunts grew louder and longer.

“Grab that coffee cup,” he demanded, “Go on, you don’t wanna make a mess.”

You took the cup with one hand and popped the top off with your thumb. It flew onto the floor and he hummed.

“Hold it at the tip, before--” He choked on his words and you quickly moved the cup. 

He hit the brake and white ribbons streamed from his cock and laced the rim of the cup and your fingers. White globs slid down the paper and you slowed as a chill went through you. You pulled away your slimy hand and the cup. He took the latter and tossed it out the window and sighed.

“Shit, girl, that was good,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his glistening cock before covering himself up and zipping up his pants. “Get cleaned up.” He tossed the cloth on your lap, “Not far from home, now.”

🚔

Your days passed like molasses. Ever since your venture into the forest, your life slowed to an interminable pace. Your thoughts were darkened by the sheriff’s shadow. You scrubbed, scoured, and swept but could not rid yourself of the memory. The scene played over and over in your head. You swore you could feel him still spread across the palm of your hand.

A week after, when he drove up behind the boys on their return from town, you watched through the window in dread. Cal, Arn, and Will hopped out of the truck and greeted the sheriff. The four of them went to the shed where your daddy was, the latter peeked over at the house as he passed.

You were reassured that your brothers were there. The sheriff wouldn’t, really couldn’t, try anything more. You went back to basting the thick chops. As you made to cap your homemade sauce, the back door opened and your daddy looked in from the mud room.

“You bring out some glasses for the lot of us. And put an extra chop on for the sheriff,” your father slurred. He’d already started drinking. “He be joining us tonight.”

He left before you could respond. He usually drank his swill out of old jars and saved your mother’s dishes. You coated another chop in spice and set it with the rest before slipping them in the oven. You washed your hands and counted out five glasses. You hugged them in your arms and stepped into your boots. 

You pushed the screen door open with your elbow and tramped down the steps. You crossed to the shed and kicked the door with your boot. “Daddy,” you called through the wood.

Will slid open the shed door and you stepped inside. You went to the table and placed the glasses down on the old chipped surface. You stood and looked around. Your father filled each with the clear shine from a large jar.

“Isn’t he a bit young?” You said as Will sat back down.

“Not your business, woman,” your daddy spat, “Go back in the house. To your business.”

“Yes, daddy.” You sniffed and looked at Will. He gave an apologetic smile but none of your brothers ever stood up against your daddy.

“Lady not joining us?” Bodecker asked.

“Ha, that girl gets a whiff of this stuff and she’d be on her back. This ain’t no drink for ladies,” your daddy chortled. “About time you tried it. What you been doin’ will all that swill I give ya.”

“Boys at the station like it. I think they’re some of your best customers, ain’t they?” Bodecker countered. “Besides, I been tryna stay clear of the drink.”

“One night won’t hurt,” your daddy coaxed.

You went back to the door and slid it shut behind you as the men continued to chatter. Well, they would at least drink themselves too senseless to bother you much.

🚔

You cleared the table of the empty plates and scraps left by the drunken men. They had been loud and raucous, so much so you’d eaten your dinner at the counter to avoid them. When they finished, they left in a stumble, though the sheriff seemed as steady as ever as he trailed behind. He stopped at the door as he held it and peered back from the mud room at you.

You washed the dishes and put them away. You wiped down the table and fixed the chairs around it. The night was moonless and eerie. The wind wailed and shook each window and door in the house as it seemed to blow right through the walls.

The mud room door clattered again. It had been over an hour since the men returned to the shed. Their voices no longer carried in the air but the shed remained alight from within. You turned as Bodecker closed the door. He carried a tall glass of swill as he stopped in the door frame.

“Lightweights,” he said, “All your men passed out. Think one of ‘em pissed in their pants.”

“You’re drunk,” you said as you kept behind the table.

“Not really. I couldn’t finish mine,” he crossed to the other side of the table and set down the glass, “Why don’t you finish it for me?”

“I don’t drink that stuff,” you said, “Dump it out on the grass.”

“You work so hard. You should have a little fun,” he rounded the table and slid the glass across it as he neared, “Come on. Have a drink.”

“I don’t--” He grabbed you suddenly, wrestled you down into a chair and held you there by your shoulders.

He lifted one hand and felt around his belt. He flicked his holster open and rubbed the pistol with his thumb. 

“Drink it.” You watched his hand on his gun. He slid it out just a little. “Ugly things men do when they drinking. “Playing with guns… sometimes don’t always end up so fun. Don’t think the young one would make it in the hold.”

“No, you--”

“Drink,” he sneered. “It’ll loosen you up.”

You reached for the glass and he nodded. He snapped his holster closed and pulled a chair over to sit in front of you. You put your lips to the edge of the glass and the alcohol stung your nostrils. You tipped it, slowly, and tasted it with a gag. It was vile, stringent, and fiery. He pushed it up with two fingers until you were choking on it. He didn’t let up until the glass was empty and the shine dripped down your chin.

You slammed the glass down and coughed. You touched your throat as your head spun and a warmth nestled in your cheeks. You tried to shake away the haze that washed over you.

“That’s it, girl,” he purred as he leaned forward, “You feel better, don’t you?”

“N-no,” you stammered as you gripped the chair.

“’Daddy’,” he said, “Girl, you had me hard in there… you too old to be callin’ that man, daddy.” He stood and shrugged off his leather jacket, “But you be right to call me daddy.”

“I don’t feel…” Your stomach burned and you tried to stand. You stumbled and he caught you.

“Don’t you get all jumpy on me, girl,” he sat you back down. “You gonna hurt yourself.”

You slumped in the chair and braced your head. You felt terribly dizzy and your inside were alight. You heard a jingle and looked up as Bodecker unzipped his pants. You recalled the day in the car and filled with panic. You stood again and this time staggered, falling onto your knees with a cry.

“Mmm, it’s okay, girl, you can stay down there,” You looked up as he pulled his cock out through the vee of his pants, “Come here.” He grabbed your chin and yanked you forward, “Open up.”

You snapped your mouth shut and tried to wriggle free of his grasp. His other hand came up behind your head and he pulled you close. His fingers spread across your head and he used his other hand to poke his cock against your lips.

“I’ll break that pretty little jaw of yours and tell your pa he did it,” he growled, “Now come on.” You shook your head and he slapped you, hard. He seized you again. “Open!”

Your mouth fell open and your vision blurred as he shoved his cock inside. He forced himself down your throat and you kicked your feet as you grabbed at the front of his pants. He groaned and held his cock at its limit.

“And I thought you were good with your hands,” he pulled back and thrust back in. Your eyes rolled back as they teared up and you choked. “Mmm, much better.”

He started slow at first, though each tilt of his hips was relentless, deep and painful. You struggled to breathe around him and it only seemed to feed his lust. He gripped your head between his hand as he fucked your mouth, the sloppy sounds made your head swim as the slobber leaked down your chin and his shaft.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he pulled out of you suddenly and shoved you away. You fell back onto your ass and wiped your mouth. “You tryna end this night early or something.”

He let out a breath and watched his cock bob before him as he grunted.

“Get up and get your drawers off.” He ordered, “Then I want you like you was in the woods, huh? Skirt up.”

You wavered as you tried to climb to your feet. He caught your errant arm and pulled you up. He spun you and you swayed. He bent and his hands crawled up your skirt as he felt around. He ripped your underwear down and let them rest at your ankles. He turned you to the chair and pushed you forward. You fell and caught yourself against the seat. He threw your skirt up and bared your ass.

Your legs quaked as he pressed his hand between your legs and felt around. He rubbed your cunt as you squeezed him with your thighs. He pinched you and drew away.

“You don’t wanna make this harder than it needs to be girl,” he sneered, “You’re in no state for that.”

He stepped closer and bent over you. His arm wrapped around your middle as he felt around below you with his other hand. He caught the tip of his cock and guided it to your cunt. He pushed it along your folds, sliding it up and down until he found your entrance. You whimpered and pushed back against him, too weak to break free.

“You fight and it’ll hurt more,” he grunted as he pushed his tip into you and you yelped. “Fuck, you’re tight.” Another inch and he stopped as he took a breath, “Holy hell, girl, you really weren’t lying. You ain’t been touched.” 

He growled and inhaled the scent of your hair as his hand gripped the chair next to yours. He thrust into you in a single tilt and you exclaimed as he stretched your walls. You reached to the back of the chair and latched onto the crossbar as you tried not to sob.

He stood, slowly and pushed deeper into you as he grabbed your hip. His other hand kneaded your ass as he began to rock. His groans were as steady as his motion as he dipped in and out of you. He curled his fingers and dug his nails into your flesh as he panted, his stomach bouncing against your ass.

“Be as loud as you want, girl,” he barked, “No one gonna hear you.”

He rutted into as the chair shifted below you. He kept a hand on your hip as his other trailed up to your shoulder and he arched your back. His zipper bit into your flesh as he sped up, slapping against you harder and harder as you whined louder and louder. It hurt terribly and your entire being thrummed with an unknown sensation. 

You closed your eyes as your vision swirled and your arms shook. He pulled you back so you stood against him, your back curved as he hammered into you. You were on tiptoes as he didn’t let up and turned you against the table. Your fingertips brushed the top as you reached out blindly and his hand stretched across your neck as he forced your head back against his shoulder.

“I’m gonna cum, girl,” he hissed, “You fucking whore. You’re going to make me cu--”

He grunted and his hips spasmed as a warmth seeped into you. He gave several, final snaps of his hip and slowed. He fell forward with you bent beneath him against the table. Your legs were limp as he crushed you with his weight. His heart pounded through his chest and he gasped for breath. 

You sniffed and pushed back against him. You were suffocating. You needed him off of you. You needed him out of you. 

“We ain’t done yet,” he hooked his arm around you and pulled you back to sit on his lap as he fell into the chair. “You got two minutes to get me hard again or you can clean me up with your mouth.”