#farmer sour patch

[aedarisfarm]

Farmer Braindump

Featuring Farmer Sour Patch!

This got ridiculously long, so it's all under the cut ^^

Pre-Valley

Will use any and all pronouns. Switch in the middle of sentences, use neopronouns, hell Sour Patch is also happy to be addressed with no pronouns

Not a fan of formal addresses. Just use Sour Patch.

Early-mid 20s

Aromantic and doesn't label sexuality - just claims being allosexual and refuses to elaborate. Non-monogamous and lives by open communication with any partners

Mildly romance repulsed. Doesn't care much for dates

Has gotten into physical fights with people about cheating. Will continue to fight people who think it's okay in any capacity.

Parents are stupid rich and supportive but also fairly distant. Told Sour Patch to move out once they turned 18 but they would support any of his college or university tuitions if she paid for xeir own rent and non-academic bills.

Sour Patch loves learning and basically took this as permission to never leave uni. Already has a BA from double majoring in marketing and astronomy, with a minor in journalism. Currently trying to earn a second BA studying ASL and religion.

Also loves group projects and collaborations. Is the person who will get awkward classes or tables talking. Professors leading discussion classes love Sour Patch because Sour Patch will fill any potential silences.

Knows someone who can do whatever needs to be done. Need someone to knit a sweater? Sour Patch knows 3 people. Need financial advice? Which of these dozen would be best? Want a baking buddy? His TA last semester made the best cookies and loves learning new recipes or having a friend in the kitchen. Need to write a research paper? Xe knows someone who knows the sister of the leading expert in that field, want Sour Patch to get you in contact?

Met Kali in a bio class and when Kali dropped out, moved in with Kali and Aster and switched to mostly online classes

Was initially just looking for a cheaper place to crash by having more roommates but really befriended the two

Kali and Aster invited Sour Patch to Aedaris Farm with them because what were they gonna do, just leave one of their closest friends homeless?

Valley Life

Still takes online classes - just takes fewer than they may like because she has to work on the farm

Changes religion major to a minor and starts also majoring in agriculture

Absolute rubbish at fishing. Still fishes because Sour Patch refuses to give up and also wants to learn things especially about fish through personal experience

Is a hoarder. Sour Patch will not sell anything unless there are at least two so they can keep one.

Cannot be trusted with finances. So Sour Patch has separate finances, but does his best to contribute at least 25-33% of what Sour Patch earns to farm expenses each season as a deal the three friends made.

Animal master.

No like, seriously. All the animals just adore Sour Patch. And Sour Patch's hoarding needs are met because he convinces Aster and Kali that they should get half a dozen coops and barns each to fill - each with a different animal.

Sour Patch handles all animal affairs from then on and spends most of his personal money on them.

Except the slimes - while Sour Patch likes them alright, Sour Patch despises taking care of them.

Has slept with like. Majority of the town marriage candidates. Except Elliott, who she clocked liking Aster before Elliott himself realized he liked them. Everyone's chill about it and it's sort of like a giant open relationship between them all

Got Abigail, Sam, and Sebastian together. None of them will admit to how.

Really, really likes Maru and Maru's thrive to learn. Befriends Demetrius and Harvey real quick, as well as Rasmodius.

Favorite past time after animal chores are done is to bother Gunther.

Is okay at mining and combat, but tends to leave that mostly to Kali.

Enjoys exploring the valley and foraging - unlike Aster and Kali, all of Pelican Town is new to Sour Patch so there's a lot to learn

Determined to befriend everyone. Will stalk people to do it. Shane cannot figure out why the hell out of the three new farmers this one is obsessed with him and really wishing sometimes one of the others would step in. But also. So many pepper poppers. So...

Lewis is the exception. Sour Patch despises him. But pretends to be his friend anyway because it's a small town and for some reason most of the townies still like him.

Sour Patch does not get it. But is content to pretend and embarass him by wearing replicas of his shorts.

Feeds into the rumor mill and knows all the gossip. May or may not share it with you.

Is the driving force behind the "Break up Marnie and Lewis and get Marnie with someone who actually cares about her" movement. Aster started it, but Sour Patch dragged everyone in town into it.

[charliemwrites]

Part 2!

Finally finished moving house so hopefully I’ll be updating semi-regularly again.

Content: brief and non-descriptive explanation of Rasputin’s backstory (injury and illness)

Agatha is over again.

You don’t know why. She doesn’t like you, your cats, or anything as far as you can tell. It seems her primary motivation for talking to you at all is to exercise her role as neighborhood matriarch. She “keeps tabs” on everyone, but especially you - the unmarried woman living alone that keeps odd hours.

A rebellious part of you wants to roll your eyes and make snarky comments whenever she sniffs at your life choices. The same part of you that would make scenes at holiday dinners or slam doors when you were a teenager. That girl has long been smoothed and polished - or maybe just worn down. It’s so much effort to make rude, nosy, traditionalists clutch their pearls. Much easier to smile in their face and do what you want anyway.

Still, that part of you itches at the surface sometimes. Makes your eye twitch.

“I know your generation is different but that’s just not the type of neighborhood we live in,” she’s saying.

You’re a bit foggy from a late night patching plotholes and haven’t registered much of anything she’s said. You really just want to go inside and stare at the TV until words make sense again.

“What do you mean?” you ask, for once not feigning your confusion. But of course this is the one time she doesn’t buy it.

She looks down her frail little nose at you, cornflower blue eyes baleful. You don’t feel scolded, but you sense that you’re supposed to.

“Now you know just what I mean. People will talk.”

People always talk, it’s an unfortunate byproduct of the human condition. Like a deaf bird, you’ve never understood all the chatter.

“Talk about… the buttercups?” you wonder, pointing at the blossoms. You’re quite proud of them actually.

Agatha puffs up and hisses out a breath. “You ought to keep to this side of the street. Away from those men.”

You blink. Men…?

A bang comes from across the street, followed by rough German cursing. (At least you think it’s cursing.)

Ah. Those men.

“I was just welcoming them to the neighborhood.”

It comes out of your mouth automatically, innocent excuses for something you remind yourself you don’t need to justify.

“I’d rather they didn’t feel welcome,” she snips. “Better they sell that awful house and go somewhere else.”

You flick your eyes over her bony shoulder. Konig passes by a window, massive biceps on display as he lifts something outside of view.

“They’re nice,” you say. Nice to look at. Krueger’s face alone quite makes up for his conversational shortcomings.

“The only reason men like that act nice is because they want something,” Agatha snaps. “This is a respectable neighborhood.”

Yeah, soooo respectable when Bertram rifles through your mail or Lisa looks into your backyard.

“Well,” you muse, “better to be on good terms with them, I think. They're not the type you want to piss off.”

That defiant streak lights up at the way her face sours. If only she knew what sort of words you use when it’s just you and the cats.

“You’ve just proven my point. Those are not the type of men young ladies should associating themselves with.”

You have to try very hard not to scrunch up your face. One blessed day, people will stop referring to you as “young lady” in that insufferably condescending tone. You can’t wait for that day.

Some of your mounting irritation must show on your face because she takes on a sickly sweet “teaching” tone.

“Neighborhoods are like gardens. Everything grows best when the rows are kept separate. That’s why the farmers plant them that way.”

You glance pointedly at your own yard, where the flowers are blooming in haphazard sprigs wherever you tossed the seeds. Agatha’s lips get thin.

“Best that you stay on this side of the street, missy. That’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

She spins on her heel and stalks off like a particularly drab bird. You stand on your porch for a second longer, face contorted in annoyed confusion. You don’t even have strong feelings about the three men; the simple act of someone - Agatha of all people - labeling them as “Off Limits” makes them instantly more appealing.

Maybe you should see someone about that or something. Then the pathetic cries of Guy through the window lure you back inside.

It’s nearly sundown when there’s a knock at your door. Still agitated from your talk with Agatha, you puff up like Shithead when Rasputin sits on her favorite toy. March up to the door, fling it open - and come up short when you see the three men looming on your doorstep.

Before you can recover, a little gray blob scrambles past your ankles, crying like the sky is falling.

“Oh!” Konig gasps in pleasant surprise. “Hallo, Bubchen!”

And all 6-foot-plus of Austrian instantly folds to scoop Guy up. You’ve barely managed a now-useless shout of alarm when Shithead wedges her fat head between your calves. Behind you, Rasputin politely screeches his little chainsmoker call.

And somehow, in the chaos of fumbling for furballs, you end up with all three men in your foyer.

Guy is purring away in Konig’s thick arms. Shithead is attempting to scale Krueger’s tight cargo pants. And Rasputin is pawing the air at Nikto, visibly calculating the jump to his wide shoulders.

Which leaves you with the clean serving platter you dropped off just yesterday. You blink at it for a moment, then glance at them.

“So… the cookies were good then?”

“Very good!” Konig rushes to say. Krueger and Nikto each nod, almost comically solemn.

“We have no baking or cooking skills,” Krueger continues, “so tell us what needs fixing.”

It takes you a moment to understand what he means. The house. He wants to fix your house. It’s surprisingly sweet, and you laugh a bit, shaking your head. “You don’t need to do that, I was just-“

“Is custom,” Nikto interrupts.

Konig nods with all the enthusiasm of a bobblehead as Krueger crosses his arms. (Whatever effect he’s going for is ruined by Shithead clinging to his pocket and screaming.)

“In our country, we bring gifts as guests. Our gift is repairs,” he explains.

You arch your brows playfully. “I don’t remember inviting you to be guests.”

He arches his brows right back. “We did not invite you either.”

Well shit.

“Okay, okay. I guess there’s a couple things…”

Konig perks up. “We would be happy to help, Biene!”

It’s strange having men in the house. You think you should be more nervous about it, can’t remember the last non-family man allowed into your space. Especially alone.

There’s a sharp awareness, of course. Hard not to be aware of them. It’s not just that they’re big, dwarfing all of your you-sized furniture. There’s a presence to them, something felt but not seen by your untrained eye. Maybe it’s in the set of their shoulders, the way they stand with both boots firmly planted. Maybe it’s the precise way they speak and move, not just separately but as a unit. Acting more like a collective consciousness than as individuals.

Whatever it is, you couldn’t ignore them if you tried. And you’re definitely not trying.

You set Krueger to work on the kitchen cabinet you’ve been meaning to replace. He clicks his tongue at the tape-and-lean method you’ve been using to keep the old one in place. Shithead immediately sets to work helping by gnawing at his shoelaces.

Konig is stationed in the guest bathroom, where the sink doesn’t run right. Guy comes mewing into your arms when he’s set down, effectively tattling that his new friend is mean and awful for withholding affection for even a moment.

You try not to visibly hesitate when you corner yourself in your own laundry room. Nikto has followed you right in, seemingly unaware that he’s invading your personal space. He’s not even looking at you though, eyes zeroed in on the dryer you point to.

“It’s not heating up, so the clothes stay wet or take forever to dry,” you explain.

He grunts in acknowledgement, then nods to Rasputin, who has taken up residence on the washer. His one golden eye blinks slow and serene at the two of you.

“What happened?” he asks.

You hum, softening in pleasant surprise at the question.

“I’m not sure how he lost his eye. It was infected when I found him. But I know for sure the tail and leg are from getting hit by a car.”

You sigh, scratching at Rasputin’s chin. A rusty purr starts up as he tilts his head, revealing some nasty scars around his throat.

“The vet said that that’s probably from a fight with another cat,” you add.

Guy steps from your arms to cuddle up to Rasputin, shoving his face into his ragged ear. Grooming time, then. That’s as good an indication as any that Nikto’s probably safe enough.

“I ran down from an office building to save him.” You blink hard, eyes stinging just from the memory. “But anyway, he gets to rest and be pampered now.”

When you glance up from Rasputin’s happy little face, you almost startle at the sharp blue eyes pinning you in place. Your face feels warm, even though you’re not embarrassed.

“I’ll, um, get out of the way,” you say, clearing your throat. “Keep an eye on things, Ras.”

With the men occupied, you find yourself once again at loose ends. You drift towards the den, but it feels awkward to sit on your ass watching TV while your neighbors fix your house.

You check the time on your phone - ignoring the text from your mother - and figure it’s not too early to start dinner.

“Will I be in the way if I start cooking?” you ask Krueger.

He flicks you a dimissive glance. “A little thing like you?”

You scoff and cross to the fridge. “You could have just said no.”

“Nein,” he snorts.

Rude bastard, you think - though not without fondness, unfortunately. The surly attitude is already growing on you.

There’s meat and spare boxes of pasta and veggies - that’ll work. You start tugging out ingredients, mentally doubling portions for your guests. They look like they work out even beyond the construction labor, hopefully you’ll have enough to satisfy their appetites.

“So what’s the plan with the house?” you ask as you get to work. “Just fixing it up to sell or…?”

“We will live there, the three of us,” Krueger answers. He swipes a screwdriver from Shithead’s batting paws. “Somewhere to stay when we are not working.”

You hum, biting back the next obvious question, loathe to become as nosy as the rest of your neighbors. Still… getting to know people, right?

It sounds like they expect to travel a lot. You can’t imagine them as business types - not in the traditional sense anyway. Though the image of Konig sitting in a tiny cubicle does make you smile a bit. Between their statures, their clothes, their shoes, and the occasional nasty scar, you take a guess.

“Are you guys military?”

“Contractor,” Krueger corrects.

You perk up. “Wait, really?”

He scowls. “Does it sound like a joke?”

You huff and turn back to the veggies you’re cutting. “No, no. I just - you know about guns and knives and things, then?”

He pauses. You shoot him a curious glance, only to quickly look away at the intense scrutiny directed your way.

“Yes,” he answers slowly.

“Then… could you maybe answer some questions…?”

His eyes narrow. “Questions?”

You keep your gaze on the cutting board. “Okay, wait, it's not suspicious. I’m a writer and it’s hard to google very specific questions sometimes. It’s just easier to ask an expert in person.”

Never mind that majority of your readers would never know the difference. It bothers you when things aren’t accurate.

He makes a considering noise. “A writer?”

You flush. “That’s what I do. Why I’m always home? I publish fiction.”

He stands, brushing his hands off on his pants. You peek his way, shocked to see a task you’ve been putting off for weeks already done. Hell, it looks sturdier than the rest of the cabinet doors, too.

“And your fiction requires knowledge of guns and knives and ‘things’?” he asks.

Your face feels like it’s on fire. “Sometimes…”

“Fine. I will answer your questions,” he allows.

You beam. “Thank you!”

He grunts, snatches a slice of pepper and pops it into his mouth.

“What else needs doing?”

Dinner ends up much more pleasant than expected. Nikto abstains from eating, you assume because he doesn’t feel comfortable removing his ever-present mask, but he sits at the table with Rasputin in his lap. He speaks little, and has that intense gaze that prickles at your freeze instinct, but you grow used to it as the meal progresses.

Konig, however, becomes chattier with food in his belly. He’s much more forthcoming when he answers your polite and totally casual questions - though you notice Krueger kick him under the table once or twice.

You suppose he gets you back by effectively announcing to the others what your career is. Which just kicks off the usual line of questioning about how and why you got into writing. Still, there’s no judgment from these men that make their living in labors of blood and sacrifice, where you expected censure. You only find genuine curiosity and intrigue, good-natured questions. Not even Krueger makes backhanded comments about it not being a “real” job.

Before you know it, the moon is high and you’re sending the three of them off, bellies full and a little friendlier than before. Nikto nods to you (and Rasputin) as he leaves, a big Tupperware of his dinner portion in hand.

You tell yourself it’s not anticipation that goes through you, knowing they’ll be back with it soon.

Previous | Next

Masterlist

[deliciousangelfestival]

Tears In His Ferrari || Chp 9 - B.Barnes

Character: Bucky Barnes x Farmer!Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes, used to a life of luxury, takes on farm challenges in a bet with his father. Mud-stained Ferraris and a rustic farmhouse lead to unexpected personal growth, guided by the stern mentorship of Y/N, a farmer making his city-boy life difficult.

Theme: Fluff, Slice of Life, Heart-Warming.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on: Ko-fi

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more. 

Chapters: Chp 1, Chp 2, Chp 3 , Chp 4 , Chp 5 , Chp 6 , Chp 7 , Chp 8 , Chp 9 , -Chp 10 , Chp 11 , Chp 12.

Bucky, noticing the strained atmosphere between Kate and Y/N, decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Hey, Y/N," Bucky interjected, his voice laced with a hint of urgency, "could you teach me how to clean Alpine's hooves?"

Y/N paused, her expression softening as she recognized Bucky's attempt to diffuse the tension. "Of course," she replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

With a sense of relief washing over him, Bucky led the way to the stables, eager to learn from Y/N and escape the brewing conflict with Kate.

Meanwhile, Kate seethed with frustration, her hostility towards Y/N palpable. Clenching her fists, she struggled to contain her anger as she watched Bucky and Y/N walk away, leaving her behind.

"Shit!" she muttered under her breath, her perfectly manicured nails leaving indentations on her palms as she pressed them tightly together.

Turning to her assistant, Kate issued a terse command. "I want you to gather information on someone."

Kate couldn't fathom how Bucky could abandon her for a mere farm girl when there were plenty of wealthy suitors vying for her attention. The thought fueled her irritation, exacerbating her already sour mood.

With a frustrated huff, Kate stomped her expensive shoes on the ground, unwittingly stepping into a patch of mud. The dirt splattered across her face, staining her clothes and ruining her pristine footwear.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, her outburst startling the nearby animals, who responded with their own cacophony of sounds.

As the chickens clucked "Buk-buk-ba-gawk!!!" and the cows mooed, "Moooo…!" Kate felt a surge of indignation. She despised the rural setting and everything it represented, longing for the comfort and luxury of her city life.

Determined to uncover any secrets Y/N might be hiding, Kate hoped that the information her assistant obtained would give her the leverage she needed to regain control of the situation.

***********

At the stable, Bucky observed closely as Y/N expertly cleaned Alpine's hooves. Her movements were precise and confident, a testament to her familiarity with the task.

She explained, her voice calm and knowledgeable, “Regular cleaning is also the only way to remove impacted dirt, mud, and manure from the hoof. When you give your horse a bath, take the time to carefully clean out their hooves to prevent horse scratches and infections.”

Bucky nodded attentively, absorbing her instructions. “I see. I'll try my best to take care of Alpine.”

Y/N smiled approvingly. “Good. You're getting better at living on this farm.”

Bucky felt a flush of shyness at her compliment. He hadn't expected Y/N to praise him. “Hehe, but I'm nothing compared to you.”

As she brushed Alpine's coat, Y/N chuckled softly. “Well, I'm already used to this. If you asked me to drive a sports car or make a vlog, I wouldn't have a clue.”

Bucky's curiosity piqued. “You've never driven a sports car?”

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “Not everyone is as rich as you.”

Realizing his unintentional insensitivity, Bucky hurriedly apologized. “Uhh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it that way.”

Then, an idea struck him. “Do you want me to teach you?”

Bucky said, "You have taught me how to drive a truck. It's more difficult than driving my Ferrari. I think you can do it."

Y/N paused, considering his offer. Bucky couldn't see her expression from his angle. “Hmm, I'll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

Disappointed but understanding, Bucky nodded. He had hoped to share the thrill of driving a sports car with Y/N, to give her a glimpse of his world, and understand his passion for racing.

Suddenly, Toby burst into the stable, his usually cheerful face now drawn with worry. “Y/N, Bucky, I need to go home!”

Concern etched across his features, Bucky approached. "What's wrong?"

“My grandmother,” Toby gasped, his voice trembling. “She's having a hard time breathing.”

Y/N wasted no time. “Get in my car, and I'll call the doctor on the way.”

Bucky, feeling a surge of determination, stepped forward. “I want to help.”

Y/N hesitated, considering Bucky's offer. “It won't fit since we're going to pick up both his grandparents.”

But Bucky wasn't deterred. “I'll use my car. It's faster. I'll meet you at Toby's house and then drive his grandma to the hospital.”

Y/N nodded, seeing the logic in Bucky's plan. “Alright.”

With determination in his eyes, Bucky hurried to his red Ferrari and fired up the engine.

"VROOM!"

The roar of the Ferrari's powerful motor sent a thrill through him. “Let's help someone,” he declared, gripping the steering wheel tightly.

As they drove towards Toby's house, Bucky followed Y/N's truck, his mind racing with thoughts. He couldn't help but marvel at Toby's resilience, realizing that the young boy had been walking to and from the farm every day.

Bucky remembered Toby, who never seemed tired each time he came by.

He felt like all his life he had the privilege to own a car and have a private driver to drive him around.

Arriving at Toby's house, Bucky took in the scene before him—the abundance of bee boxes and honey jars, a testament to the family's livelihood. Yet, despite their hard work, they lacked the resources and transportation in times of emergency.

Feeling a pang of guilt, Bucky reflected on his life of luxury, provided by his father's wealth.

Entering the house, Bucky saw Toby's grandparents. The love between them was palpable, even in their moment of distress. Toby's grandmother struggled to breathe, her frail form supported by her husband.

Bucky sprang into action with urgency, lifting Toby's grandmother gently into his arms.

Toby's grandfather regarded Bucky with curiosity who carried his wife into the small car. “Who is this young man?”

Toby assured him, “He's my great friend. Trust him, grandpa.”

As they hurried Toby's grandmother into Bucky's car, Toby's grandfather's eyes reflected both worry and gratitude, hoping for the best for his beloved wife.

With minimal traffic on the road, Bucky navigated the streets swiftly, arriving at the hospital in just 10 minutes. Carrying Toby's grandmother into the emergency room, he conveyed the urgency of her condition to the attending doctor. "She's having a hard time breathing. It's been 20 minutes."

The medical team, already briefed by Y/N, sprang into action, swiftly preparing a bed for the elderly woman. "Quick, put her here," they instructed, their sense of urgency matching Bucky's own.

As he received updates upon his arrival, Bucky prayed for Toby's grandmother's swift recovery. The weight of the situation settled heavily on his shoulders, a newfound sense of responsibility driving him to do everything in his power to help.

Ten minutes later, Y/N, Toby, and his grandfather arrived at the hospital, their anxious expressions mirroring Bucky's own concern. "Where is she?" Toby's grandfather inquired, his voice trembling with worry.

Bucky relayed the nurse's assurance. "The doctor is still looking after her, but the nurse told him her breathing problem has already improved."

Relief washed over the group, evident in their collective sighs. Toby's grandfather extended his hand to Bucky in gratitude. "Thank you, young man. Thank you so much."

Though unused to such displays of appreciation, Bucky accepted the gesture with a sense of humility, his heart warmed by the genuine gratitude.

Not just him, but Y/N felt it too. Watching Bucky's efforts to help Toby and his grandparents, Y/N's perception of him changed. He wasn't the spoiled person she had initially thought him to be.

*************

As they waited at the hospital, Bucky's thoughts drifted to his father. Reflecting on their strained relationship, he wondered when they had last spent quality time together. The sight of his father's graying hair flashed in his mind, prompting concerns about his health. Had his father undergone regular check-ups?

His musings were interrupted by Toby's grandfather's somber conversation with a doctor. "We couldn't afford the surgery," he overheard, the weight of the words settling heavily on Bucky's heart.

Caught in a moment of helplessness, Toby echoed his grandfather's sentiments. If only his father hadn't succumbed to gambling, they would have had the means to afford the necessary medical treatment for his grandmother.

Feeling helpless, Bucky watched as Toby and his family grappled with the harsh reality of their financial limitations. Meanwhile, Y/N, ever resourceful, discussed options to assist Toby's grandmother with the hospital administration.

In the midst of the chaotic scene at the hospital, Bucky felt overwhelmed by the raw emotions surrounding him. The sight of an 80-year-old man in tears and the anguished voice of another man grappling with his inability to provide for his loved one brought a lump to Bucky's throat, threatening to unleash his own flood of tears.

In stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor, Bucky clenched his fists in frustration, his heart aching with the weight of helplessness. In a world where a simple swipe of his card could solve most problems, he now found himself powerless in the face of someone else's suffering.

Determined to make a difference, Bucky stepped outside the hospital, his resolve firm as he dialed his father's number.

“Hello,” came his father's curt greeting.

“Dad. I need your help,” Bucky began, his voice tinged with urgency.

His father's response was laced with skepticism. “What did you do this time?”

Bucky's frustration mounted as he struggled to convey the gravity of the situation. “Huh? No, Dad, this isn't about me. I want to help someone.”

But his father's skepticism persisted. “Really? It's not the same as when you ask for a private jet to pick up your friends for a party?”

Bucky winced at the reminder of his past selfishness, feeling ashamed. “No, Dad, this is different. This is about someone's life. A farmer I know is facing a medical issue and can't afford surgery. I want to help them, but I don't have the money. Dad, can you help me?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, stretching agonizingly as Bucky waited for his father's response.

“...”

“Hello? Dad?” Bucky prompted anxiously, his heart pounding in his chest.

“How much for the surgery?” his father's voice finally broke through the silence.

Relief flooded through Bucky, gratitude welling up within him. “Thank you, Dad. You're the best. Oh, can I ask one more thing?” he added, seizing the opportunity to make another request, his mind already racing with possibilities.

As he awaited his father's response, Bucky couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness, knowing that with his father's support, he could truly make a difference in someone's life.

Inside the office, with expansive windows offering sweeping views of the city skyline, sat a man of distinguished presence. David Barnes, at 50 years old, possessed an aura of approachability coupled with an unmistakable air of authority.

David was renowned in the business world for his astute decisions and remarkable success. With a seemingly effortless knack for turning ventures into triumphs, he had earned the moniker of having a Midas touch.

Yet, despite his prowess in the realm of business, David found himself somewhat adrift when it came to matters concerning his son, Bucky. His only child, Bucky's recent actions had stirred something within David, a sense of curiosity and perhaps even pride.

As he listened to Bucky's earnest plea for assistance, David felt a stirring within him. It was a rare glimpse of the young man his son had become, a departure from the carefree persona that had once defined him.

With a decisive nod, David motioned to his secretary. “Send $20,000 to this hospital,” he instructed, his voice tinged with a quiet resolve.

The secretary, ever efficient, sought clarification. “Did Bucky get hurt?” she inquired, her concern evident in her tone.

David shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he gazed at the sunset, casting its golden hues across the city cape. “No,” he replied simply, “he's helping someone.”

At that moment, as he watched the sun dip below the horizon, David felt a swell of pride for his son, realizing that there was more to success than just business acumen—that true wealth lay in the ability to lend a helping hand to those in need.

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[mayasaurusss]

Day eight: visiting a pumpkin patch. Contents: slightly incorrect grammar and stupidly pure romance. I feel like reader is doing tha bare minimum, but lets' face it, for Nat that may be the best way she has ever been treated. Also, I did this pretty quickly 'cause I'm very excited to start watching Longlegs so, may be slightly incoherent in some ways.

Natalie tries to play cool when you ask her if she wants to go with you to a pumpkin patch. It's just something she never managed to do with her family or any of her friends. And she wouldn't want them to know that cool and mysterious Natalie was actually somebody who could get excited by a simple walk through a pumpkin patch.

One of her joys in life is to spend time with you, doing anything at all: watching movies, sex, walks through parks, you name it!

It has been hard to find her true self after years of hiding behind drugs, but rehab has been good for her. She has learnt to master her emotions, to cope with her family life and to rediscover herself, and that meant doing things that she never could when she was a kid.

The pumpkin patch has many activities to choose from: pumpkin picking, hayrides, corn mazes, feeding animals and so on. And sure as hell, she'll do all of them.

The first thing you guys do is walk through a corn maze. It's far bigger than you had realized and in no time, you guys are lost. You have to wait for someone to come by and ask them how to get back. During the time you guys are lost, Natalie is restless and slightly more worried than normal, but she tries to relax. You manage to get her head off of it by gossipping about your co-workers.

When you come back, you offer Nat a treat. You know what she has been through, and even if you know a simple treat isn't enough to make her loose up, it's still something you want to do.

She has a relieved but worried look. She's eating a donut while you try to shoot her by rubbing her hands. You wouldn't dare to say this to her, but she looks like a sad, worried puppy.

Next, you feed the animals. A farmer gives you a medium sized bag of dried corn and wheat to feed to the animals. There are many different kinds of farm birds in big cages: swans, geese, ducks, turkeys and so on. But the animals that catch Natalie's eyes are the goats. Their cage is a little separated from the main compound.

They are seven, two adults and five babies. One of them is especially keen on getting a pet by Natalie. If Nat moves outside the cage, the goat will follow her around. She lets herself be pet and feeds plenty, even licks on Nat's hand. Your girlfriend has the brilliant idea to let the goat lick her finger, and only by sheer luck pulls back before the goat chops it off.

She's pretty spooked, and a little sad to think that maybe Carla the Goat -the name she has given her- might've just wanted to eat. But now, the day is coming to an end and with it, comes the best part.

Finally, you go to pick some pumpkins. You have to walk a bit to get there, but when you do, you can almost feel Natalie's excitement in how she slightly shakes.

There are countless pumpkins on the ground, which come out like bright, orange suns.

You end up picking two, one for you and one for herself. She has picked a giant, bright coloured pumpkin with a dark green curly stalk. She's already thinking about the endless possibilities on what to make out of it.

You come back to your car covered in leaves and it takes a while to get them all off the window frames. When you start to drive, Natalie suddenly goes silent. You fear that something might have put her in a sour mood, but it's not like that.

Her smile is sad but comforted; like she has finally found happiness. You have no idea how glad she is to have you.

"Thank you" she found her home in you.

[quillpokebiology]

Pokemon Variants: Pumpkin

(My favorite Applin line variant!) Pumpkin refers to an Applin who hid in a Pumpkin, and its evolutions ended up resembling one.

(Not Height accurate)

Applin

Applin that go into Pumpkins. Since Applin go into the first fruit or vegetable they find, these Applins eggs usually hatch in Pumpkin patches. They're often seen as pests since multiple usually hatch at a time and steal all the Pumpkins. To prevent this, many farmers have made decoy Pumpkin patches away from the main patches I'm hopes that Appletun or Flapple will decide to lay their eggs there instead. Pumpkin Applin are slower than usual but have higher defense.

Appletun

If their pumpkin has a sweet flavor (or they are given the special item, Pumpkin Sweet), they will evolve into the Pumpkin variant of Appletun. Pumpkin Appletun were bred to look like pumpkin pie, with the shedding on their back even being edible and tasting like pumpkin pie. They're often used for parties and are symbols of autumn. In old Galar, it was tradition to feed Pumpkin Appletun fruit and sweets for Samhain celebrations. They symbolize prosperity, abundance, and protection.

Flapple

My favorite member of the line. Gives me a mythical forest vibe for some reason. Anyways, Pumpkin Applin evolve into Pumpkin Flapple by choosing a sour pumpkin for protection or eating the Sour pumpkin sweet. While Pumpkin Appletun are seen as a symbol for Autumn, Pumpkin Flapple are symbols of autumn and death. They're also seen as protectors and helping ward away evil spirits. However, they're not loved by everyone, as farmers see them as the worst pests of the line for their quickness and determine to eat their crops.

Dipplin

Applin evolve into Pumpkin Dipplin when they come across a Juicy Pumpkin, which only grow in Kitakami. They appear the most in the fall, when Pumpkins almost become as plentiful as apples in the region, and they're highly praised there for being a symbol of a good harvest. They're Syrup becomes pumpkin guts, which is thicker and more damaging but less sticky. They're often slower due to their bigger height.

//My designs can be used by anyone if you credit me! If you want, you can request other Applin variants to draw since these were very fun, and it only took around 30 minutes each.

[mandy-malady]

A List of Companies to Boycott, Part 1

The companies on this list were provided by the Halal Kiwi app (boycotting companies with ties to Israel or profiting from the genocide in Palestine) - Part 2, Cosmetics, Clothing, Media, Social Media, & Web Services || Part 3, Homeware, Retail, Petrol/Gas, Cars/Automotive, Travel, Insurance || Part 4, Cleaning & Hygiene, Tech, Medical, Other

Food

Danoe (Activia, Evian, Danimals) Link to their brands: https://www.danonenorthamerica.com/our-brands.html

Mondelez International (Cadbury, Oreo, Sour Patch Kids) Link to their brands: https://www.mondelezinternational.com/our-brands/

Mars Inc (Pedigree, Snickers, Dolmio) Link to their brands: https://www.mars.com/our-brands

Kellogg’s WK Kellogg Co (Frosted Flakes, Corn Flakes) Link to their brands: https://www.wkkellogg.com/our-foods/our-brands Kellanova (Pringles, Poptarts) Link to their brands: https://www.kellanovaus.com/us/en/our-brands.html

Nestle (Beneful, Cheerios, Kit-Kat) Link to their brands: https://www.nestle.com/brands/brandssearchlist Osem (sub brand) (Bamba Puffs) Link to their products: https://www.osem-nestleusa.com/osem-food-brands-and-snacks

PepsiCo (Pepsi, Lays) Link to their brands (click the search function to see all): https://www.pepsico.com/our-brands/creating-smiles/our-products

Yum Brands(KFC, Burger King) Link to their brands: https://www.yum.com/wps/portal/yumbrands/Yumbrands/company/our-brands

Kraft Heinz (Kool-Aid, Heinz, Lunchables) (see Mondelez International for overlap) Link to their brands: https://www.kraftheinzcompany.com/brands.htm

Dine Brands (iHop, Applebees) List of their brands: https://www.dinebrands.com/en

Bloomin Brands (Outback Steak, Bonefish Grill) Link to their brands: https://www.fairr.org/resources/companies-assessed/bloomin-brands/print

Flynn Group (Franchisee Company - see Dine Brands and Yum Brands for overlap) (Wendy’s, Pizza Hut) Link to their brands: https://flynn.com/

Brinker International (Chilis, Maggiano’s Little Italy) Link to their brands: https://www.brinker.com/welcome/brands

Darden Restaurants (Olive Garden, Bahama Breeze) Link to their brands: https://www.darden.com/

Inspire Brands (scroll down to the bottom for full list, see Dine Brands and Flynn Group for overlap) (Arby’s, Baskin Robbin’s) Link to their brands: https://inspirebrands.com/franchising/brand-power/

The J.M Smucker Company (see Inspire Brands for overlap) (Twinkies, Uncrustables, Folgers) Link to their brands: https://www.jmsmucker.com/brands-you-love

CKE Restaurant INC (Carl’s Jr, Hardee’s) Link to their subsidiaries (list is from 2010): https://www.sec.gov/Archives/edgar/data/45536/000119312510230334/dex211.htm

GoTo Foods (Cinnabon, Jamba) Link to their brands: https://www.gotofoods.com/about/our-brands/

The Hersheys Company (Jolly Rancher, Twizzlers, Reese’s) Link to their brands: https://www.hersheyland.com/brands

Barcardi Limited (Grey Goose, Bombay Sapphire, Barcadi) Link to their brands: https://www.bacardilimited.com/our-brands/portfolio/

Daily Farmers of America (Dean’s) Link to their brands: https://dfamilk.com/our-products/our-brands

The Kroger Co. (Kroger, PayLess, Ralphs) Link to their businesses (scroll to the bottom to see icons): https://www.thekrogerco.com/about-kroger/our-brand/

Other Food Companies:

Chick fil a Dominos White Castle McDonald’s Dole Food products Papa John’s Chobani yogurts Chipotle Red bull Brands of Dates Bromaja Carmel Agrexo Desert Diamond Delilah Hadiklaim Jordan Plains Jordan River King Solomon Paradise Rapunzel Red Sea Royal Treasure Shams Tamara

[kat-idk]

Lore bits: Plants!

If any of these big chunks of text gets a rewrite later, it’s most likely going to be this one- I’m just brainstorming ideas here.

Rare herbs occasionally sprout in the sands of the Isle and flowers formerly exclusive to this realm can be found at the top of the mountain (?) where the Boogie Kid’s memory is. These flowers represent an indication of departure on a journey and are used to say goodbye to friends and family if one is moving away, going to study, or otherwise will be separated from loved ones for a while.

Vibrantly colored flowers bloom all over the Prairie’s fields. Some of them contain red or orange colored light that the butterflies like to feed on.

A Section Specifically for Hidden Forest Because It’s A Forest Of Course There Would Be A Ton Of Plants There

Light blooms are not exclusive to this realm (they grow in Prairie Peaks, Treasure Reef and the Ark too) but are ubiquitous here. Pluck off just a small piece of one for use as an ingredient in potions. They can be used in Instant Recharges, Recharge Boosters and temporary rain resistance. They can be wrapped around a wound as a makeshift bandage too. Or add it to your cooking for a chewy texture.

There’s several types of herbs too that can add a bitter or sour twinge to your cooking if you so wish.

Lightberries grow here and in the Hidden Glade. They are mildly sweet and work like coffee when turned into a drink. They’re also good for fighting off mild dark plant infections.

Some herbs provide medicinal benefits as well for patching up wounds and treating sicknesses induced by the Darkness.

Due to the wide variety of herbs and the cold of the rain, there’s a big tea brewing culture. Skykids who spend most of their time here will trade tea blends with their friends and family or just give them to friends and family outside the Forest.

Valley does not have exclusive plants, because of the permanent snow.

Wasteland doesn’t have many plants, because of the high levels of Darkness in most of the soil and water. However, there are plants in Forgotten Ark and Treasure Reef- in the former, this is mainly grasses and plants that the Ark’s enchanters brought over and use for experiments to create new potion blends. Due to the limited space, most of these are in pots or on the Scarecrow Farmer’s farm- some are enhanced with colored light to be really big or glow, for example. I will neither confirm or deny if there are psychedelic plants. In Treasure Reef, there is light kelp and sea moss.

The third floor of the Vault of Knowledge is where memory trees were first discovered. The Polite Scholar feeds them with lots of light to keep them healthy. Memory trees are a type of tree that are sort of like apparitions in Spirit memories, except they are tangible and more permanent. Their leaves, bark and petals can be used in potions, spells, or as accessories. They can disappear, though. They have been found in the Vault of Knowledge, Aviary and on rare occasion the Hidden Forest.

There’s also plants that aren’t specific to any realm, like the plants that the Days of Bloom capes are based on, grass, clovers, the flowers you see in the Village Theater after its final quest, small flowers that are kind of like daisies, and a bunch of other irl plants, I just don’t know which ones exactly yet.

[amberskywrites]

Hold Out Hope

Fic Masterpost | Ao3 Link

Fandom / Genre: Stardew Valley / Fluff

Pairing: (Pre)Marlon/Marnie

Prompt: @yearoftheotpevent 2025 January Prompt

"may I have this dance"

Warnings: None! Lmk if I need to add anything ^^

Summary:

With another new year comes another Flower Dance that Marnie is to spend watching from the sidelines, truly single this time.Or so she thinks.

Marnie sighs when Arapaima asks how she’s liking this year’s Flower Dance. It doesn’t take much to exaggerate the sigh, playing up the dramatics just a bit to make it all more light-hearted, but it’s so close to how she really is feeling this year.

“Love is in the air,” she says, “and I’m still single.”

And it isn’t even a lie. At the start of the season, she officially broke up with Lewis, and for good. She can’t forget the look of almost relief from Shane, when she and him sat and spoke over some mocktails one evening after Jas was put to bed, and she had made her initial declaration. That alone quelled any doubts she had about her decision.

He smiles apologetically. “Who knows,” he signs, “maybe someone will ask you this year?”

Marnie can’t help the disbelieving laugh that escapes her. “I’m not too sure, I seem to have the worst luck when it comes to these sorts of events.” She shrugs. She did still dress up, as much as she dared with little expectation of actually dancing, the new sundress she had bought from Emily having raised her hopes a little more. But this close to the dance starting, she can’t deny that little bit of hope for a partner this year has faded away.

“Hold out hope,” Arapaima insists, and gives her arm a friendly squeeze. He’s called away by Alex, his dance partner this year, and bids her farewell for the afternoon. 

She sighs again and leans against the fence, watching as the younger crowd find their partners. Only Arapaima and Sour Patch are dancing this year, of the four farmers, Haley graciously stepping down from her usual role as Flower Queen and Doctor Harvey very happily escaping from having to dance in front of everyone again. She won’t admit aloud to being envious, just a little, at seeing the young valley residents dance each year while she can only watch from the sidelines.

It makes her long for her youth, to relive the days before life got so busy and days so tiring (much as she adored Jas and Shane, and would never regret taking them in, it was still hard).

She won’t admit it aloud, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling it.

She doesn’t notice at first, when someone approaches her, lost in watching the small band Lewis hires each year for the festival prepare to play. Not until they clear their throat, and she startles, spinning in the direction of the voice.

“Marnie,” Marlon greets in a rough but soft voice, and Marnie blinks in surprise. He doesn’t come to every festival, but she’s seen him at the Flower Dance occasionally, though never has she seen him approach anyone. He’s smiling slightly, and it softens his features further, but his face is tinged red and she wonders briefly if the sun is too much for him with all the time he must spend in the caves.

“Marlon,” she returns with a smile of her own, slightly sheepish as she continues, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come over.”

He waves off her apology. “I’m sorry for startlin’ ya. I… forget to not be quiet, sometimes,” he says. He clears his throat and glances away briefly, and when he looks at her again his cheeks flush a little darker. “Ya look lovely today, Marnie.”

Her eyes widen at the compliment, but the smile and slight warming of her own face she quite can’t stifle. “Oh, well, thank you, Marlon.” She takes him in a bit more consciously now, and she smiles less bashfully but more kind when she says, “You look quite handsome yourself.”

And he does. He’s wearing more formal clothes than she has ever seen him in, reminiscent of his usual adventuring clothing that everyone has grown used to but looking less like he was about to delve into the mines. His hair was combed just enough that it framed his face, and his mustache and beard seemed to have been trimmed recently.

“Thank ye kindly.” The music begins to play, and Marnie glances back at the couples beginning to dance. Both Arapaima and Sour Patch are doing better this year than they have any previous years, and all of them actually look much happier to be dancing than before. Marlon watches with her, though as they watch the group dance she can’t help but feel the longing to join them return.

The traditional flower dance comes to an end, and everyone around claps as the couples ease out of their final poses. The band waits for the applause to die down before beginning the next song, and some couples extract themselves from the group while the others stay to continue the festivities.

Marlon clears his throat again and when Marnie returns her gaze back to him, she’s met with an outstretched hand, the other tucked behind his back. “Marnie, may I- have this dance?”

She blinks and knows for certain that her cheeks are almost as red as her barn, now. “You… you want to dance with me?”

“I would be honored to dance with you,” he swears, more confident now. Her heart skips a beat at the declaration.

Marnie beams at Marlon. “Then I would love to dance,” she says as she takes his hand. He grins, wider than she has ever seen him smile before, and leads her out into the grass.

The music is still rather traditional, but not as formal as the first dance of the afternoon always is, faster and upbeat in comparison. 

Marlon’s not the greatest dancer, Marnie learns, but he twirls her in time with the music well enough and each time she can’t help but giggle. She doesn’t pay close attention to the other dancers, focusing instead on getting used to how Marlon dances and leads and falling more easily into step with him. And when the first song ends, and the second one starts right after, she doesn’t hesitate to pull him into it.

-

When the music finally stops and everyone begins to trickle out of the clearing, she walks back to her ranch with Shane carrying a tuckered-out Jas, still smiling and with plans for a Friday night dinner.

[ryp3004]

Ryanne Hunt

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Ryanne's Family

Rebecca, her mother

Michael, her father

Adam and Lucille, her grandparents

Meeting Thomas

The family that gossips together...

Birthday

Oscar's from Ryanne's pov

a glimpse into the Hollywood u teachers lounge

she's just a BABY!!

Ryanne's future children

Voice claims!

Ryanne Fan Art

Trick or Treat Gift! ( Done by the GORGEOUS highschoolstoryliveson!!!)

GUESS W/ RHYS (done by the WONDERFUL aliendxde!!!!!)

Hanging out with OLYMPIAAAA (DONE BY THE FABULOUS cupofst4rs!!!!!!!!)

watermelon sour patch kids (THIS TIME FEATURING THE DARLING ih8harley!!!!!)

THE ROR BROTHERS (by the LOVELY cupofst4rs)

movie doodle (done by my pookie bear aliendxde 🥹)

This friend group that has yet to be named (done by the MARVELOUS triciabeloved!!!!!!)

band aids (done by the EFFERVESCENT hssprimefan!!)

Mario Bros (done by the MIRACULOUS aliendxde!!!!!!)

Mean Girls Christmas (done by the SUBLIME cupofst4rs)

Secret Santa Gift (by the STUNNING peonyblossom!!!)

Ryanne Pegasus (by the DARLING aliendxde!!!!!)

Pixel inc fan art! (Done by the MAGNETIC abyssboo!!!!)

My Ryanne Art

Pumpkin 🥺

She definitely does NOT have a type

The Hat Man 🤨

She hates that boy

Ryanne "Glock" Hunt

The ties that bind us

yeah...

Halloween w/ Blair!

Halloween pfp

Wes and Ryanne

this is titled 'the r brothers' in my computer files

the r brothers TWO

who is she?

farmers market w/ autumn 🍁

OLYMPIAAAAAAAAA

she WILL find him

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 4

beta Ryanne

4 people on a motorcycle

the r brothers STRIKE AGAIN

Ryanne Reference TWO!!!!

it's the journey, not the destination

A New Start

PIXEL INC ARREST

Uzumaki

Tomie

Character Inspo

Ryanne Mii

Get Saw Trapped

GYARU RYANNE

Hype girl ryanne

Walking in water

She a lil confused but she's got the spirit

Moo Cow Appreciation

Ryanne's Birthday!!!

Franken-ryanne

Weanne

Baby Ryanne

Ryanne Writing

Ask game! 🐄

The sillies 🥹

The future

okay she doesn't hate that boy ALL the time

Nvm she wants him DEAD

Max and Kara

oops! a little trauma slipped out!

heart to heart

Wes and Ryanne ask

insecurity

thinking about dynamics...

Vidya games

snoopy

Ryanne's car ask

Friendship ask

THE R BROS PLAYLIST

Post high school Ryanne ask

Instrument ask!

Face claim frustration

Another ask game 😝

[simplegenius042]

FC5 Silva Omar Aesthetics

Bold - YES

Italics - Somewhat

HOLLAND VALLEY.

red, gold, and orange leaves against a clear blue sky // rows of apple trees in an orchard // pick your own pumpkin patches // baskets of puppies // a sleeping fawn hidden away from predators // pumpkin spice // the bite of apple cider // a harvest festival // the faint smell of a bonfire on the wind // the slight unease of getting lost in a corn maze // a hint of fall in the air when it’s still warm // golden sunsets // leaves just beginning to turn from green to orange // the rumble of a tractor // the buzz of an airplane flying low overhead // golden wheat swaying in the wind // the smell of gasoline // sprawling river deltas // crystal clear water // an old wooden dresser // family heirlooms // jingling keys // crimson blood // dark ink on parchment // the sting of a bruise // the warmth of a grand fireplace // gunmetal // work boots in the mud // cattails // the harsh cry of crows // the faint musty smell of taxidermy animals // farm animals making a racket // open air farmers markets // catching your clothes on a barbed wire fence // a fresh breeze through an open window // white rocking chairs // old farmhouses // scarecrows // wild westerly winds // the barely contained excitement for the approach of autumn

WHITETAIL MOUNTAINS.

fishing at dawn // the smell of woodsmoke clinging to your clothes and hair // wolfsong // locking eyes with another predator // a night that falls faster than expected // the crisp hint of snow in the air // log cabins // the scent of evergreen trees // stone fireplaces // a well worn camouflage jacket // old field guide books// the smell of a cigarette still lingering on your hands // lager // the roar of whitewater rapids // cool dark caves // the rough wood of an antique gun // the scent of iron // woodland paths crisscrossed by gnarled tree roots // a haze of dust from a recent rockslide // losing your breath as you wade into an icy river // winding mountain roads // an eagle’s cry // the bright red flash of a foxes tail at the corner of your eye // the patter of rain on dead leaves // petrichor // seeing your breath in the cold morning air // the click of a projector // the jangling of a chain link fence // gunpowder // the sizzling of a grill // burnt hair // the grand lobby of a lodge // gravel crunching underfoot // the cry of blue jays // information boards // brochures piled on a table // cold metal bars // the sour smell of a lumber mill // the rough texture of scouting achievement badges // muffled oldies music from another room // sharpening a hunting knife // blood red leaves blooming from bone white birch trees // red bleeding into the edges of your vision

HENBANE RIVER.

cloying floral scents // the thick mist that gathers near the ground at dawn // dewdrops sparkling on spiderwebs // the almost too intense morning sun // unseasonable warmth // birdsong // honeyed wine // walking barefoot in the cool grass // the clanging of a jail cell door // spying hazy figures of animals in the fog // lemon balm and lavender // the low growl of a wildcat that you can’t see (but it sees you) // choking clouds of pollen settling on cars like snow // vineyards // faint humming and singing from an unidentifiable source // juniper berries // feeling uncomfortably hot in overly formal clothes // lace // burning incense // frogs in the reeds // soft brunette tresses // long winding rivers // mesmerizing music // glistening trout // the sweet nectar of honeysuckle flowers // rumbling of truck motors // glass beakers // bundles of dried flowers // wind chimes tinkling // rough concrete bricks // tumbling barrels // the ringing of a vintage phone // sweet words // broken promises // moonflower and datura // the smell of freshly cut grass // the faint sound of children laughing

JOSEPH’S COMPOUND.

babbling brooks // humming // whistling // dogs barking // grand oak trees // the faint sound of hymns // a crate of ripe peaches // melted wax candles // the smell of fresh newspaper clippings // caged birds singing // a warm embrace // wrought iron arches // flames reaching for the sky // gentle voices murmuring // your feet sliding in thick mud // pouring rain // vape smoke // the slight scent of sweat // ink on skin // the smell of wooden church pews // the rustle of hymnals // old book smell // slight hint of ozone from old electronics // bradford pear petals floating on the breeze

DUTCH’S ISLAND.

creaking metal hinges // the crackle of a radio // the scratch of an old record player // the smell of antiseptic // the flickering light of a projector // the feel of pushing pins into cork board // echoing footsteps // shelves stacked with canned food and mason jars // dark shadowy figures on the edge of your vision // gleaming metal badges // a table of bullet shell casings // vertigo from standing on swaying radio towers // the sound of shattering glass // whistling pipes // suffocating heat // the chatter of squirrels // faint scent of mothballs// the sputter of a boat engine // the high electronic whine of an old television turning on // the sound of distant gunfire // tear stained letters // old family photographs // the smell of a mildewy basement

[tss-grimmverse]

Chapter 2: Coltsfoot

before you came what was your name? did you look like me? no one’s from here no one, my dear not even the trees

“Roman, wait.” Logan also stood, grabbing his arm.

“You heard Tourmaline. Wren and Wrassey are in there,” Roman pulled away and gestured at the ring. “We have to find them and figure out what this rogue Court Fae is up to.”

He half-hid his sword behind his back and started a casual saunter toward the mushroom ring. Several muttered Faery swear words later, Logan’s near-silent footfalls followed him.

“Look, Virgil would never forgive me if I let something happen to his little pixie friends,” Roman pointed out. “So don’t try to stop me.”

I need this hunt, he added silently. Please don’t interfere like you always fucking do.

“Virgil will never forgive either of us if your rashness gets you killed,” Logan shot back.

“Well, neither would Patton, if you died.” Roman shot Logan a side-eye. “Where is your fiancé, by the way? Normally you two are joined at the hip.”

If Roman hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the tightening of Logan’s mouth. He definitely noticed the way Logan ignored the question by pushing in front and stepping across the mushroom ring, entering the pocket of liminal space between Earth and the Hedge. Roman pulled up short.

The familiar trees seemed thicker and wilder from inside, crowding the sidewalks, completely hiding the road from view. The mushroom circle was wider on this side, taking up an entire patch of overgrown park, where the ground had been torn up in a dozen places. A wooden wagon with tall, slatted sides, like the kind a child might play with, sat in the exact center of the ring.

They ducked behind a fat trunk.

“Why the holes?” Logan murmured.

“Nicotine addicted squirrels? The Court Fae brought a dog? I dunno,” Roman muttered back. “Where’s our friendly neighborhood mushroom farmer, I wonder?”

“My clan!” Tourmaline wailed in her tiny voice, shooting off Logan’s shoulder and pointing at the wagon. Her red hair and drooping wings glimmered. “My sisters!”

Roman looked again and his heart dropped. Tiny black cages filled the wagon bed, and now he saw that each one held a pixie. Some fluttered madly to keep from touching the metal; others crouched in obvious pain.

“Iron cages,” Logan practically growled. “That is unspeakably cruel.”

“I think I see Wren and Wrassey,” Roman said, feeling sick. He’d spotted a pair of green skinned, black-haired pixies who’d been shoved in a cage together.

They edged closer. Everything in Roman screamed at him to grab that wagon and get those poor pixies as far away from this park as possible, but his Smile instincts held him back. Any Court faery who’d subject pixies to naked iron would likely do worse to intruders. 

Logan gestured grimly at the grass, which sparkled. “Pixie blood is over ninety percent water.” His voice was icy. “Unlike ours, it is almost clear in color.”

Roman inhaled. “‘Death in the water.’” He spotted a few tiny bodies lying in the grass around the wagon; clearly, some of Tourmaline’s clan had put up a fight. “We gotta get the survivors out of those cages.”

He adjusted his sword, luck dragging across his senses—a curtain of hot beads—as he grasped for a new outcome. Everyone escapes, nobody else dies. Logan showing up had distracted him; now he leaned, hard, but careful not to break through the metaphorical curtain. Doing that always turned his luck dangerously sour.

“Agreed.” Logan laid a hand on Roman’s arm. “But as you asked before, where is the perpetrator of this cruelty? It seems unlikely that they have conveniently stepped out.” He narrowed his gray eyes at Roman. “Unless that is exactly what they have done.”

“My whole thing is taking advantage of conveniences, Specs.” Roman stood up. “I got this.”

“I will keep watch,” Logan said.

The trapped pixies shouted and pointed as Roman knelt beside the wagon, his senses on high alert. Some seemed relatively unharmed, still having energy to glow; these kept talking in such frantic Faery that Roman couldn’t begin to understand. Most, however, bore signs of…well, Roman couldn’t think of a word besides torture. Bent wings, broken limbs, burns and bruises. Many couldn’t fly and were forced to stand or huddle, whimpering, against the cages, despite how it burned their skin. Tourmaline fluttered among them, clasping tiny hands through the bars, murmuring encouragement in soft Faery.

Who the hell would do this to solitaries? Fury rose in Roman’s chest. Solitary Fae could be mercurial, primative, and dangerous, but there was a reason Smile hunted primarily Court bastards. Those could rise to unspeakable levels of depraved.

He stabbed his sword into the grass and grabbed Wren and Wrassey’s cage, wincing at the burn. They huddled together on the tails of their dresses, shaking, but Wrassey lifted her head at his voice.

“Roman?” She stumbled and yelped as her bare skin touched the metal.

“No, don’t try to move. I’m gonna get you out.” Roman studied their cage, heart sinking when he spotted a keyhole. Faery magic won’t stick to iron, so of course it’s a manual lock. But…

“These bars are thin and sloppily welded,” he murmured to the pixies, who stared at him with wide eyes. “I may be able to rip the tops off.”

“Please,” Wren murmured.

“Before he comes back,” Wrassey added.

“Brace yourselves.” Roman fought the stinging burn to get a good grip on the top and bottom. He pulled, and the top tore free. The sisters zoomed out; Wren planting grateful kisses on Roman’s cheek and hugging Tourmaline, while Wrassey flew high, scanning the park.

“Can you break past the mushroom ring from the inside?” Roman asked.

“Yes,” Tourmaline answered, her wings buzzing. “I will oversee our escape if you free the others.” She touched his arm. “We will not forget your aid, Roman Princey.”

“It is still hidden,” Wrassey announced, dropping back down. “He has not discovered it.”

A collective sigh of relief whispered among the trapped pixies.

“What’s still hidden?” Roman picked up another cage and ripped it apart, freeing its occupant. “Who did this to you?”

He tore open more cages as Wrassey alighted on his shoulder, talking so fast he had to concentrate to understand her.

“We of Painter Clan are custodians of an artifact, gifted to us long ago by an Earthside Court. A Sidhe claiming to be the rightful owner came onto our lands three nights ago, demanding it. Some of us resisted, but…” Her tiny voice trailed off. Wren swooped close and kissed her cheek before continuing to help Tourmaline carry the newly freed pixies to safety beyond the mushroom circle.

“The terms were clear. It was never to be given back, no matter who asked,” Wrassey went on. Her small face crunched into a glower. “We have been giving him false places to look.”

“The holes,” Roman commented.

“Mmm. He grows impatient. He knows we deceive him.”

“So, he captures a bunch of you to torture, hoping one of you would break.” The revelation that a Sidhe did this made Roman nervous. Sidhe were among the highest order of Court Fae; beautiful, strong, skilled at warfare, and deadly.

He worked faster, hands burning with iron scorch. Half of the pixies freed. The unnatural silence of the park grated on his ears.

Three-quarters.

With luck—he exhaled carefully, letting the glass bead sensation pass without parting—he could save Tourmaline’s entire clan before the mysterious Sidhe returned.

“Painter Clan is strong. We do not break,” Wrassey snapped, but her wings drooped. “The Sidhe who did this carries greed behind his eyes. I do not think he meant to free us once he had what he wanted. Another reason he must not possess the artifact.”

Roman was just breaking the last cage, surrendering its inhabitant into Tourmaline’s capable hands, when a voice thundered across the park.

“You have misled me for the last time, vermin!”

Roman dropped the cage pieces and ducked behind the wagon, which only barely hid him, as a figure burst from a nearby clump of bushes.

The Sidhe stood willow tall and willow thin, his lily-white skin practically glowing against the dark trees. Narrow pointed ears swept back from his head, drawing the eye to a crown of red hibiscus nestled in his long, fiery orange hair. Orange also framed his night-black eyes; Roman couldn’t tell if it was makeup or his own natural coloring. He wore blood red leggings, black boots, a woven tunic of clashing oranges, and a matching cravat, creating a look that landed, in Roman’s opinion, somewhere between “colorblind Renn Faire enthusiast” and “gay hairdresser on Halloween”.

“I will have the mirror’s location,” the Sidhe bellowed, marching toward the wagon with that eerie gliding grace only Fae possessed. “Or I will begin slaughtering you one by one…what is this?”

He stopped, staring at the pile of broken, empty cages and—Roman could have kicked himself—Roman’s red-hilted katana, still stuck in the ground exactly where he’d planted it. The faery’s orange-rimmed eyes went wide with fury.

“I could ask the same thing,” another voice called from the tree line, making the Sidhe whirl. Logan stepped out, arms folded behind his back.

“Who are you, Summerling, and what are you doing in my park?” Logan asked in crisp Faery, puffing out his chest.

Summerling. Roman inhaled. “Summer in the air. Death in the water. Watch your words.” He’s a Summer Court Fae.

“Your park, Winter? Yours?” the Sidhe echoed, disdain dripping from each syllable.

Ice gathered and broke at Logan’s feet in nervous waves. His glasses caught the ambient light, obscuring his eyes, and for a moment, Roman’s brain flashed back to Sir’s multi-lens glasses, which he always parked on his face just before bringing out the scalpels—

He drew a sharp breath. Arcadian gods, he could not afford to have a flashback right now.

“What is he doing?” Roman grumbled to himself as he watched the half-faery, still keeping low, but the answer was obvious. Logan was distracting the Sidhe so that Roman could get away. But how did Logan plan on extracting himself?

Dammit, it’s not like Sherlock to blunder blindly into danger.

“Roman.” Wrassey tugged hard on Roman’s earlobe, making him wince. “You must take the mirror away from Painter’s Pond.”

“Shh!” He hissed back, eying the nearest tree trunk. “We have to go and somehow get L—er, Bear out of here.”

The Sidhe glided a few steps toward Logan, who stood his ground.

“You must take it! Even without our cooperation, it is only a matter of time before he finds it.” Wrassey yanked on his ear again. “Please.”

Roman ground his teeth. This could be their only opportunity to escape unseen…but saving the clan’s artifact was clearly important to Wrassey, and dammit, she was Virgil’s favorite.

“Where is it?” he asked softly.

The Sidhe had his back to the wagon now; maybe they had a chance.

“In the wall.” Wrassey pushed his face to the right and pointed. “Behind the stone carved with a pixie.”

Right in the Sidhe’s line of sight, because of course it was, but maybe the wall would hide him if he stayed low enough. Logan argued with the stranger now, moving his hands like Patton did when he got excited, keeping the faery’s attention on himself.

Roman crept around the wagon, extracting his sword as he went. For half a second, he considered rushing the Sidhe and running him through. The only safe Sidhe was a dead one, or so went the Smile saying, and this one had already tortured and killed innocents. But Roman remembered his ill-fated bout on the Athens lawn with Deceit, who had not been a Sidhe, and who’d almost killed Roman anyway.

I will not be as rash as everyone thinks I am, he thought, sheathing the blade and creeping toward the wall.

Logan’s eyes widened as he caught sight of Roman, and without even breaking his flow of words, he began circling the Sidhe, forcing him to turn away from the wall. The Sidhe crossed his arms and seemed, for the moment, content to let Logan ramble.

He’s probably reciting the entire history of DeLand, Roman mused, ducking behind the wall and looking for Wrassey’s stone. She buzzed her wings, giving light to see, and he finally spotted a crude drawing of a winged figure scratched onto one of the lower stones.

“It is hollow behind,” Wrassey said. “The facade should come away easily.”

“You are no lord,” the Sidhe said scathingly as Roman dug his nails into the edges, tugging. Moveable or not, age had wedged the facade in hard, and he had no tools. He didn’t dare look up to see how Logan was doing.

“You’re not even a full-blooded Fae, are you?” The Sidhe laughed, his voice like fire snapping over dry logs. “A talkative half breed claiming territory. I have now seen it all.”

The faery’s shift from Faery to near-perfect English sent a chill down Roman’s spine. In desperation, he stuck his sword blade into the wall and used it as a lever. But the angle was all wrong, the blade too long to be effective. He paused, panting.

“You must break the facade,” Wrassey whispered.

“He’ll hear me!” Roman hissed back.

“It is the only way.”

“I will have you know—” Logan said after a shocked moment.

“Oh, stop. The game is up. Where did you hear about the mirror, hmm? The Wild Hunt? Some pathetic solitary network?” The Sidhe paused.

“Mirror?” Logan echoed.

“Did you really think you’d find it before I did? Did you honestly believe—”

Roman aimed a kick at the stone, which cracked but didn’t crumble. He cringed when the faery cut off mid rant, but he didn’t dare stop now. Three kicks later, the facade collapsed. He dug out the pieces, plunged a hand into the dark hole, and closed fingers around a flat, circular object. Wrassey alighted next to the hole, wings fluttering eagerly.

“That’s it,” she chimed. “Quickly, now—”

She shouted in surprise as a slim, hot hand clamped onto Roman’s shoulder.

Coltsfoot: justice shall be done

[aedarisfarm]

Meet the Farmers!

Meet Kali, Aster, and Sour Patch!

Kali is a quiet extrovert, easily befriending the townsfolk but preferring to spend time adventuring in the mines. Kali uses she/her pronouns, is aroace, and eventually has Krobus as a roommate.

Aster is quite loud, but very much an introvert, preferring to spend time fishing alone and having to be dragged to social events. Aster uses they/them pronouns, is panromantic asexual, and eventually marries Elliott, who they fall for hard.

Sour Patch is a social butterfly passionate about learning and hoards everything. Sour Patch uses any and all pronouns, or even no pronouns, is aromantic (and romance repulsed) and doesn't put a label on his sexuality beyond "allosexual" and "non-monogamous".

There might be more farmers to come ^^

[kindheart525]

“I already told you, AJ, he’s just fine.”

Limestone Pie was as stubborn as ever in resisting her wife’s attempt to reason with her, unsurprisingly.

“He’s just going through a rebellious stage. Acting out because he misses his grandpa, maybe. But he should know if he really wants to feel better he should be doing his part instead of disrespecting his memory.”

She clenched her teeth.

“Or he just really wants to push my buttons.”

Applejack listened to her go on defending her attitude, almost reminded of a similar period of staunch stubbornness she had gone through just after her folks died. Except Limestone was a grown mare with a family counting on her even more—especially their youngest son, Mountain Peak

“Now where did ya find him the last time he was supposedly actin’ out like this?”

“He was in the Crying Cave, AJ! Wasting precious work time!”

“The Cryin’ Cave, huh? So that’s what it’s called?”

AJ’s eyebrows shot up in bemusement.

“What were you doin’ there on a work day?”

“Looking for my son, why else would I be there? And that’s what Pinkie calls it, to me it’s a regular crystal cave.”

Lime insisted to save face, but it was obvious to AJ that she wasn’t telling the full truth by a long shot.

Are ya sure you’re not actin’ out ‘cause you miss yer Pa?

The apple farmer wanted to prod, but she decided not to instigate her frustrated wife further.

“And speaking of precious work time—“

Limestone changed the subject.

“I’ve got too much to do to be running errands with you right now. Where are we going?”

“You can go one day without workin’ yer flank off.”

Limestone was stubborn, but Applejack was stubborn right back.

“Gaia knows I could be gettin’ a lot done down at Sweet Apple Acres right now. But I got an appointment with the mayor, and our lil’ colt to look out for, so I’m doin’ both of those instead.”

The rock farmer wanted to protest, but her wife was already leading her through the doors of Ponyville Town Hall and she had to be civil. She fell a few steps back begrudgingly, letting AJ tend to her business so they could both leave.

“Applejack! I’m so glad you could make it!”

The mayor of Ponyville came out quickly to greet the couple. But when she saw Limestone, her jaw dropped a little.

“Oh dear, little Sour Patch, you look—excuse me.”

She coughed, re-assuming her political air of civility.

“I’m glad you could make it too, Limestone! Two of Ponyville’s most highly successful farmers, it’s a pleasure to have you both!”

“Howdy to you too, Miss Mayor!”

AJ leaned back to whisper to her wife.

“Does she know you?”

Limestone’s stony attitude had dropped a little around the older mare as she uttered out,

“Hi, Aunt Morganite…I mean, Mayor Mare.”

She seemed almost embarrassed at herself for acting this way, but Mayor Mare—or Morganite—quickly dropped her professional attitude again, a wide, giddy grin spreading across her face.

“I’m so sorry about that, but I just couldn’t help myself! I can’t believe how much you look like your father!”

As this scene unfolded, Applejack only stood in shock. She was used to having family all over the place but she didn’t know about this relation on her wife’s side, one that was so close yet had never been discussed until now.

“Land sakes, Lime! The Mayor’s yer auntie?”

“Yeah. On Pa’s side.”

The mare tried to be nonchalant about it, but Mayor Morganite was anything but.

“Goodness, I’ve hardly seen you since…well, before the funeral. I had a very important meeting that day, I really wish I could have made it. I’m pretty sure I still had a few pink hairs the last time I saw your father himself, but now none of this is dye!”

She brushed over the mention of her Igneous’ death with a joke, to keep the reunion light and not mournful. But it was clear she did sincerely regret missing the funeral, and her brother’s final days, all due to work. She was like her niece in that regard, a devoted worker.

But some commitments she couldn’t help. Limestone had every ability to take more days off for family than she did. 

“It’s a shame I haven’t been able to see you girls more, it’s a busy life as a public servant. There’s just so much to catch up on! Do you still make those rock candy necklaces? Pinkie gave me one at a party, I’d say—gosh, a long time ago. But it was just as scrumptious as when Mother made them!”

“Well, we’d never forget a Pie family recipe.”

Limestone engaged briefly, not wanting to tell her that she actually didn’t remember the last time she had made rock candy without Pinkie forcing her to. 

“I’m sure Grandpa worked very hard to teach it to Granny, it’s quite a process.”

“Oh, I’d say she worked harder to teach it to him!”

Morganite chuckled.

Applejack blinked in surprise, looking between the aunt and niece.

“I beg yer pardon?”

“You know, her name was Sweetie Pie even before she was married. It was Feldspar Granite that joined in on the Pie family traditions later on. The rock farm was all his, but the Pies wouldn’t be the Pies without her!”

“Well pluck me good like a spring chicken, you didn’t tell me that!”

AJ playfully scolded her wife, but Limestone didn’t say anything.

“I reckon you didn’t know either, did ya?”

“It just never came up.”

She brushed her off.

“Some things didn’t need to.”

“Oh, I wish they did. Igneous was a quiet one but he sure could be inventive when he wanted to be! The kind we need more of in our decision-making arenas.”

Morganite joked to herself.

“I remember him telling me all about the little inventions he wanted to build for Father’s farm. I don’t think he ever did do any of that, but it was fun to think about. You were always a little firecracker, I’m sure you’re coming up with all kinds of new ideas for the farm now, that he would’ve liked. Aren’t you, Sour Patch?”

A deep sense of shame settled into Limestone as she struggled for a way to answer her aunt’s question. It was Mounty who was the inventive one of the family; she was tough, but she didn’t have much of an imagination. But she hadn’t encouraged his inventions at all, in fact she had shot every single one of them down. 

He was taking time away from work, she couldn’t tolerate such fooling around! That’s what she had believed anyway…now she was less convinced.

“The farm’s running as it should.”

She gave a vague, curt answer, even as AJ eyed her suspiciously. Even as a flicker of doubt sparked within her own heart. 

Was her father really as inventive as Aunt Morganite remembered? She wasn’t even around that much, so little that not even Pinkie called her aunt in public. Maybe her memory was just soaked in nostalgia, or maybe she was onto something…Limestone wanted to know more.

Her wife seemed to be reading her mind as she spoke up.

“What other lil’ seedlings of info do ya have on them Pies? You’ve got me mighty curious now.”

Morganite brightened up even more as she started to urge both mares to follow her.

“This calls for a visit to the archives!~”

Now it was Limestone’s turn to start learning about her family legacy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Previous: Cement Horseshoes Next: High Quality Crystal

Background by sigmavirus1

[jadegem20]

Ængus the Prize-Winning Hog

Through the rolling hills and down a steep incline layed a shallow cranberry bog that sparkled in the sunlight. It was filled with thousands of deep red, swollenly ripe berries. The bog had just been flooded and the water was crisp and fresh on that cool October morning.

Wading beside the raking farmers, and gobbling as many sour berries as he could, was Ængus. He was a small pink pig covered in sparse white hairs. He loved this time of year when the leaves turn and the air smells like apple cider.

He would always find himself swimming through the cranberry bogs in the morning to lazily catch his breakfast. Then he would waddle up to the sprawling fields of sweet corn for lunch. Lastly, he would always end his day with a trip to the local pumpkin patch so he could snack on the gourds while the children rubbed his belly.

On this day, though, as he took his morning dip, Ængus heard the farmers talking about the state fair that was just two towns away. They talked about the many dishes of sweet and savory foods that were being judged. They talked about the rides and games that made people laugh and scream with excitement. Most compelling of all, at least to Ængus, was the talk of the shiny blue ribbons the judges give out to contest winners.

Ængus could just imagine standing still and tall as a ribbon was draped around his neck and the whole crowd cheered. He just had to have a ribbon.

So, that fateful morning, Ængus finished his breakfast, dried off on the shore, and started walking to the state fair. He traveled through the red, yellow, and orange countryside admiring the cool fall breeze and the crunch of the leaves beneath his hooves. After about three hours and a ride from a farmer, a trucker, and even a cyclist, Ængus had made it to the state fair.

The old farmers had not done the fair justice in Ængus’s opinion. Music from a band filled the air and complemented the sweet smell of food and fall. Ængus watched as a young girl smacked on a candy apple and an older boy tasted each of the pies that were out for judging. Toddlers were bobbing for apples while their parents enjoyed warm cider. Everywhere he looked there were red, yellow, and orange decorations.

Soon he came across a small stage with a big banner. “Vote For the Prize Winning Hog!” This is what he had come for. He studied the other pigs that had gathered around the stage and thought they were quite lacking. None were quite as pink as he was. None were quite as plump. He would be the best pig and win the blue ribbon!

As the farmer started showing each of the swine, a small crowd gathered and watched. They didn’t watch too closely, some were distracted by their cider or candied apples, others found the hogs boring and just decided to find something more interesting to do. But when Ængus waddled onto the stage, something changed.

The crowd watched and admired just how perfect a specimen Ængus really was. From the powdery pink of his skin to the perfect spiral of his tail, he really was the best pig. As he stood on the stage the crowd grew larger and larger. After just two minutes, most of the fair had come to gawk at him.

Ængus did not mind. He quite liked the attention. He held his chin high and even spun around a few times so everyone had a chance to glimpse at his body. He decided to strike a pose by turning sideways and sticking one leg forward and one leg back. The people swooned at the swine. Ængus smiled, the crowd loved him. He pranced around the stage and twirled a few times.

The cheers grew louder with every step he took, “Ængus the prize winning hog!”

He hopped a few times and danced his way across a piano that was nearby. The cheers swelled in his chest, “Ængus the prize winning hog!”

He continued his tune on the piano and a few people also took up instruments and joined in. Soon he was oinking along to the music as the crowd danced and cheered, “Almightier than God! Ængus the prize winning hog!”

Somewhere along in the haze of bodies and shouts, the blue ribbon was slipped around Ængus’s neck. It hung low and heavy with the weight of a thousand hungry stares and a thousand more desperate wants. Yet, he danced with the crowd, played his tune, and listened as the crow chanted along:

“Ængus is the leader Ængus is the brother Ængus is the father Ængus is the Savior Ængus is the answer Always and forever Ængus will protect you Follow him forever Ængus for Governor! Ængus for President! Ængus for Chancellor! Ængus for Everything!”

The party lasted day in and day out, sun up to sun down, sun down to sun up, day after day after day, until the weather cooled enough to see the breath of your closest neighbor. Even still, the crowd wanted to dance, sing, and celebrate. But not everyone in that crowd was pleased.

As the first snowflakes of the season brushed the delicate white hair on the rump of that prize winning hog, a tall muscular man climbed onto the stage. He stood steady in heavy leather boots and wore a stark white apron outfitted with a utility belt of sharp knives. Ængus felt unease filling his stomach as he looked over the man. He watched as the man smiled at him. A mouth full of glistening pointy teeth. Ængus swore he could feel the greedy hunger in the man’s gaze.

He aimed his barbed smile at the quiet crowd, “Aren’t you people forgetting an important tradition?”

The wind picked up murmurs from the people as they wondered who the man was and why he stopped the party. The man paced in a small circle, seemingly unaware the crowd was whispering about him.. He pulled a long sharp knife from his belt and slowly raised it to point at the pig. “The winning hog is feasted upon on the last night of the fair,” The Butcher rested his hungry eyes on the perfect swine, “And that night, is tonight.”

The chill in the air had nothing to do with the goosebumps that crawled their way across Ængus’s flesh. He looked over at the murmuring crowd and imagined their gaunt faces from the long days of dancing. He imagined the gnawing hunger squeezing their stomachs and the thrill of their mouths watering as they anticipated fresh meat.

Amidst all of the murmuring, hunger, and watering mouths, Ængus saw the golden blonde locks of an angel float up above the crowd and make a proclamation, “What if we changed the tradition?” There was a small buzz of agreement flowing through the people. “Are you suggesting we let this impeccable pig go to waste?” The Butcher looked over at Ængus and his tongue snaked around his dry lips, the hunger clear on his face.

Another angel called out, closer to the front this time, and draped in white, “That's just an old wive’s tale!” The hum of agreement was louder this time.

With a fabricated hand over his heart The Butcher feigned a deep aversion to the idea, “Even the notion of breaking tradition is a slap to the face of history and could curse the town with a bad harvest.” In the glow of the warm decorative lights, Ængus watched as a final angel made a stand, “I think The Butcher is just out for blood.” The hum of agreement grew into a roar of animosity as the crowd sized up The Butcher.

“Don’t you see I am one of you,” The Butcher said, anger and fear mixing on his face, “I am doing this for the people, he is just a hog.” The people didn't listen to the pleading butcher, instead they looked over at Ængus. There was fury in their eyes, but also something else. A question. They were looking for him to give permission. They wanted Ængus to approve. They wanted him to lead. The sudden realization hit Ængus like a truck: he had come for fame, but he had received power too. With a small curt nod, he watched with his jaw hanging open as the crowd moved as one.

“Run Mr. Butcherman!” the first angel taunted with a sickening laugh. Others joined in on the teasing as the mass of people descended on The Butcher.

The Butcher saw that he had lost and decided to run. He ran through the fair with its sweet smells, candied apples, and cider. He ran through the red, yellow, and orange decorations. He ran right through the forest and left a trail of sticky red blood as the leafless branches clawed into his chest.

For the first time in his life as a prey, Ængus felt the blood of a predator pounding through his veins. He hunted right along with the humans, calling, tormenting, and pursuing The Butcher until late in the bitter unforgiving night. Finally, when the fun of the chase had worn through their cold bones, they captured the butcher and celebrated with a feast, but it wasn’t Ængus that roasted over the triumphal fire.

With full stomachs and the burning warmth of the fire filling the air, the people sang out:

“Ængus is the leader Ængus is the brother Ængus is the father Ængus is the Savior Ængus is the answer Always and forever Ængus will protect you Worship him forever!”

Ængus let the celebration wash over him. The people served him full plates of roasted meat and treats scavenged from what was left of the fair. He imagined the people chanting his name and indulging his every want until the day he took his last breath. Comforted by the thought he slowly fell asleep, dreaming of that sour cranberry bog, barely noticing the biting cold of a long hard winter setting in around him.

*****

This story was inspired by the song "Ængus the Prize-Winning Hog" by The Toxhards. Great music. I thought it would be fun to write their song into a short story.

[farzanatradingcompany]

Plum's Juicy Secret to Freshness: A Taste of Perfection  

Plums, with their radiant colours and irresistible sweet and acidic flavours, are a monument to summer's bounty. These luscious stone fruits have won the hearts and taste buds of people all around the world, becoming a favourite addition to our fruit bowls and desserts. In this blog, Farzana Fruits & vegetables Exporter in UAE delves into the seductive freshness of plums, discovering what makes them such a delicious and delectable choice for people looking for the perfect taste. 

Taking in the Freshness: 

 The freshness of plums shines through in a variety of culinary creations: 

 Fresh Snacking:  

Eat plums on their own as a healthy and simple snack. For a delightful treat, slice or bite into their juicy flesh. 

 Sweets:  

Use plums in a variety of sweets, ranging from tarts and pies to cobblers and crisps. They are a pleasant addition due to their natural sweetness and juiciness. 

 Salsas and Chutneys:  

Use plums to make sour and sweet salsas or chutneys that go well with grilled meats or as a topping for sandwiches and burgers. 

 Preserves and Jams:  

Homemade preserves and jams capture the freshness of plums, preserving their best flavour for later enjoyment. 

The Factor of Freshness:Plums' enticing flavour is enhanced by their freshness. There are various visual and tactile factors to consider while purchasing plums at the grocery store or farmer's market: 

Color: Look for plums that are bright and uniform in colour. While the exact colour varies depending on the plum variety, avoid any with bruising, wrinkling, or excessively green patches. 

 Firmness: Press your thumb gently against the fruit. A ripe plum should give slightly without becoming mushy. It should be solid but malleable in texture. 

 Aroma:Fresh plums have a sweet and fragrant fragrance. Inhale their aroma for a moment to get a sense of their maturity and freshness. 

 Weight: Fresh plums should be weighty for their size, indicating that they are ripe. 

Finally, the freshness of plums attests to their natural beauty and flavour. Their vivid appearance, sturdy yet yielding texture, and sweet aroma are a sensory delight. Plums are a reminder that nature's bounty can add a touch of perfection to your plate, whether you eat them fresh or utilise them in culinary creations. Savour the essence of summer and the artistry of freshness that greets your taste receptors as you bite into the juicy, sun-kissed flesh of a ripe plum. 

[honeylikewords]

penumbra. (jack russell)

jack and his wife are separated during the full moon. (set in the events of the pregnancy arc!)

(warnings: descriptions of food and eating, non-descript vomiting, scenes of fear and anxiety; first ever attempt at writing slightly angsty, potentially hurt/comfort fic(?), everything works out so don’t worry! word count: 6k.)

“Beaver moon,” Jack says, hands in his pockets. He’s staring at a patch of clouds that are skating rapidly across the icy blue sky, nose high in the air. Smelling the wind for what’s to come.

His eyes flick to the side to catch a glimpse of her as she comes to stand next to him, arms crossed over her waist to brace against the chill, and he extends a hand to invite her to stand closer. She does, and she is instantly met with the radiating warmth of Jack’s feverish body temperature as he pulls her into his side; he rubs a hand along her upper arm in soothing arcs, and the heat of his touch comforts her.

“Beaver moon?”

When he’s distant, lost to her, she’s found that pressing him with innocuous questions can help draw him out. An easy opportunity to explain something can warm him back up to talking, and one hapless conversation may branch into a more expository one, and she hopes that getting him to talk about this will help him talk about that. It’s on the horizon, and, presumably, the driving force behind his shift in mood.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “November’s moon. That’s what they called it in, eh, the Farmer’s Almanac.”

He chuckles a little and shakes his head, gaze returning to the skies, and she watches his face as his eyes wander farther and farther away. His thumb creates slow circles on her elbow as he holds her close, and when he does speak again, he mumbles.

“They re-named all the moons of the year. Borrowed--” --he says the word with some sourness-- “--From the people already here. Made up new names for old things. I remember when they started. But there are names, real ones, that people do use.”

Jack turns to look back at her, and she can see something dark hiding in his bright eyes. She knows the expression that has come to linger all too well, from the severity of the lines between his eyebrows to the way he pulls his lips taut, chewing the inside of his cheek. The crease over the bridge of his nose gets more pronounced, and the darkness under his eyes brings a haggard weight to his gaze. A hardness of muscle, a thinness of blood, a lack of color. He’s afraid of something. She feels the knot of fear growing in her belly, too.

She should be used to it, by now. Sometimes, she feels like she is. But every month, like clockwork, when the atmosphere will become tense, Jack’s anxieties become her own, no matter how much she tries to assuage them.

“This month’s a total lunar eclipse,” he adds.

“A blood moon.”

Jack never tells her exactly where it is he goes, and he insists that she doesn’t tell him where she’s planning to go, either.

“Just make it deep into the city,” he reminds her. “The deeper you go, the harder it will be for me to get there.”

“Jack, you wouldn’t--”

He puts a hand up, firmly halting the conversation, and finishes putting the last of his clothes in the duffel bag. As he zips it up, he glances at her and sees the hurt in her face, a downcast expression coming over his own. They’ve had this conversation before, but repetition it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m sorry, bebé. I know. But… we can’t risk it.”

Jack rounds the edge of the bed to come to her side, cupping her face in his hands. Regret and longing shadow him as he pets her cheeks, and she doesn’t like the way he’s studying her face; she’s afraid he’s looking at her for what he believes to be the last time. They’ve done this before, dozens of times, so why does this one feel so different? Shaking off the thoughts, she steels herself and holds his hand to her face, meeting his eyes.

“We have our systems,” she reminds him. “You’ll be alright. You’ll come back, all in one big, hairy piece.”

He wrinkles his nose at that. She can’t tell if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s just uncomfortable, but whatever the reality, it doesn’t seem that her attempt at a joke broke much of the tension in him at all. Damn.

Instead of replying, Jack pauses, then bends forward and kisses her on the crest of her hairline. As his lips warm her, he draws in a deep breath through his nose, his eyes faltering shut as he takes in her scent. He inhales so deeply that she feels a few of her hairs lift off her head; it tickles, and she can’t help the small bubble of noise that escapes her. After a long moment of him standing completely still, nose pressed to her scalp, she feels Jack shift, turning to rapidly kiss every inch of her face.

“I,” he mumbles, kissing her temple, “love,” a kiss to her nose, “you,” a kiss to her cupid’s bow, “so,” now one on the corner of her jaw, “much.”

He plants another dozen across her cheeks and chin and ears and hair, until she’s certain he’s gotten each individual centimeter of surface area her face has, and then pulls back, hands remaining cupped around her face and keeping her in his view as long as possible.

“I will come back to you.” His voice is low, tired. But the promise is powerful. “And we will be alright.”

“I know,” she replies. “I’m going to miss you.”

“It’s only one night,” shrugs Jack, trying to seem blasé. “You might like the break from me. Get a little ‘you’ time in. Watch something you know I’d hate. Eat something with mushrooms.”

“Sounds fun.” It comes out more mournful than she meant for it to.

Out in the yard, branches snap: the cue. Jack frowns, the lines of his face deeper than ever and she thinks, in that moment, that all the hundreds of years have abruptly caught up to him. Wordless, he sighs, presses his nose to her cheek, and gives her one last, long kiss, savoring the plushness of her lips and the scent of her skin, before pulling away.

He grabs his bag off the bed and then takes her hand, the two of them walking in tandem through the house until they reach the back door, where Jack opens it and sees Ted squatting in the bushes. The massive creature waves sweetly at the two of them, and she waves back.

“Take care of my husband,” she smiles. Ted nods his tentacled head.

Jack hesitates in the doorway. The hand that grasps hers guides their encircled fingers to her belly, and he lets go of her with a trail of his fingers across it. His eyes hold there before he scratches at one ear, surprisingly aggressive, and breaks himself from his reverie.

“I end up having to take care of him, you know,” grumbles Jack, a hint of a smile pulling at his lips.

Ted makes an elephantine grunt and Jack rolls his eyes.

“Ay, I’m coming, man.”

Finally, Jack takes the step to go. He walks across the yard, towards the treeline that leads into the forest, where Ted holds open a gap in the bushes. As he crosses the barrier into the woods, Jack looks back at his wife, and the two of them do their best to be the one to look away first.

It’s only one night.

She breaks first, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand, and when she manages to clear her throat and look back up, both men are long gone.

Paying in cash at the hotel is always extremely embarrassing.

Jack insists, every month, that cards can’t be used-- “They leave a paper trail, querida,” he admonishes-- so he gives her a massive pile of bills to use at her discretion for the night. It always garners looks.

The concierge had raised both eyebrows and quirked his lips to the side before remembering his job and her presence, penitently smiling at her as he counted out the hundreds for the room, and she’d stood at the counter in a haze of discomfort while he made the key card.

She wonders idly if this one would spread rumors of a “lady of the night” or a “woman on the run” in the break room to his coworkers, then continues unpacking her toiletries on the bathroom counter, dismissive. It doesn���t really matter what he says so long as he and all the other people in this city make enough noise and light and stench to keep the wolf at bay.

That was the hope Jack had each month, sending her into the city: the hope that the chaos of human civilization would scare the wolf away from wherever she might be. That their secrecy would keep any memories, even subconscious, out of the wolf’s mind. That he wouldn’t know where to find her, even if he did hunt for her. That was the system.

So far, it has worked.

She does her best to whittle down the hours as sunset begins. Television, phone scrolling, reading, folding and unfolding her clothes for the night and following morning. None of it sufficiently puts to rest the images in her mind; Jack, locked in a cage somewhere, waiting for the agony to begin. Jack, alone. Jack, transformed.

Getting up from the edge of the bed, she moves to sit in the stiff, polyester-upholstered armchair by the window and stares out at the skyline. The city seems to be burning to the ground as the sun sinks between the skyscrapers and streets, dipping lower and lower into the horizon, before being extinguished as moonrise begins. Blue-black night stretches over the land, and thousands of streetlights and windows and signs flare to life, filling the darkness, pushing it back.

The room is too quiet, even with the television running for background noise. She fidgets with a loose thread on the arm of the chair as her stomach churns. She can’t stop thinking about Jack, and how his attitude had been so foreign; he was always withdrawn and anxious before the full moon, but he’d seemed more frightened than usual this time. Her gut contorts when she thinks to herself that he may have been giving her a goodbye, somehow, as if this was the end of something, and all of a sudden--

She bolts up from the chair so violently it rocks over, and rushes to the bathroom, collapsing on her knees in front of the toilet.

“For the love of God,” she moans, voice echoing in the now-full bowl. “Really?”

Nobody answers, but she stands on shaking legs and wipes her mouth with a tissue, flushing the whole affair down the toilet as she brushes her teeth and tongue forcefully. When she’s done, she kicks at the wastebasket in the bathroom and glares at her stomach as it makes a loud, wet growl.

“Seriously? Now you’re hungry?”

The sudden pang, both of pain and hunger, shoots through her and she narrows her eyes further, sighing in frustration and moving to get her coat.

Jack normally instructs her that once the moon is up, she cannot leave wherever it is that she’s hiding. Staying behind doors and walls and out of the open air creates interference, he says, and that interference is key to keeping the beast confused. “If he can’t smell you, he can’t find you.”

Well, wherever he is, she reasons to herself, he’s not going to smell her deep in the heart of the city, much less in the few minutes it will take her to get from her room to the nearby pizza place. The jacket is shrugged on and she opens the suite door, a cold thrill running through her as she breaks one of the rules of the full moon. So much for the system.

She breaks it further still as she leaves the hotel lobby and ambles into the restaurant a block westward, gazing at the menu blearily before ordering two slices: one of her standard order, the second a surprising combination of mushrooms, peppers and pineapple that makes the man behind the counter scoff as he jots it down on the pad. Another fistful of loose bills is tendered, this time to no surprise.

She takes a bite her familiar pizza, first, sitting at a sticky plastic table in the far corner of the restaurant, closer to where the cooking is happening. She figures that if she’s going to break the rules, she might as well balance it out by doing them safely by masking herself in the hot, smelly din of the kitchen. The pizza is a warm meal on an empty stomach, so it tastes better than usual, and she scarfs the first piece down quickly before turning her attention to this new order.

The mushrooms had originally been a little joke-- as one of Jack’s least favorite foods, they seldom turned up in any meals they shared, so she would order them when he was away-- but the other toppings had been ordered on impulse, all of them individually hungered for. Pineapple for its tart sweetness, peppers for their verdant crunch, mushrooms for their earthy meatiness; she piles a massive amount of the tinned parmesan cheese atop her slice and dives in ravenously.

It is a little strange at first, she admits, but scratches an itch she doesn’t quite understand, and she soon finds herself chewing through the crust, the piece decimated and digested. She marvels at herself for housing it that fast and wonders if she might have forgotten to eat earlier today, lost in all the stress of Jack’s departure. Not quite satiated by both pieces, she returns to the counter, orders another slice of the mixed-topping pizza, and takes it to go.

She walks out the front door with the piece in hand, clutched in a slightly oily napkin, and begins to walk through the cold streets of the city, watching through windows as businesses shutter for the night and families turn out the lights in bedrooms and dens. The world is getting ready to sleep, and she feels restless.

Midway across the street that would take her onto the block her hotel sits on, she decides that she can’t go back to the room right now. The stillness is too intimidating, too constricting. She knows that if she locks herself in that suite, she’ll sit, motionless, on the edge of the bed, cycling through the same thoughts that had led her here, making herself sicker and sicker. The mere idea of being in that sterile, dimly home-like room sends a clench through her abdomen, so she chooses to keep breaking the rules.

She takes a left and crosses another street, meandering into the city park that spans multiple blocks. She’d seen it coming in towards the hotel, and knows where the hotel sits in position to it, so she won’t get lost, she figures, passing through the low gates of the park and following the paved paths past a bed of trees and unpetaled rose bushes.

The grass underfoot crunches dryly, almost entirely dead, as she works on her piece of pizza and wanders aimlessly through the park. Now that she’s had about two and a third of these large slices, she’s beginning to feel full, and the remaining two-thirds slice in her hand is becoming less and less appetizing as it gets colder and she thinks more on her worries. She doesn’t want to vomit again, so she decides to give herself a break from it and moves to sit on an empty bench overlooking a glass-smooth pond.

It’s a calming sight: the park is entirely empty, the water features all turned off, and all that she can hear is the wind through the trees and the distant sound of traffic, muffled by the foliage. The night sky is dim, starless thanks to the city’s light pollution, but the moon, enormous and luminous, cuts through the darkness, viciously bright. It glows orange-red, the penumbra of the earth edging in; the blood moon.

She thinks of him as she stares at the moon, mindlessly picking at the food in her hands. The wind gusts a cluster of leaves down from the tree tops and they rain down onto the surface of the pond, sending ripples flowing across the water, reflecting red moonlight in arcs and waves. Somewhere, a dead limb cracks off a tree and falls to the earth with a heavy thud, and she jumps a little, nails digging into the mushroom she’d peeled off the pizza and was ripping apart on the napkin.

It occurs to her, now, that she is a woman alone in a major city, in a park, at night. She checks her surroundings carefully, noting no sign of other people, and tries to remember which way the hotel is; after a moment’s consideration, she decides that it’s to her right and that she’ll follow the path out to the nearest street, which she should be able to cross and get back to the hotel via.

As she begins to stand, another crack issues through the silence of the park, this one less heavy but nearer than the first. It sounded more like something crunching through shrubbery, something with enough mass to disturb leaves and snap branches. Human? Animal? She isn’t sure; do coyotes come this far into the city? She’d heard that they sometimes wandered the suburbs, attacking dogs; now isn’t the time to remember things about coyotes, she thinks. Now is the time to move. Her heart is pounding, dread setting in around her, and she moves as quietly as she can towards the path that leads right, staring at the space she thinks the sound came from. Unfortunately, it works: she sees what she’s looking for.

In the light of the red moon, she sees it.

Something massive, much bigger than any coyote could ever hope to be, rises from a span of bushes a few yards away from the bench, hunkered low but coming up taller and taller and taller. Every inch it rises is another dagger in her heart, her ears slamming with the sound of her blood, and if she had half a wit left in her, she’d scream: scream until whatever it was went deaf, scream until all the city knew where she was, scream until her throat bled. But all she can do is stumble backward, unable to take her eyes off the indistinct thing in the darkness, her body begging her to move back, into the light, into the safety of numbers, into anywhere but here, as everything else shuts down.

She keeps taking rapid, wobbling steps back, faster and faster, eyes transfixed, as the shape pushes out from the bushes and begins moving across the grass, shadowed and faster than anything she’s ever seen before. It races at her as she tries to turn around and run, and she begins scrambling up the path when whatever it is lets out an inhuman screech that crescendoes into an unearthly howl, so loud it rings her ears and makes her start dry-sobbing, trying, still, to run.

Before she can get anywhere close to the edge of the path, the creature is behind her, arms around her chest, yanking her backward into the night, and she finally manages to let out a belting scream before--

She is laying on her back, in the grass, at the side of the pond, and the thing is over her, staring down. Her body is pinned under the creature, with its knees on either side of her abdomen, one of its hands under the backside of her head and the other supporting the small of her back. The arms holding her still must be enormously strong, as she feels that her weight is not resting against the earth, but rather solely in the grasp of the beast.

It tilts its head from side to side as it inspects her closely, and she takes advantage of the moment to do the same. In the full, bright light of the moon, it’s much easier to see what exactly this thing is; it’s certainly humanoid, to be sure. Wide shoulders covered in a dense pelt of fur block out the sky behind it, and its bare chest is similarly hairy, tapering into a manlike waist. It’s all bare, actually, excepting a shredded pair of sweatpants that fit tightly against the creature’s lean legs and that are torn below the knee, making room for its massive calves. The hair seems to be densest around the thing’s face and neck, where it splays out in a dark mane, backlit by the moon to create a halo of red-brown tendrils that shift with every breeze. Its nose is long, flared into a wide, brown snout that clefts into two distinct curves of cartilage; every breath drawn through it rankles its top lip, curling it into a snarl. Twin sets of razor-sharp incisors glint wetly in the light, framed by lips that hang open as it breathes, hard, through its mouth.

Most noticeable, however, are its eyes.

They glow from underneath massive eyebrows, peering at her through the darkness, twin sparks of the aurora borealis. Green. They’re green.

Her own eyes swim with tears and her throat closes up, unable to make any sound but little sore gulps, and the creature bends down to rub its canine nose against her jaw, whimpering in the back of its throat sympathetically.

No, she corrects, not its: his. She would know him anywhere.

Jack pushes his face along the underside of her chin, whining into her neck, and uses the hand cradling her head to push her into the crook of his, rubbing her in. At first, the action confuses her, and she rankles her nose at the strong scent of his sweat against his damp, musky fur, but it dawns on her that the smell is, in fact, the purpose of the gesture: he needs her to smell him as he is smelling her. The wolf wants her to know that she is with her mate, and believes the scent is key to convincing her. She settles for winding her fingers into the matted span hair that covers his back and shoulders and crying, equal parts relieved and frightened, into his pelt.

She shakes and sobs as the wolf presses her to his chest, and Jack lets out pained, short barks, baying and howling pityingly. He pushes her as close to his skin as he can get her, and his skin is so hot it burns her cheeks, already sore from crying; if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was on death’s door with a fatal fever. As her breathing starts to lull and the sobs mellow into hiccups, Jack shifts her weight closer to him, rising to his feet with her in his arms.

The shock sends her scrambling in his hold, gripping onto his shoulders and yelping in fright. Jack lets out a huff and bumps his nose against her temple, a silent attempt to calm her, and he begins moving back towards the trees, seeming intent on going deeper into the park. Tentatively, she puts a hand on his chest and pushes, and he stops, head jerking back in confusion. She watches his huge eyebrows knit together and he bares his teeth; it’s not a threat, but a question, his familiar eyes searching her face for an explanation.

“Jack, we have to get you out of here,” she rasps. “You’re not safe in the city.”

If he understands, he doesn’t show it; Jack decides to keep walking toward the trees, and she has to push again to get him to stop. This time, he lets out a growl, his hold on her tightening, but he does relent and holds still, waiting in the shadow of a tree.

“Where’s Ted? Why aren’t you in your…”

Her voice trails off as she realizes she doesn’t know what to ask, and that even if she did, Jack probably isn’t capable of responding. He cocks his head at her and frowns, again pushing his nose into the side of her face and nuzzling against her skin, and she melts under his touch. For as long as she’s known him, Jack has been firm with her that this part of himself is too hideous, too deadly for her to see, but, now, all she can see is her husband, vulnerable despite the power of his transformation.

She takes a moment to do some mental math, weighing her options. She can’t let Jack out of her sight for the rest of the night, that much she knows, but how she’ll get him to safety is the truly unknown element. Getting back to their house wouldn’t be entirely feasible, as she’d taken a taxi to get here, and getting him back to wherever he chose to hide during his transformations was out, since she both did not know where it was and knew that wherever it was, it was not in any condition to hold him: he’d gotten out, after all.

That left two options: try to sneak Jack out through the city on foot, or…

“Jack? Baby?”

His ears perk and he pulls his face out of her neck, head cocked like a dog listening for instructions. Jack’s pink tongue slips out and wets his lips and teeth and he flashes her something that she tries to interpret as a smile, but that reads more closely to a grimace. It endears her all the same.

“You need to come with me, okay?”

Jack stirs with a groan, his eyes blurry and unfocused. Everything is scaldingly bright, burning his retinas, and he covers his face with a large hand, rubbing at his sore lids and wiping away the crust of a heavy, pained sleep.

“Morning, Puppy,” he hears.

Oh, still dreaming. That’s frustrating. Jack hates it when he dreams that she’s near, only to wake up alone. It’s like barreling headlong into a glass door. He rolls over on his side and throws an arm over his head, snarling through his teeth at the world.

Of course he’d have a dream like this after a night like that. Dream that she’s rubbing his back, dream that she’s pressing her lips to his hands, dream that her scent is wrapped all around him, filling the room.

He tries to burrow his face into the pillow and block out the light, only to find that his pillow is hot. Solid. Not at all fabric, but certainly plush. He growls in frustration, wondering if he fell asleep on top of a deer carcass again: that'd be hell to wash out of his hair. But the pillow smells like her… painfully so. He pushes his face in deep and moans in misery.

"Are you still hurting?"

"Yes," he says, voice rough and cracking. "Everything hurts. Miss you."

"...You miss me?"

Jack opens one eye and stares up at the fuzzy, dark shape hovering at the periphery of his vision. From a certain angle, and with just the right amount of blinked clarity, it does sort of look like her. He figures getting it all out of his system in a dream is as good an option as any, and he rubs his rough-stubbled cheek into his warm, rising and falling pillow, sighing.

"I hate being away from you, amorcita," he rumbles. "Makes me feel like complete shit. I already feel like shit, then I come out of it, and you're not there, and I become, uh, doubleshit."

"Doubleshit?"

"Mm."

"You're not doubleshit," she purrs. A hand strokes the exposed curve of his face and he tilts his chin to meet it; this is certainly one of his more indulgent dreams. Lusciously detailed. It'll be hell to wake up from. "You're alright, now."

Jack wrinkles his brow and scrunches both eyes tightly before reopening them, rolling on his pillow to face upward. His gaze clears and focuses: her face is now visible, looking down on him from above. He squints at her.

“...What are you doing?”

At his question she knits her brow and smiles, shaking her head in amused confusion.

She looks so beautiful that it takes Jack out of his mind and into a purely animal place: all he wants to do is stare at her, at the angles of her face, the slope of her nose, the curvature of her lips. He wants to ingrain this thought in the forefront of his mind and forget everything else; the pain in his body, the ravages of the night before, the wild haze of unclear memories. All that matters is this.

One of her delicate hands reaches down and scritches at his chin, right in his favorite spot, the one that always sends his leg twitching, and he’s too worn to hold back the relieved moan that issues out of him, his whole body oozing into languid comfort. His eyes flutter shut, and he revels in the sensation of her. Oh, she really knows how to get him.

When her nails catch on a rough patch of stubble that tugs a little, it occurs to Jack that he is not, in fact, dreaming. That accidental scrape of nails feels too organic to have been generated by his fuzzy mind; his eyes flash open, staring up at her.

She pulls back briefly, and Jack leans up, cocking his head. This is not a dream. She is there, sitting above him. His mind goes blank.

Jack pushes himself onto his elbows and looks around at his surroundings, bewildered, heart racing. This is not his safe room. These are not concrete walls. They’re wallpapered, with tacky, directionless paintings glued on. He’s laying on a completely destroyed mattress, body between her legs, instead of on the cold floor of his cell. He’d gotten out, somehow, and--

“Jack, baby, it’s okay,” she says, reaching around to wrap her arms about his chest and tug his back flush to her body. He trembles a little in her grasp, feeling her pressing reassuring kisses all along his face and shoulders, but the sound of her voice and the touch of her hands brings him back down to earth, bit by bit. “It’s just me. You’re alright. We made it through the night.”

“We…?”

“You… found me, remember?”

A low series of curses in a mixture of languages seep from his lips as he turns on the bed, taking her face in his hands. He paws at her, tugging clothes aside and pushing her limbs this way and that as he anxiously studies every inch of her, checking her face and body for wounds, bandages, scars: any sign that the wolf had harmed her. He’d gotten loose? And, worse yet, he’d managed to get to wherever she was?

“Did I--”

“You didn’t hurt me, Jack,” she reprimands. His eyes rise up to hers; her gaze is firm, unyielding in its promise. “You were looking for me.”

“I… I don’t know how I got out,” he admits, stroking one of her cheeks. “I’ve never done that, before.”

“Well, it’s certainly a first, but… as far as I can tell, all you did was come to find me. I think you wanted to take me home, actually.”

He looks at the room. This is definitely not home.

“But I, uh, didn’t let that happen.”

Jack frowns. This just keeps getting more and more mystifying.

“You fought the wolf?,” he asks. When she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, he frowns even more deeply and presses further. “Then… what?”

“I just… asked you to follow me. I took you back to the hotel.”

“We’re at a hotel?!”

Reeling, Jack holds onto her shoulder for support and stares out at the room. Of course. Her hotel room. He recognizes all the telltale signs-- the chipped wooden furniture, the clunky black plastic amenities, the pale orange lighting-- but sees all of it in disarray. Claw marks line the overturned armchair by the window. Stuffing leaks out of the loveseat. All the sheets are shredded, the mattress beneath them carved with long, hard gouges. He thinks he sees bite marks on the legs of the writing desk.

The idea that the wolf was in a hotel room at all flummoxes Jack; that he could pass dozens, maybe even hundreds of opportunities to hunt, all sitting quietly in their little, individually-wrapped rooms seems impossible. Surely, he must have left a wake of destruction behind himself... right?

Jack peers down the entryway and notes that the front door of the suite is shut, with the desk chair shoved under the handle at such an angle that the door is, essentially, barricaded. He wonders if she put that there to keep others out, or to keep him in; either way, it seems to have worked. He can’t smell blood, nor decay, though there’s a minor tinge of stomach acid. She must have gotten sick rather recently, at least within the last hour, and Jack lets out a frustrated whimper at the idea of her being ill and his being unable to help her.

He collapses into her, pulling them both down onto the mattress, and exhaustedly moves his head to lay on her body. He isn’t even particularly conscious of his movements, just letting his instincts take over and guide him, and he ends up curled around her, his head firmly pressed into her belly, hands gripping her sides as she pets his hair to comfort him. Everything washes over him in a depleting wave, and he surrenders to her wholly, burrowing his face into her and kissing mindlessly into her tummy.

“This is actually how you slept for most of the night,” she remarks, playing with the patch of hair over his right ear. “Just like this.”

Her belly must have been the pillow he mistook for a deer carcass. If he wasn’t so drained, he might have been a little embarrassed by the error. It doesn’t matter, now. All that matters is getting her home, safe and sound, and making sure that none of this follows them back. Pay all this off. Get out without being seen. Find Ted. Repair and re-structure the safe room. The list keeps growing.

But he’ll straighten all of that out later. In the moment, Jack just wants to lay still and revel in her: it’s the first time he’s woken up from a transformation with her right there, by his side, and it fulfills some emptiness he had only dreamed of easing. She’s here. She’s holding him. He’s safe in her arms. What more could a man ask for?

His hand straggles up and he lays it next to his face on her tummy, tracing intricate patterns into the skin under her shirt. The texture of her skin is so familiar and grounding that he nearly is lulled back to sleep, his eyes drifting shut, palm splayed across her belly, but he manages to fight through and stir himself awake, blinking heavily up at her.

“You’re incredible,” he manages. “I don’t know how you do it, but you’re, you know, just… I love you.”

He’s not quite aware of his words, more cognizant of the feelings behind them than of their actual structure, and relents: maybe he can’t express himself like that right now. Still too frazzled. Instead, he settles for leaning in, and presses a kiss deep and hard into the softness of her belly. She pets the hair at the nape of his neck, mumbling her response distantly.

“I didn’t really do much of anything, I don’t think,” she says. “I just asked. You listened.”

The idea of the wolf listening to anyone should surprise Jack. But instead, he blinks, pensive, and nods into her stomach; if ever there was a voice that could compel him, both halves, wholly and completely, it would be hers.

“And I love you, too. All of you, by the way.”

“I tore apart a mattress,” Jack moans. “You sure you love that part?”

She laughs, the sound softening every line in Jack’s face as he relaxes into her, and she rubs his shoulders with a doting firmness that makes his heart sing.

“I do, actually; it was kind of cute. I think you were just trying to make a bed pile for us.”

“Leave it to you to,” he mumbles, trailing off, “to find something cute in a werewolf.”

“‘S not my fault. You’re the one who’s a cute werewolf. I’m just an impartial observer, making a statement of fact.”

Jack doesn’t have nearly enough energy to play-argue with her, but he has enough that he manages to open his eyes and stare up at her. Something looks different about her, now: a glow to her features, not quite new, but more pronounced. He wonders if she’s just his guardian angel, come to care for him, and that what he’s seeing is her halo; that must be it. Her halo.

Her light outshines the moon; the wolf bays for her, now.

links to previous fics in this series:

cubs.

familia.

thank you for reading! comments and replies are always appreciated, and give me immense motivation to continue these stories! feel free to let me know what you thought and what you’d like to see next!