#further adventures in big hands regular sized mug

[ladamedusoif]

Café Crème

Javier Peña x f!reader (one-shot)

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Word count: ~ 1k

Rating: Explicit (18+; MDNI)

Content/warnings: oral (f receiving); established relationship; Javi enjoys a healthy breakfast; Javi hates embassy coffee; smut; this is literally just smut.

Summary: Your boyfriend Javier likes mornings at your place for more than just your coffee.

Notes: I keep getting sent to horny/self-deprecation jail by @julesonrecord and @lunapascal. Now, while I’m an abolitionist this is at least a productive carceral system because your punishment results in smutty little thots that turn into smutty little ficlets. And then @julesonrecord gives you a title you can’t resist. ☕️

This is my first time writing for Javier Peña. I enjoyed writing this little morning “fun”, please enjoy reading.

Javier Peña loathes what he refers to as “embassy coffee”. Correction: “shitty embassy coffee”.

You learned this early in your relationship. The first time Javi took you out for dinner, he’d savoured the strong black coffee served at the end of the meal. The white coffee cup with its gold trim had looked comically tiny in his large hands.

“God, this beats the fuckin’ pigswill they call coffee at the embassy. Only the Americans could come to Colombia and still serve up shitty coffee.”

You’d added a little cream to your own coffee, stirring as you watched him talk, interspersing sips with deep drags on his cigarette.

“I know somewhere you can get good coffee. Fresh ground beans, French press - definitely not pigswill.”

He looked at you, cocking his head in curiosity. “Oh? Where?”

You’d smiled and arched a brow. “My place, tomorrow morning.”

That was a year ago. With Javier now spending most nights at your apartment, the morning coffee ritual had become a near-daily fixture. Whoever wakes first takes charge. Boil the water. Shower. Grind the beans. Stir. Brew. Press. Serve.

You blink awake first, Javi still sleeping soundly with his body tucked against a pillow. You reach for your favourite vintage silk robe and quietly pad out of the bedroom. Your apartment is in an older building and its layout is eccentric, to say the least: the bathroom is accessed via the narrow, galley kitchen.

You put the water on to boil while you shower, as usual. Washed and wrapped in your robe, it’s not long before the noise of the coffee grinder rouses Javi. He shuffles into the kitchen, dark hair sticking up every which way and a hand scratching at the stubble on his jaw.

He’s wearing an old Texas A&M T-shirt and a pair of the boxers he keeps at your place for the mornings. You’d had to convince him to wear them, arguing that Señora Hernández in the block opposite did not need to see just how, um, gifted your boyfriend was. And especially not at 7.30am.

“Morning, mi amor. Just going to put this on to brew.”

Javi grunts and plants a kiss to the crown of your head as he squeezes past you in the narrow kitchen, hands pressing into the soft flesh on your hips as he heads for the bathroom and his shower. You know him well enough now to know that Javier Peña is essentially non-functional until his shower and coffee.

You place the lid and plunger at the top of the French press jug, and rest your hands on the countertop as you wait for it to brew. You can hear Javi humming lightly in the shower, the scent of your bergamot shower gel gently wafting into the kitchen. The running water stops.

He always looks fucking delicious fresh out of the shower: wet hair combed back, starting to curl up at the ends; T-shirt slightly clinging to the damp skin of his broad torso; jaw freshly shaved and moustache trimmed. You slyly glimpse at him out of the corner of your eye, not wanting to let him realise you’re admiring him so intently.

Fuck. He’s so goddamn hot.

As he nears you, Javi’s scent becomes more obvious and more intoxicating. Bergamot, toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving foam. The heady combination goes straight to your core.

His shoulders are pressed against your back. One arm on the counter, one trailing on your hip and waist, seeking the edge of your robe.

“I know what you’re after.”

You feel the bristle of his moustache against the side of your neck and you moan lightly. A kiss combined with the lightest of nibbles to that sensitive place at the crook of your neck.

“Do you?”

You bite your lip and try to keep it casual, as if you aren’t already getting wet for him.

“Coffee, right? Can’t start your day without it.”

Another kiss, this time to your shoulder where the skin is exposed. You feel those long, thick fingers edging inside your robe and against the soft skin of your tummy, inching to the underside of your breast.

“That’s not the only thing I can’t start the day without.”

You turn to face him, still pinned between his arms but now placing your hands on his forearms. You cock your chin as you meet his gaze, a little defiant, perhaps, but more teasing. More willing him on, asking him to do his worst.

“Oh? What else do you need? What else do you want for breakfast?”

He does that half smile that devastates you, arching an eyebrow as he lifts a hand and trails a finger along the line of the soft, silky fabric that barely covers your chest. “I want…” A soft kiss to your décolletage. “This.”

You can feel your core pulsing now, slick gathering between your legs. Still, you try to retain your composure.

“Anything else?”

He loosens the belt of the robe and lets it fall open, exposing you. Moving one hand along the curve of your waist and lightly grasping the flesh of your hip, he brings his mouth to each of your nipples in turn, swirling his tongue around them, sending your hips bucking upwards. “And I need this.”

You notice that he’s begun to move his way down your body, throwing the robe fully open as you lean back against the kitchen counter.

“What else is on the menu?”, you gasp, feeling like your knees might give way.

He’s on his knees in front of you now, T-shirt clinging to his damp, post-shower body. He gently encourages you to part your legs, before trailing his mouth up the inside of your thighs.

Slowly. Deliberately.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

He finally reaches your wet folds and, looking up at you for a final time, grins. “Best meal of all, cariño.”

Those lips. That mouth. That tongue. On you, in you, sucking, lapping, as if you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

It’s no time at all before you come with a gasp and a shudder, your release soaking him as he moans in delight. With a final kiss to your thighs and belly he pulls himself back up to standing and kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself as he wraps you back up in your robe.

“I’ll have that coffee now, if that’s okay, baby?”

[thiswasinevitableid]

For the prompts: Sternay, Centaur, NSFW. Thank you!

Here you go!

Note: I use “races” here in the D&D sense.

Most nights, Barclay works undistracted until the end of dinner. Tonight, looks out the kitchen window so often Moira teases him that she’ll close it to save him from cutting off his own hand by mistake. 

He can’t help it. Every time a new party returns from an adventure or demands a table so they can sit and plan their next epic quest, he pokes his head into the dining room of Amnesty Lodge to see if a certain orc is among them. 

Technically, Joseph is half-orc, as his father was an elf, but his orcish traits dominate in all but his build and his ears. He’s so handsome, the first time he addressed Barclay by name he blushed for an hour afterwards. 

That was the second time they’d met, Joseph having returned from his job as the hired rogue of a party of treasure hunters. He’d been a spy during the last great skirmish, and now put his observation and information gathering skills to good use for a fair price. He, like other adventurers for hire, used Amnesty Lodge as his base, as it welcomed creatures of all kinds and had the best food in all of Kepler. 

When Joseph became a regular, it didn’t take long for him to post up in the place where it was easiest for him to talk to Barclay, and more than once he stayed to help the centaur put up chairs and wipe down tables. Four months ago, before he left to help some mages in search of rare artifacts, he knocked on Barclay’s door in the pre-dawn rain and kissed him goodbye, telling him to consider the kiss an offer he could refuse or accept on Josephs’ return. 

Barclay kissed him back immediately in reply.

Ever since that morning, Barclay’s orientation towards time changed. He no longer saw his life in weeks and months; instead it was divided into times when Joseph was in town and times when he was gone. It helps that Joseph prefers quests that are about knowledge and have a low chance of death, as he has little taste for violence (in fact, the only orc he knows with less taste for it is Duck, who seems annoyed at the fact the universe thinks it’s his destiny to fight).

When the last diner stumbles upstairs to their room, Moira pats his side, “I can get Jake to help me clean up. You go on home.”

A short walk brings him to his cottage on the edge of Amnestys’ grounds. He gathers his mail, starts a kettle for tea, and contemplates if he should take a bath now or wait for Joseph in the hopes he might join him. 

Knockknock

He hurries to the door, throws it open and finds a disheveled but pleased looking Joseph holding a bouquet of branches. 

“Hey” his brain offers no further thoughts, too busy drinking in the sight of the boyfriend he’s been missing these last ten days. 

“I’m sorry I’m late, we ran into some kind of conflict between two water golems and had to take a longer route. I, um, brought some apple blossoms as an apology.” 

“No need to apologize, blue eyes” Barclay takes the flowers, “I’m just glad you’re back in one piece. Uh, do you, uh, wanna come in? I’m making tea and, uh, I was gonna take a bath if you wanna join me.” In spite of the fact Joseph is already through the door and taking off his shoes, Barclay worries he’s moving too fast. 

“A bath sounds great, big guy” Joseph cups his face, takes his time kissing every inch of his lips before releasing him, “I’ll go get it started.” 

Barclay shuts the door and trots towards the kitchen. He munches two stems of blossoms and then sets the rest in some water on the table. 

He joins Joseph just as the orc closes off the sluice that directs the water from the hot springs outside into the massive, rocky tub. It’s designed with multiple wide, stone benches so Barclay can sit comfortably with his legs tucked beneath him. He sets the mugs of tea by the edge of the pool and wades in, settling on his preferred bench as Joseph floats over to him. A grey scar runs up one side of his green chest which, combined with the stylish piercings in his ears and the one stud in his nose, make him look a mixture of tough and debonair that never fails to make Barclay paw the ground with frustrated desire. 

The orc is so handsome, has kissed Barclay breathless and given him the honor of tasting his cock several times, but there are things Barclay wants from him that he will never ask for. And so, as the orc drapes his arms around his shoulders, he puts those lurid thoughts from his mind. 

“Do you want me to get your back?” Well-trimmed claws scritch the sensitive line where fur meets skin. 

“Fuck yeah.”

Joseph splashes to his side, retrieving one of the milky-white bottles lined along the rocky edge. The scent of oatmeal and chamomile fills twines into the steam as the orc guides a generous line of the shampoo down his spine. Barclay would never admit it in public, but he uses this blend in part because it brings a shine to his dark bay fur, the color of which he is immensely proud. 

“You have such a handsome coat” Joseph murmurs, fingers creating a path of suds as he rubs them in circles, “then again, the rest of you is handsome too, so it’s only remarkable in that it puts every other centaur I’ve seen to shame.”

Barclay squeezes the loofah he’s using on his shoulders, groans when Joseph digs his fingers into the spot on his back legs that is always sore after a day in the kitchen.

“Look at all that strength buried right here” Joseph pets up his leg and along his flank, “gods, Barclay, maybe I should count myself lucky that you work somewhere you aren’t seen so that I’m not constantly fighting off every centaur who passes through town and sees what a catch you are.”

“Babe please” he dumps water over his head, which does fuck-all to clear it, “please, when you talk like that it’s, I’m-”

The hands switch to soothing circles, “I’m sorry, if it’s making you uncomfortable I can stop.”

“No, no it’s more like, uh, fuck” he takes a deep breath, “talking to me like that while you touch me, while you’re right there all naked and perfect I, it turns me on and I don’t want to make you deal with that.”

Soft splashing as Joseph moves in front of him, “I think now is the time to tell you I’m, um, more than happy to deal with it. In fact, I was kind of hoping we could do that tonight. We can take our time, since neither of us has work tomorrow and I, um, well let’s just say I thought about you a lot while I was gone and wanted the chance to act on some of those thoughts.”

Barclay snorts, softly, “Trust me, babe, even if you think it’s a good idea now, you won’t when it happens. Lots of people love the idea of fucking a centaur right up until the moment and then they bail. And I mean, like, that’s cool, I don’t wanna fuck someone who’s freaked out and they can call it quits whenever but...yeah. I appreciate the thought, blue eyes.” He smiles, trying to show that he means it, because he does, he loves that Joseph thinks of him that way.

Joseph massages some of the shampoo into his hair, the two of them still face to face, “Do you remember that black trunk I left here last time?”

“Uhhuh” He closes his eyes, neck relaxing, “said it was stuff you needed to keep at my place.”

“It is, and now I know you didn’t peek at it. I did a bunch of research into the best way to prepare to get fucked by a centaur, and everything we need is in that box.”

“Aw babe, you did a research project for me.” Barclay hides his face in Joseph’s shoulder.

“It’s my love language.” Joseph kisses his cheek, “Barclay, if you don’t want to do this, we don’t have to. I just wanted you to know that this isn’t some idle fantasy for me, with you filling the role of hot centaur. This is something I want to do with you, my boyfriend who I adore and want to get fucked by.”

“Promise you’ll say something if I’m hurting you?” Barclay mumbles against soap-tinged skin.

A kiss on his head this time, “I promise.” 

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

Joseph is conscious of his reputation. He always has been, whether that was how his superiors saw him or how his potential clients see him now. This is why he’s well-aware of the joke that goes as follows:

Did you hear about the undiscovered creature?

No. What is it?

A race Joseph hasn’t fucked. 

That’s the translation from orcish, anyway. 

It’s not as if he has a checklist of beings he wants to bed. It’s that he’s never seen a creatures race as a deterrent. Not the very charming bugbear who bought him a drink his first time up in Vogel Pass. Not the shy dragonborn who asked him to dance at the Festival of the Two Moons. And certainly not the sweet, gentle centaur who owned his heart from the first time he smiled at him. 

Joseph considers himself practical, but Barclay forces him to confront the romantic streak running through his heart. He’d debated how best to show it, considering traditional gestures of orc courtship or a long, long letter, before an exasperated Duck pulled him aside and told him to just tell him, please Joe for fucks sake this is painful to watch. 

Over the last few months, he’s learned which flowers to bring his lover, what places to pet and scratch to melt that strong body beneath his hands. He’s also observed that Barclay is sexually pent up yet never asks for release, no matter how many times he swallows or strokes Josephs’ cock. So, while his research and subsequent offering of his ass are far from selfless, he hopes it will show his boyfriend that he will put in the work to bring him pleasure. 

He’s busy laying out the four glass cocks of increasing sizes next to the largest bottle of lube they had at fantasy Costco while Barclay arranges a set of cushions, bars, and ropes near the bed. When put together, the items form a rig that allow centaurs to fuck smaller partners. Barclay bought it the last time someone expressed a desire to fuck him; it’s never been used. 

Joseph sits on the bed, all his supplies in reach, and pats the large mattress to indicate Barclay can join him. 

“Should I help?” The centaur tucks his legs under him, tail twitching once. 

“Yes, by holding me while I warm up. You won’t be able to when you’re fucking me, so I need to get my fill.” He rests his back against Barclay’s bare chest, tips his head up so his boyfriend can kiss him, “if you’re good, maybe I’ll let you open me up some of the way.”

Barclay whines, nuzzling his hair as he preps the smallest toy. It slides in easily, Joseph working it back and forth with soft moans. It’s not long before he trades it for the next size, the one he uses most often. The centaur’s arms twine around his waist and his chin rests on his shoulder, jostling in time with Joseph’s thrusts. 

The third toy has a flared base and he grunts, spreading his legs wider as he pushes it in. He stops mid-way, needing a moment to relax. Barclay rubs his thighs, asking if there’s anything he needs. 

“A little distraction might help.”

“I can manage that.”

“GAHahnnnnm, shit, that works.” Joseph moves the toy incrementally deeper as Barclay nibbles his ears. The playful pain always makes him shiver and submit to whatever’s happening, and soon the toy bottoms out. He fucks himself with it until the idea of taking more feels not only possible, but wonderful. 

The fourth toy is, according to his research, to inches shorter and an inch and a half thinner than the average centaur cock. It’s an intense stretch and he groans, falling back in Barclays arms. The centaurs breath is coming in hot puffs on his neck and chest, and the bed is moving more than it was a minute ago.

“Enjoying the show, big guy?”

“Uhhuhnnn, I, fuck babe this is making me so fucking hard but I, I didn’t wanna say anything in case you needed to back out.”

“My sweet, considerate Barclay. Here, I have an idea.” He tips forward, splaying out on his stomach with the toy sticking part way out of his ass, “I want you to finish getting me ready.”

“Okay” He can feel Barclay’s hand shaking through the length of the toy, “fuck, your ass looks good like this.”

“It’ll look even better with yours in itAH gods, that’s a good speed for it, gods that feels so good.”

Barclay growls, pushes the toy all the way in as Joseph arches off the bed with a wall-shaking moan.

“That’s it, ohmylord, see big guy, I can take whatever you give me. You won’t break me, won’t hurt me, just fill me up and make me cum so hard I white out-”

“Who says you’re gonna get to cum, blue eyes? Maybe I’ll just fill that tight orc ass up and leave you there until I’m ready to breed again.”

There’s a smack just as the toy stops moving. Joseph turns to see Barclay with his hands clamped over his mouth. 

“‘M ‘orry.”

With some effort and another moan as the toy shifts, he rolls onto his side and holds up two fingers, “First off, I’ve heard way more explicit ‘breeding talk’ including from my own kind. Second of all, if it bothered me, I wouldn’t keep talking about how strong and capable you are when I want to wind you up. I was a spy, Barclay; I’m very good at telling what people want and what they’re hiding.”

“Joe….” it’s a whine. Rarer still is the use of his nickname, something Barclay only does when he’s far gone with desire. Joseph allows himself some internal smugness before smiling at his boyfriend. 

“I’m ready for the main event if you are.”

Lube drips down his thighs as Barclay helps him into place. There’s a large, square cushion with very little give shoved up against the wall. It’s waist-height for Joseph, so he bends over it and lets his boyfriend strap his wrists and ankles down against the faux-velvet. 

“Is that okay? You don’t need the extra pad under your feet?”

“Assuming we’re at a comfortable angle for you, I’m all set.”

“Right. Cool.” Barclay sounds almost impatient; what an evening of firsts this is turning out to be. “I’m gonna put the last piece on.”

A cool circle of stainless steel sits snugly against Joseph's ass. In his reading, he learned that a common issue was the cock slipping out during the precarious first pushes, leading to frustration for everyone. Since Barclay can’t guide it with his hand from the angle he’ll be at, the ring offers a tactile clue and keep him on course once he pushes in. 

The centaur moves so he’s behind him, then steps forward so his front legs are on either side of the block Joseph is strapped to. From here, the heat of his body surrounds the orc and he feels safe instead of smothered. After three mis-judged nudges, his cock threads though the ring, the flat, wide head of it parting Joseph’s ass as they both groan. 

“Shit” Joseph hisses. Barclay freezes above him, so he adds, “that was good cursing.”

It remains so as the thick head stretches him open, and he gasps with relief when it’s done breaching his body. The shaft is narrower, so that’s the hard part over with. Better still, his preparation pays off; the cock slides most of the way in with little resistance. 

“Can I start moving?” He can’t really see Barclay’s face from this angle, but the centaurs' shy, lustful hope is clear in his voice.

“Yes, big guyFUCK! Ohfuck, yes, holy hells that’s good.” The first thrusts make the purpose of the straps clear; if Joseph weren’t tied down, he’d be bounced this way and that, increasing his chances of injury. Trapped as he is, there’s less chance for accidental harm and no distraction from the massive cock relentlessly thudding into him. 

“Fuck, Joseph, you feel so good baby, fuck I never think of you as small but it’s like I can reach the back of your fucking throat like this.”

The comment draws his attention to what he assumes is a lump in the flat surface of the cushion that’s causing his stomach to rock at an angle. 

“Holy shit that’s, that’s your cock. Barclay, it’s, it’s literally bulging my stomach out.” He wishes the set up allowed him to see it, he wants to sear the image of Barclay’s cock molded against his flesh into the deepest corners of his memory. 

“I can feel it babe, believe me. Fuck, such a tight fit, you’re like a fucking toy, stretching to take me.” More force behind the thrusts, suggesting Barclay is using the bar enchanted into the wall for this exact purpose, “shouldn’t waste a breeding load on a toy, but fuck me if I care.”

“Gods almighty” that fact hadn’t appeared in his research, but makes perfect sense; if a centaur hasn’t fucked in awhile, their biology might generate a greater amount of cum the next time around in hopes of continuing their kind. 

“Yeah, you like that, like the idea of taking my cum so deep you’ll be able to taste it. Gonna fill you up babe, fuck, gonna leave you dripping for weeks.”

“That’s right, big guy, you can cum as much as you want.” His comment dies out into a prolonged whimper as his cock ruts against the cushion, pushing him towards orgasm. 

Barclay stops, huffing, and rumbles, “It’s cute how you think you get to make that call, instead of taking me for as long as I fucking say like the needy little piece of ass you are.”

“Sweet fucking hell” Is all Joseph gets out before his words give way to desperate, ecstatic sounds. Barclay fucks him so hard and fast it shakes dust from the ceiling and a picture from the wall. The entire lower half of his body is stretched and pounded so mercilessly and with absolutely no pauses, meaning his orgasm only registers when splatters across the floor. His sensitive cock gets no reprieve, bouncing in time with Barclays increasingly sharp thrusts and making Joseph gasp whenever it rubs against the cushion. 

His assumption that Barclay is going his fastest goes out the window when the centaur quickens his pace, Josephs wrists and ankles twisting in their bonds as his mind falls silent. All he hears is Barclay grunting as his cock tries to go deeper into his ass. 

“C’mon babe, c’mon, take it, take me deep, take the whole godsdamn fucking thingohfuck, Joe.” There’s a deep, broken cry as cum pumps into him, his body aching at the further intrusion. Barclay whimpers and moans above him, hips still jerking as he keeps cumming. By the time he gives a final thrust, cum is escaping back down his shaft, Joseph’s body unable to contain it. 

“Do, do you want me to pull out all at once?”

“Yes, best to get the mess over with instead of dragging oOWut.” His body gives up any pretense of supporting itself when the centaur slides out of him. Thank goodness for the cushions. Barclay isn’t faring any better, knees wobbling as he undoes Josephs’ restraints and helps him to the bed. The orc just manages to remember to toss a towel out for him to lay on so he doesn’t stain the bed sheets with the spend still running down his legs. 

Barclay nestles protectively around him, guiding his head to rest on the still-shiny fur of his back, “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“For us. I don’t know if you noticed, but I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“Kinda got that sense, yeah.”  Barclay rests their heads together, “Even so just...thanks. Thanks for taking the time and effort it takes to fuck me.”

Joseph toys with Barclay’s hair, tucks it behind his ears, “Barclay, I love you. Part of that means figuring things like this out together. Even if being with you, in any sense of the word, was a hundred times more complicated, that wouldn’t be enough to stop me from trying.”

Barclay doesn’t ask if he means it. Instead, he draws him into a kiss, works his magic with his lips and tongue until Joseph is practically draped over him, content and exhausted. Before the centaur scoops him up for another bath, he kisses his cheek and rumbles, “Thanks, babe. And I love you too.”

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

The better to taste you with, sweetheart

(Hayffie trick-or-treat 🧡 🔥 NSFW. Sexual content. Thanks @chocolateshipcookieblog for the prompt. This fic is a bit all over the place, but so is Halloween, so I just went with what came up. District 12 started feeling a little like Stars Hollow, so I kind of embraced that too. Now I can’t look at a lollipop without picturing it in Effie’s mouth, and I’m not complaining 🍭. Writing this was fun and touching.)

***

A fire burned in a wood stove in the corner of the Hob where people gathered for the town hall meeting. The large brick building held the chill of early autumn. Effie shivered, regretting her decision to wear only a sweater rather than a coat. She huddled close to Peeta. Sae’s granddaughter held Effie’s hand in a childlike way, swinging her arm periodically. Effie didn’t mind the connection with the unusual woman who was her neighbor now. That evening she appreciated the warmth of her hand.

“I told ‘em they were buildin’ this place too big,” Greasy Sae said matter-of-factly, not caring if the mayor or anyone in particular heard her or not. “A body gets cold in here no matter the size of the crowd.”

“Sure beats the heat in summer,” a man behind them said.

Effie peered over her shoulder and recognized him as one of the spice traders. “Spice” was a term used loosely in 12 to refer to dried roots, stems, bulbs, barks, and herbs, including tabacco and cannabis.

“Summer gets real hot.” He glanced at Effie from her forehead to her shoulders, then his eyes shot back up without gazing further. It was a look she knew well now. In 12, no one in his right mind stared wantonly at Haymitch’s girl, at least not openly, even when they were drunk or stoned.

The town hall had drawn a decent size crowd. More folks started showing up at those meetings once the council stopped hosting them every month and switched to quarterly. The people of each district had representatives and a governor, but those positions dealt with broad political issues, leaving local issues to be facilitated by a mayor and a town council.

It was Effie’s first autumn since letting go of her apartment in the Capitol, and Peeta was a dear to be joining her that night since she hadn’t wanted to go alone. She figured the only way she’d stop feeling like an outsider in 12 was to walk the line awhile between being present and being nonintrusive. She had a lifetime of experience walking lines much finer and more perilous than that one, so the task suited her.

The Hob filled with the fragrance of coffee brewing. People in attendance sipped mugs of it and devoured the muffins Peeta brought, baked with fruit from pawpaw trees. Katniss had encountered a grove of them in the woods. The fruit dropped in late summer and early fall, and Katniss gathered up what she found after hunts.

The mayor called the meeting to order and proceeded with the usual agenda: reconstruction updates, old business, new business, and so on. Effie was fairly bored until some new business sparked her interest.

“Since last year’s revival of All Hallows’ Eve was well received,” the mayor said, “The council invites all to attend this year’s festivities which will be held on the last night of October. We’ll have a bonfire again at the meadow’s edge to honor the departed. In the first two hours after sunset, everyone is encouraged to participate in the ancient tradition of guising.”

“Guising?” Effie murmured the question to Peeta.

He whispered back, “Dressing up in costume — mostly creatures from old stories. And going door to door after dark for treats — sweet foods, coins for children, liquor for adults.”

Costumes, sweets, money, alcohol... that sounded to Effie like regular living in the old days of the Capitol. But this tradition, one night each year under the cover of darkness, was something unique. In the Capitol they’d only celebrated national holidays.

The mayor continued, “Spread the word... anyone planning to offer treats, please remember to light a lantern or a candle on your doorstep in order to avoid the — confusion — we had last year.”

“Confusion?” Effie quietly asked Peeta again.

“Pranks on people who were home but not answering their doors: knocking late into the night, tossing a few eggs at windows, minor mischief.”

Effie could guess who probably refused to answer his door. This year that was going to change if she had anything to say about it, which of course she did.

***

On the last evening in October, Haymitch slouched on the sofa in front of a fire with his feet propped up on the coffee table. The flames burned low, but he felt too lazy to add another log. He reached instead for his glass of whiskey.

He could already hear people gathering near the meadow. Bonfire, music, dancing... traditions to honor the dead. Folks were saying that a long time ago All Hallows’ Eve was celebrated as some “sacred” night when the “veil between worlds” is thin and the dead are close. Katniss had a few memories of her father telling *ghost* stories that his mother used to sing about. The old lady had been a strange one for sure. To Haymitch it all seemed like load of horse shit since “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever.

“Traditions” for Haymitch had always meant the ones that happened under Snow’s control. Reaping Day had been the big “holiday.” Work paused and citizens dressed up. Those were government orders. Eventually people shamed their neighbors who didn’t stop working and didn’t wear nice clothes. They no longer needed government to do the punishing about not following traditions because people did it to each other. Families whose children didn’t get reaped celebrated quietly, behind closed doors, reserving special food for the occasion if they could afford to do so. *Holiday traditions* didn’t sit well with Haymitch.

“Manners!” Effie scolded as she approached from the kitchen and saw his bare feet on the coffee table.

“Loosen your corset. There’s a coaster right here.” He said it without looking at her.

Not wanting to start an argument just then, she bit her tongue as she moved toward the fireplace. “I’m not wearing a corset tonight.”

His peripheral vision caught a flash of red, and he turned to watch her. She wore a velvet cloak buttoned down the front. She pulled off a long satin glove before grabbing a log to throw on the fire.

His eyes passed over her from head to toe then back up again. “What’s this?” he asked, with a smile on his face.

She slipped her glove back on and confronted him with her hands on her hips. The hood of her cloak was pulled up, and her hair peeked from beneath, framing her face in blonde curls. Her makeup was light, apart from her lipstick which was as crimson as blood.

“My costume, for guising.”

His expression was a mix of intrigue, amusement, and irritation.

“I told you weeks ago that we’re going, and I mean it! Posy’s already on her way over here. I’m paying that girl a small fortune to hand out cookies and quarters and whiskey, so Hazelle doesn’t have to wash dried egg off YOUR window panes tomorrow like Peeta said she had to do last year.”

“Whiskey?! I didn’t agree to give out liquor to freeloaders.”

“Everyone is doing it. You’ll be receiving as much as you’re giving away.” Effie sat beside him on the couch, crossing her legs so the cloak parted near the fur-lined hem where she’d left a couple of buttons unfastened. Above knee-high boots, her thighs were covered in lace stockings.

“You’ll be wearing that?” His mouth watered for treats other than food and drink.

“All evening.”

He reached out to her thigh, but she smacked his hand before he could touch her.

“What the hell!” He sat up straight, aroused by the sting of the slap as much as by her appearance.

“You get to touch me when we’re out of the house, not before!”

“That’s extortion.”

“That’s PATIENCE... and holiday spirit!” She softened the blow by adding, “...I’ll be touching you too — if you want.”

Yeah, I want. “No corset? Hmmm. So what are you wearing under that cloak?”

“You’ll see tonight — after we visit everyone, and we’re home.”

“That’s more extortion!”

“That’s more patience.”

“And what am I supposed to wear?”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. With me dressed like this, they’re not going to be looking at you.”

***

Twilight was fading, and the last trace of blue drained from the sky. Effie had never seen more stars than she did when looking up from the clearings of 12. She slipped a flat round disk of hard candy from a wax paper sleeve and held it up by its wooden stick.

“Shine the lantern on it,” she directed, “I want to see the color.”

The lantern swung casually at Haymitch’s side. He didn’t lift it up. “Why’d you insist on us bringing this thing when we could each be using a flashlight? Or better yet, sitting at home where there’s electricity. Or lying in bed pretending we’re not home.”

“If we’re in bed, then people coming to the door are going to know we’re home. I wouldn’t be quiet, and you’d wind up smothering me with a pillow.”

“That sounds accurate.”

“Besides, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Too dark to find it.”

“What’s too dark — the night or you?”

“Both.”

She stopped walking, and he followed suit. With him it was always easier to catch flies with honey. She slid the basket of gathered treats over her wrist. It was growing heavy with pastries, fresh and dried fruits, nuts, and confections like taffy from the sweet shop in the Hob.

She reached above the zipper of his coat and stroked the hollow between his collarbones. “I like the darkness in you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere when I’m freezing my ass off.” Her fingertips were warm, red satin against his throat. The gloves stretched from her hands to her elbows. When she’d pulled them on earlier that evening, he wanted her to touch him right then.

“Let’s see...” She moved her hand away. When he was about to protest, she nestled her body against his and slipped her gloved fingers beneath his coat, into the back waistband of his pants. “Your ass is still here, and it’s not frozen.”

She teased his flesh without grasping, drawing him out with her, not home for sex. He felt the difference. If he wanted something now other than this “guising” nonsense, then he’d need to do some coaxing of his own.

He encircled her waist with one arm and murmured against her temple. “Why do you need a lantern when you can just taste the thing?”

With her hand in his pants, her mind started spinning things she wanted to taste. The heels of her boots brought her mouth up close to his. He smelled like the wool hat and sweater he’d dug out from the cedar chest, the ale they’d been given at the previous house, and bites of chocolate.

“What ‘thing’ would I be tasting?”

“That lollipop ...unless you have something else in mind.”

Even as she clenched the thin wooden dowel, she’d forgotten it. “A lick would be good...” She touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of his mouth. “...But maybe I’ll need to suck on it awhile.”

Reluctantly she slipped out from the warmth of him and pulled away, transferring the basket of treats back to her hand.

He lifted the lantern, otherwise it would have been too dark to watch her suck on that stick of candy, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to miss that.

She opened her mouth slowly and met the lollipop with her tongue, then lingered a moment before drawing the candy inside. She pursed her lips around the stick, and her cheeks sucked in. Her tongue moved side to side awhile, savoring the flavor. When she pulled the stick out, her lips were still puckered. The candy followed, glistening in the lantern light.

Her mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s okay to blink now,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “So how does it taste?”

“Find out for yourself.”

She held out the lollipop, but he didn’t take it. Instead he wrapped his hand, gloved in leather, around her satin-clad one. He tugged her toward him, and tasted her. She was sticky sweet, like white sugar sprinkled over warm berries.

The kiss sent the sweetness coursing through her. Her breath came out in a rush over his tongue. He felt it everywhere.

“Damn, Effie. Let’s go home. I wanna take off your cloak. I can hardly feel anything with these gloves on.”

He was tempting, but she steeled herself against temptation. “Not yet. We haven’t been to the mayor’s house or the bonfire.”

“The bonfire? Shit. You didn’t say anything about that.”

“It was implied.”

In the lantern light, she watched him scowl.

“Implied...” she leaned in again and murmured against his neck, “...Like the sex we’ll be having later. I didn’t say anything about doing that either, but you know we will.”

“Fine. ...While I’m waiting, feel free to keep sucking on that candy.”

Effie slid the basket over her wrist again, laced her fingers with his, and enticed him with the lollipop between her lips as they strolled on.

***

“Ah, what do you know! It’s Haymitch Abernathy, out on All Hallows’ Eve. Effie, you’ve accomplished a miracle.” The mayor poured them each a cupful of brandy.

“This is WONDERFUL, Taylor. It’s the council that’s accomplished a miracle.” Effie sipped the drink. The ability to make small talk with anyone was a long rehearsed part of her skill set.

“You are dazzling in red. Why don’t you wear that color more often?”

“I save it for special occasions.”

“Haymitch, who are you supposed to be? ...The woodcutter?”

“I’m pretending to be a nice guy.” He downed the brandy in a single gulp.

“Ah, a wolf in sheep’s clothing! Well, ‘nice guy’ looks much better on you than the *grumpy old man* costume you wore last year.”

“Very funny...”

Effie half-expected the words to be followed by a snide “sweetheart.”

The mayor dropped a brown paper package tied with blue ribbon into Effie’s basket of treats. “Fudge. From the sweet shop. After last year’s pumpkin explosion, I’ve sworn off baking.”

“When I visit Peeta or Sae’s kitchens, they make me sit on a stool and drink coffee.”

“That’s not a bad deal.”

“I agree.”

The mayor glanced around, then whispered, “Truth be told, I overcooked the pumpkin intentionally, figuring I’d be spared future requests for baked goods. But the explosion was a surprise.”

“My lips are sealed.” Effie finished her drink, and they handed the glasses back to the mayor.

“I’m heading to the bonfire. How about you two?”

“We were just about to—“ Effie started, but Haymitch interrupted with his hand on her back.

“—make another stop. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

***

“What other stop?” she asked when they were walking on the road again.

He slid his hand up her back and grasped the nape of her neck, caressing her through the velvet. “I didn’t get all *dressed up* tonight to spend time with the mayor. I wanna be with you.”

She wrapped her arm around him and hooked her thumb on his waistband. “I want to be with you too. It’s almost too bad there are people crawling all over town tonight.“

“Come here.” He lead her around the side of the Hob.

“I am NOT making out with you behind the dumpster!”

“Keep going. I know what you like and what you don’t.”

The back of the building was steeped in shadow. There were a couple of pallets stacked high with wood for the stoves. He lead her along the narrow passage between them to a spot sheltered under the eaves.

He took the basket from her hands and set it on the ground along with the flickering lantern. She smiled as she backed up against the brick wall. “Do you bring all the girls here?”

“Just you... Red.” He pulled off his gloves and dropped them beside the basket. “I’m done waiting to touch you.”

He held her hips and pulled her lightly against him. One hand shifted to the small of her back. The other brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. The crimson color lingered elsewhere now, on the rims of unwashed liquor glasses and a discarded lollipop stick. Her lips parted, naked and soft.

“I want this mouth on me.”

“Where, honey?” She was already inching down the zipper of his coat.

“You choose.”

She snuggled against his sweater. His body was warm and hard, and she immediately wanted more than what she felt was accessible in the shadow of the Hob.

Her hands touched him first before her mouth. Satin fingertips traced around his coat collar, pushing it low. She sucked the tendons on the side of his neck, up to his jaw and back. Then she bit down.

He flinched, groaning in a mix of pain and pleasure. He gripped her wrists, holding her against him rather than pushing her away. “Is that how you want to play this?”

“Uh huh,” she mumbled against his neck, kissing gently now. “I’m making some marks. Everybody in this town is treating me like I’m *yours*. If that’s how it’s going to be, they should know you’re mine too.”

“I haven’t been telling ‘em anything.”

“They know it just the same.” She plucked kisses like a rope around his throat, then bit him on the other side.

He let it all happen, anticipating the sensations, and flinching again. He nudged her against the wall, letting her feel what she was doing to his body. “You know, I can get you off right here,” he said.

The same force that spent a decade pulling her to 12 was tugging at her now. Everything inside her melted like that lollipop in a mouthful of hot brandy. The temptation was too much. “We have to be quick. Anyone might find us.”

“So what? If they see you fucking me, that’ll offer ‘em more clarity about us than you biting up my neck.”

“Haymitch, there are children!”

“So we’ll keep our clothes on and stay quiet... mostly. No kids are gonna be scarred — not even you, sweetheart.” He toyed with the top button of her cloak.

“How do YOU want to play this?” she asked.

“I wanna see you.” He unhooked the buttons, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, waiting to take in the sight of her all at once, whatever it might be.

After the last button was unfastened, she didn’t wait for him to open her cloak. She did it herself.

Damn... She’d been walking all over town wearing nothing under that thing except a white neglige and a thong. Both were made of some sheer fabric that hid little to nothing of her. The thin silk straps around her hips matched the ones over her shoulders.

“Effie...” He wanted her. Every bit of her. And he knew the thing that people had been thinking was true. She had him. Nothing was changing that, unless he drank himself to death, or she left him — whichever came first. Later, when more blood was flowing to his brain, he might be afraid of that awareness. But for now he was hers.

“Surprise.” She beamed. “You better come closer, or I’m going to be the one freezing my ass off.”

His arms went around her within the cloak, and he crushed her against him, taking in the sensations of her with his hands and mouth.

Her palms skimmed up his back under his shirt. “Closer...” she urged.

“You first.”

She’d spent a long portion of her life in gloves. Her fingers were nearly as dexterous within fabric as they were bare. She opened his pants and pulled his dick into her hands, working him between her palm and fingers. He thought about letting her make him come like that. But he wanted to be inside her.

His hands were warm when they slipped into her thong, bracketing her with fingers in her folds and spiraling just above. When he touched her, everything quickened. She stroked him with insistence and moved against his hands with rapid cadence.

Far too much noise was coming from her throat. “Where’s that pillow so I can smother you?” he teased.

“Just fuck me,” she pleaded, “Now before we’re arrested.”

He untangled his hands from her thong. She lifted one of her legs, and he hiked it up in the crook of his elbow, flattening his palm against the wall. The heels of her boots brought her up to a perfect height to fuck like this. She slid her thong to the side, and he dipped within her — plunging, stirring. She met his thrusts with her own.

He clutched her waist and pressed her against the bricks, commanding stillness. “Don’t move your hips.”

“What!” she huffed, “Fuck you, Haymitch! I’m so close.”

“PATIENCE,” he teased with her inflection in his voice, “Wait for it, and it’ll be better. You know I’m right.”

She knew.

He was close too. She was all satin and velvet inside and out. Her breasts brushed against his sweater. It was so much.

She was crying out, and “Shhh” was accomplishing nothing. He covered her mouth with his palm. His pinky pressed against her nostrils. She could breathe, but barely. They’d played this game before. Adrenaline surged through her body as she came undone. She clung to his neck as her thighs shook. Her whimpers passed through the closed slits between his fingers. Her eyes were wild in shadow, never leaving his.

“I know, honey. I’m right here... Oh, fuck. I know... Goddamn it... Effie...” He heard her name several times as he climaxed. He must have been the one saying it, since his hand was still covering her mouth.

When he let go of her, she sucked in the night air, still clutching his neck. She was high. So high like this.

“Are you okay?” He panted.

She caught her breath. “The mayor, Greasy Sae, the damn spice trader, they’re all right... I’m yours. I just am. It’s like breathing. Even when it’s hard to do, I’m still yours.” — It was the closest she would come to a declaration of love.

Her words moved through him like the music he heard in the distance. He was chuckling, not knowing exactly why. Release mostly. The lantern flickered near their feet. The hood of her cloak had slipped back, and her curls were stretching into wisps, fatigued like his body. She was so beautiful.

“I’m pretty sure my neck is bleeding now, so apparently that makes me yours too.”

“Oh...” Oxytocin was working its magic, and she filled with empathy. She pushed the coat off his shoulders so she could see. Her teeth marks were there, but no blood was dripping. She slapped his chest. “You’ll live.”

They pulled apart far enough to put themselves back into a semblance of order: readjusting, covering, zipping, and buttoning up. Then he held her until she was warm enough to move out again into the night.

***

They returned to the road, rather than cutting through the meadow. Yeah, “dead” meant decayed to bones, then nothing and gone forever, but Haymitch still didn’t want to be walking across a mass grave, no matter how thick the grasses were growing, no matter that flowers would pop up in spring.

Effie felt the energy of the evening diffusing. Sparks from the bonfire floated away on the breeze with red maple leaves. Haymitch carried her basket in the crook of his elbow where her leg had been settled a short while before. In that same hand he held the lantern. Both of her arms wrapped around his free one, the way he held her sometimes in sleep.

That night, children who had never known the Games wore their blankets around their shoulders to be heroes or over their heads to be ghosts. They cuddled their blankets in their arms as they grew tired and snuggled against their parents, or whoever they had left to love them. Effie’s Nana had held her like that, once upon a time. Many years passed before she experienced again that quality of feeling.

She squeezed Haymitch’s arm tighter, and her eyes filled with tears. If someone had asked her all the reasons why, she couldn’t have told them. Some emotions are too layered to translate into words on cards. They’re unexplainable to an audience of even one.

She paused. “Let’s go home.”

“No bonfire?”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay. Ain’t nothing there that you and I don’t already have right here.” — It was the closest he would come to a declaration of love.

Whether they were taking the path of pins or the path of needles was irrelevant. The thing they had — the one that drew him out and filled her up —was always leading them the same place.

“Let’s stop first at the kids’ porch.” Effie added, “Peeta told me he was dressing up in Katniss’s hunting jacket, and he was going to try to wrangle her into wearing one of his aprons.”

“That I’d like to see... But don’t go getting any ideas.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that hat of yours, and there’s no way I’m letting you borrow this cloak.”

“The mayor did say I look dazzling in red,” he joked.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint the mayor. ...I’ll let you wear my lipstick.”

“Only if you kiss it onto me then kiss it right off again.”

Some *traditions* might not be so bad after all.

[ayellowbirds]

Pre-senting, here upon this very first night of November, elsewise known as National Novel-Writing Month, the sequel to Cypora’s Guide to Becoming an Evil Queen! A tall tale centered upon the not-so sinister destiny of an autistic trans girl in a world of high fantasy based upon both Jewish and North American folklore and legends.

Here we are! The first 1817 or so words, a bit earlier than planned, because I reached a stopping point and need to rest after a nervous day at work. The text is below the Read More, but first, a reminder: NaNoWriMo is a big undertaking, and it will mean a lot to have some support and encouragement. How can you do that?

Keep your eye on the Cypora’s Guide to Cementing Your Rule as an Evil Queen tag on my blog. Story updates and thoughts will be posted there.

Look back at the tag for the original story, here; the posts from last year of the original, un-edited draft of the story can be found about halfway down this page.

Tell me about your favorite characters from the story—or draw them, if you like! You can find visual references in the art tag, or look at the stuff that inspires me, visually, in the inspiration tag.

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Got any questions about Cypora’s Guide, the characters, or the setting? Feel free to send them to me!

And now;

30th day of the month of Vernary, the year 5647 CC

Alícha de Matos sat in a corner, staring into a cup of coffee that was long past even being counted as lukewarm, much less hot. She’d arrived in the small café in the “city” of Berry Hill when it opened in the morning, as she had done every morning since the end of the sabbath. Three days of making the gesture of ordering an overpriced mug, three days of waiting and watching.

By now, she had memorized every small detail of the café, from the mismatched chairs and tables, to the aging broadsheets and posters nailed to the walls from the days of the revolution, before she was born. Caricatures of the Icarian Empire and its leadership as monsters more grotesque than any she’d faced in the depths of a dungeon, and bold illustrations of revolutionary leaders in now faded colors. On the wall beside her, the red mane of Velvela had turned a sort of orangey-pink, like lox left out a little too long.

She was starting to think that the word she’d put out had been a waste of time, and the advertisements a waste of money. In a larger community, she’d have just hit up the local adventuring guilds, but Berry Hill was too small, too rural to even have a guild office run out of someone’s house or in the back of a shop.

Someone less familiar with adventurers—say, a wealthy citizen seeking to hire a swordswoman, spellcaster, or shootist to slay some monsters—might have assumed that a tavern, saloon, or bar would be the place to go to find them. And sure, that would be the case if you wanted to hire someone who had already won treasure and was happy to spend it on overpriced brandy.

But an actual adventurer looking for others like herself? Well, Alícha knew that the place to start was anywhere that served coffee or tea. She looked out at the crowd over a mug that she had only bothered to sip from when the café owner started to look sour at her, and tried to judge the current small crowd.

The first type coffeehouses attracted were ordinary people of the land looking for a kosher indulgence. Second were foreigners, visitors from outside the former Icarian Empire who were curious about what life was like now that the Icosans were either dead or gone. These showed up because of the third type: former revolutionaries, and those of like mind. The common sentiment was that the revolution started over a hot cup of dark roast, though Alícha was sure that café owners were the ones who popularized the idea. Whatever the truth of it, late nights of planning and strategic meetings over brown-stained maps had created a lifelong coffee habit, and the revolutionary generation and their children had proven the best thing for the business.

That generation was key. When the revolution—really, a great many small revolutions, rebellions, and insurgencies that happened to roughly coincide—achieved lasting victory, many of those at the forefront turned to seeking out treasures hidden away in the labyrinths and fortresses created by the Dungeon System. The most noble* claimed they were trying to liberate centuries of stolen wealth and property.

This café did not attract the most noble adventurers, but she hoped it would at least attract a few. Alícha looked out over those seated, standing at the counter, or loitering near the entrance, where a golem in a sandwich-board sign hawked extra-cheap cups of the weakest brew the café offered, a mix of leftovers and chicory root.

A western-looking woman in a lilac headscarf near the counter, haggling over exchange rates; most likely a foreigner passing through. Berry Hill might be a speck of dirt on the map, but it was a speck on the side of a major road, and travelers from afar often passed through. Other probable foreigners included the trio in fine black garb heavily decorated with colorful beadwork and copper, probably far-easterners† of the type who had brought coffee to the people of the land in the first place.

Seated further back was a woman who had been just as much a regular at the café as Alícha herself; all delicate features and the softness of a pampered lifestyle, with long blonde hair that curled beneath a red scarf in the way that suggested deliberate alteration rather than natural growth. Her green eyes met Alícha’s, and her expression hardened. A snob who thought herself trendy and important.

Among the lingerers out front, there was a more promising figure, who had something of the look of a lumberjack of the northwoods. Well, a lumberjack if clothed by someone who had forgotten when to stop knitting or weaving. Red plaid not as a shirt, but a robe that reached near enough to the ground that its ends were frayed and mud-stained, paired with a tuque that extended so far that Alícha thought it might have been originally intended as a thigh-length stocking for a giantess, rather than a hat.

The promising part was none of this, but the too-long sword strapped to the figure’s back by way of a bandolier that also lashed a very large bag to their hip. When they moved, Alícha saw what looked at that distance like an unusually large assortment of membership badges from adventuring unions and guilds. As the person turned to enter the café proper and come into better view, this was confirmed. The flannel of their shirt-robe parted to reveal faded blue trousers reinforced with old-fashioned plates of armor, and boots that were either gray-brown or else far too encrusted with mud to make their real color visible.

They made their way through the cafe, casting wide smiles that showed too few teeth, with several of those that remained well-chipped. Alícha could not guess at their gender from their appearance, though she supposed that it wasn’t proper to make that kind of assumption in the first place. She’d dealt with that enough in her childhood.

The likely adventurer reached into a pocket, and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, and shook it out, then looked around the café.

“Hey, uh,” they said in far louder a voice than was needed for the small coffeehouse interior or the volume of conversation therein, taking a sip of coffee from a cup at an abandoned table before continuing, “anyone know anything about this here ad looking for adventurers and such as?”

They were met with brief glances and a few expressions of contempt, but Alícha raised a hand and waved to herself.

The cracked grin returned, and the newcomer sat down heavily on the chair opposite Alícha without turning it around the proper way. A good thing, too, with the size of the sword on their back, which Alícha hoped they could actually use. This close, they did look to have the muscles for it, but many a new adventurer grabbed the biggest and scariest weapon they could without consideration for how to actually fight with it.

“Oh hey, you’re scrappy looking and suchlike,” they said as they scooted the chair closer. “Name’s Broke, on account of my pop had a bad sense of taste for a feller named Moneymaker. I’m here about the advertisement, likewise I said.”

Alícha boggled for a moment. “Your name,” she began, and hesitated, “is ‘Broke Moneymaker’?”

“Sure as a skunk is striped,” Broke replied, passing Alícha a card‡. “Excepting those as has spots.”

The card was not a typical business-card; in fact, it was a playing-card with text hand-written over the back in surprisingly precise and bold ink. Broke tapped a deck of other cards back into place in a box, while Alícha took a closer look.

BROKE A. MONEYMAKER

Ze/Zir

PRO-FESSIONAL ADVENTURER, BODYGUARD,

BOOK-KEEPER,

SWORD-SWINGER AND INK-SLINGER

“SUMS AND CRITTERS A SPECIALTY”

“I’m afraid I don’t have a card, myself,” Alícha said, offering a handshake. “My name is Alícha de Matos, of Martıkoy.”

She recalled the format of the card, and added, “she, and her.”

“Proper excellent and good to meet you, Miss de Matos,” Broke replied, returning the offered hand. Ze had some sort of curious tube or hose wrapped around zir wrist, with the rest continuing further up zir sleeve. “Say, wait a minute or less. Ain’t you the Alícha such as some people been calling ‘the Breaker’, on account of what you done to dungeons?”

“Is that what they’ve been calling me?” Alícha sighed, and fussed with her eyepatch. “I suppose I’ve been doing things on my own for too long.”

“That’d be whatfor you made this bill of advertisement?” Broke guessed, waggling the paper. It was not the only one Alícha had paid to have posted, or else she might have been uncomfortable with Broke so casually keeping it to zirself.

“Yes, it is,” Alícha said, patting the paper down flat on the table and stopping the crinkling noise it made. “I’ve realized there are reasons I should involve myself in the adventuring community more, and either join, or if necessary, form a party.”

“Well that sounds reasonable,” Broke replied, the grin returning. Alícha wondered just how much sugar the strange-speaking androgyne ate on a regular basis. “One presumes such terms and conditions for party formation as are de-fault across most unions and guilds?”

She shrugged. “As I said, I’ve not been very involved in the community. We can go over what I had in mind, and I would welcome suggestions.”

Alícha and Broke started to discuss the fine contractual details of forming an adventuring party, including division of resources and starting finances as well as shares of any treasure, even pausing so that Broke could order zirself a proper cup of coffee on Alícha’s coin. In spite of the oddities of zir speech, Alícha quickly realized that ze had a mind for details that gave truth to zir card. Considering that canniness, Alícha made a point to keep quiet on exactly the reasons she wanted to get a closer look at the adventuring community. Her recent defeat seemed spurred by a hatred of adventurers not only by monsters, but humans as well. If there was reason for ordinary people to mistrust adventurers, it might be that there was corruption in the community. Getting more involved might be risky, but she needed to find out for herself.

She was focused enough on this and the discussion, that she didn’t notice the close attention the pampered blonde paid her or Broke.

* Or at least, those who most ardently insisted on their nobility. 

† Said “far-easterners” referred to themselves as being from the west, which was generally confusing for everyone involved, requiring the matter to be ignored during discussions. This led to a lot of circuitous avoidance of giving directions, especially difficult in planning trade routes.

‡ The Knave of Swords, in this case. 

[hazeleyedleto]

Matters Of The Heart Part Two

       You hold a hand up to your mouth, stifling a yawn that doesn’t go missed by Jared’s piercing eyes. “Still not sleeping good yet?”, he tosses out the question and drinks from the steaming mug in front of him. The two of you are currently sitting in a coffee shop a few blocks away from where you’re partaking in painting a mural on the side of the old library, with several other local artists.

       "Not really", you shrug, tracing your thumb up and down the handle of your own coffee cup. You had been engulfed in outlining the background for the main focus of your part of the art piece, way ahead of your schedule, when Jared stumbled along and invited you for a drink since he hadn’t seen you in a couple of days. It was a little chilly out for this time of the year, so you agreed, figuring that a little break and a warm beverage wouldn’t hurt anything. After submerging your paint brush in an old bucket of water and letting the others know you would be back in a bit, you and Jared headed to the cozy little cafe.

       Jared gives a small smile, but doesn’t push you any further on the subject. He mentioned something about smoking some pot the third day he’d seen you with dark bags under your eyes. He figured it would help you mellow out, and make slumbering a regular thing for you again. Your first choice would have been to drink away any cares, but that was quickly weeded out with any smell even resembling alcohol making your stomach churn angrily. That bitter scent was now tied in with regret, it being a big culprit in helping you mess up the best thing in your life; Shannon. When you were sixteen and your parents had passed away, you were sent to live with your aunt. It was there in your sophomore year of high school that you met Shannon, Jared, and Tomo, those three guys becoming the best of friends to you.

       It was eating you alive that in a very short span of time, you did to Shannon’s fiance Emma what Jackson had done to you; and it wasn’t something that you would ever feel good about. Any time you would think about it, shame would burn you to no end. In all honesty you didn’t intentionally set out to have sex with Shannon, you’re still baffled at how it even came to happen, yet at the same time grateful for the heavy drinking that only let you recall minimal details.

       In the two weeks following the incident, you and Shannon exchanged a few texts about it, you telling him that it was his choice if he wanted to tell Emma what happened; but you would take the secret to your grave. You were adamant about how things should be; and Shannon’s calls, messages, and knocks on your door all went ignored. In your mind, you’re lower than scum and Shannon deserves better than you from a best friend. To further that, you were punishing yourself by not allowing yourself any vices to numb your feelings.

       Jared had now become your number one. He practically bought out the stock of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream from Costco for you and camped out on your couch for a whole week, lending a damn good shoulder for you to cry on when you needed to, and just was a comforting presence. As far as you knew, he had no idea what transpired between you and Shannon, and you were more than happy to have the breakup with Jackson to mask your sadness at ending the friendship.

       Once your drinks are finished, you deem it time for you to go back and finish painting, with Jared kindly accompanying on the walk when a familiar black car creeps up, stopping right beside you guys on the sidewalk and rolling the window down. “Bro, we gotta head out to Neon Lights”, Tomo calls out from behind the steering wheel to Jared.

       "Oh shit, I forgot about that", Jared’s eyes widen and he shows an apologetic expression.

       "Monique, wanna come with?“, Tomo invites you along. They have a small show to perform at a rinky dink bar in a few towns over. "Come have a couple drinks while we play.”

       You do your best to pretend like you don’t see Shannon sitting in the passenger seat, looking between Jared and Tomo.

       "Yeah. Come on", your former best friend, or whatever his label is right now chimes in, hope adorning his face.

       You shake your head. “Nah. Still not over my last binge. Thinking about drinking makes me nauseous. Besides”, you nervously pull the beanie tighter over your hair trying your hardest to avoid Shannon sitting in the passenger seat. “I gotta finish something up”.        "Just what the hell happened last time you got shit-faced?“, a curious Jared inquires.

       Thankfully Tomo decides to take a path down memory lane before you can try to force out a lie. "I’m still not over the time you flashed the cops”, he exclaims, making all of you erupt in laughter at the reminder.

       All four of you were drunk and walking along the main strip of whatever town you were in, bar-hopping when somehow a game of truth or dare got started up, and you got dared to flash the next car that came by. Never one to pass up an adventure, you pulled your shirt and bra up, giving a peek of your boobs to the man driving by in a yellow Camaro. He honked his horn in response, spurring the game on even further. “Again”, an easily amused Tomo requested, three sheets to the wind and easily entertained.

       "Dude, no. Just my luck it’ll be the po-po next", you waved your hand in dismissal.

       "Ten bucks says she doesn’t have the balls", Shannon baited you.

       "Game on", you countered and waited for another to car to drive along, considering it was two o'clock in the morning and traffic was extremely light. Not much time passed before another vehicle advanced and both your shirt and bra we’re yanked you by your own hands once again.

       Low and behold, no sooner than said vehicle drove past when a pair of flashing blue and red lights on top of the car suddenly came on and illuminated the night sky.

        You don’t know who took off running first, but you decided to try and follow suit. Just as luck would have it, you ended up landing on your knees six feet away after twisting your ankle.

       Less than five minutes later after being let off with a warning by two amused cops, Shannon, Jared, and Tomo all crept out from the alley they had dodged into. “Fuckers”, you snarled at them and held your hand out to collect your earnings, making them each pay you ten dollars for being chicken shits; along with forcing them take turns giving you piggy back rides back to the car since your ankle was swollen and painful. *************************************************************************        Luckily for you, you’re able to manage minimal contact with Shannon once again for another couple of weeks, but that comes to an abrupt end when he saunters over to the table and invites you to dance. You’re at a party celebrating the release of Thirty Seconds To Mars’ new single, that Jared convinced you to come to. His idea of convincing meant begging you to be his date, literally on his hands and knees; complete with surprising you with a gorgeous navy blue dress in your size, a pair of Jimmy Choo stilletoes, and borrowed accessories from jeweler, Neil Lane. As if you could possibly turn down a night of being pampered like a princess, Jared pulled out one last stop, equipping you with a hair stylist, who swept your hair into an elegant updo; lifting your mood and making you feel excited to leave your apartment for the first time in a month.        This is the first time you’ve been in such close quarters with Shannon since you slept together, making you feel all kinds of awkward, but you can’t very well turn down his request without rousing suspicion, so you follow him out to the dance floor. Once there, you step into his embrace, resting a hand behind his neck, and putting your hand in his, allowing him to hold it up as the two of you began to sway together, you careful to keep your distance and look around as others dance around you. Of course with tension hanging so thickly in the air, the lack of conversation didn’t last nearly as long as you wished it would. Shannon leans down to your ear and speaks just above a whisper, so you’re the only person who can hear. “I know you feel weird since we slept together, but we can put it behind us and pretend it never happened if it’ll make you be my friend again.”

       You still momentarily at his words, searching for the right thing to say, remaining unwilling to catch his gaze. “I’m sorry. For everything. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have drank so much. I-”. Stuff you’ve been dying to get out pours from your mouth until he interrupts.

       Placing a finger under your chin, Shannon lifts your face until your eyes meet his. You’re shocked to be met not with hate or disappointment from his stare, but rather the warmth and easiness that’s usually present in those hazel eyes. “I don’t wanna lose you, Mo”, he pleads.

       His words make your heart skip a beat, mirroring your own views on the subject. Before you can voice your response, you’re suddenly spun in a circle and dipped backwards, forcing you to grab onto Shannon’s shoulders and let out several surprised shrieks. His eyes are twinkling, a hint of mischief pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’ve missed your smile.” His sentence melted away most of the tension you’d been holding onto, and you felt much more at ease than you had in some time.

       "Friends", you nod, giving your answer and stepping closer to Shannon, resting your cheek on his chest, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence, content with the status of your on-again friendship.

       Of course, anyone who is anyone knows happiness never lasts long, and that is such the case when Jackson appears in your line of vision, wearing a smug smirk. As he approaches, he eyes you up and down, taking in your appearance. “Looks like you’ve gained ten pounds since I last saw you. Surprised you could even find somebody to take your fat, lame ass out.”

       Shannon steps forward, “Leave her alone, man”, he warns Jackson, but you push your way in front of him, ready to fight your own battle. The smell of booze is strong on Jackson’s breath as you get closer to him, and after leering down at your chest, he surprises you by having enough audacity to further insult you. “Those boobs though”, he ogles your breasts like you’re an oasis and he’s been lost in the desert for a week. Just the sound of his voice makes your blood boil; if it wasn’t for him, you never would’ve been put in such a predicament with Shannon you’d just escaped from.

       Unable to control your rapidly growing aggravation, you draw your fist back and then up to Jackson’s nose with as much strength as you can muster. No sooner than your hand collides with him, you yelp in pain, stumbling backwards while cradling your hand to your heart. “Fuck, that hurt”, you yell, then stop to admire your handiwork with great satisfaction as blood runs down Jackson’s face. “But it was so worth it!”

you used my own story! so much better with 30stm in it!!!

i love this story so much, and hell yes for the punch in the face, I’d totally probably not do that, but in my head i’d want too. 

Thankks

Chapter 3 plz!

@fyeahproudglambert

[michaelfallcon]

The Essential Sprudge 2018 Holiday Gift Guide

It’s here! The 2018 holiday season is finally here, and with it, a swarm of gift guides great and cheap, big and small, for you and not even remotely for you at all.

Here at Sprudge holiday gift guides are a long-running tradition, dating back to the internet’s earlier, simpler, arguably less evil times. To kick the Guidesapalooza off this year, we tapped three of our favorite regular contributors: Jenn Chen, Zac Cadwalader, and Anna Brones. We asked them some very simple questions: What moves you? What coffee gifts would you give to a loved one? Does this spark joy?

Read on to find out, and happy holiday-ing from all of us at Sprudge.

Image by Sam Lee.

Handmade Mug and Dripper by Sam Lee

There is something particular about drinking coffee out of a handmade mug, something that helps to turn it from routine into ritual. San Francisco-based artist and ceramicist Sam Lee creates beautiful everyday objects, including those made for making and drinking coffee, and I love her style. Her work is simple yet stunning, like in the V60 dripper, glazed to balance the texture of both the smooth glaze and the rough ceramic. Any morning would be made just a little more beautiful with Lee’s work in it. – Anna Brones

Photo courtesy Umeshiso.

Rainbow Cupping Spoon

Born out of a desire to empower themselves and other marginalized folks in the industry at the cupping table, Umeko Motoyoshi created the Rainbow Spoon project. Their store, Umeshiso, has a wide array of pins, cupping spoons, and stickers for your favorite coffee professional. Sold as a single spoon or a set of six, these rainbow spoons offer a perfect bowl depth for a dip and slurp. The spoons are offered on a sliding scale basis to reflect the store’s inclusive mission. Choose to pay the at-cost fee or a few dollars more to contribute back into the project. – Jenn Chen

Terroir Coffee Chocolate and Coffee Blossom Honey

Coffee gifts don’t always have to be coffee. They can also be chocolate and honey. Coffee chocolate and coffee honey. From Terroir—the sister company of Onyx Coffee Lab—comes two tasty sweets cultivated on actual coffee farms. The cacao comes from one of three origins—Colombia, Uganda, and Guatemala—and each bean-to-bar dark chocolate is made with coffee from the same farm. The honey is from Finca El Apiario in Guatemala, produced by bees who only pollinate coffee blossoms. Not only are these products really tasty (I eat the honey on my morning yogurt daily), they are also providing auxiliary revenue streams for the farmers producing them. It’s a great coffee gift for non-coffee people that brings in additional money to the coffeelands. Win win win. – Zac Cadwalader

Image via Snow Peak.

Field Barista kit from Snow Peak

There’s a clear intersection between outdoor lovers and coffee drinkers, and Japanese lifestyle brand Snow Peak caters to the nature enthusiasts who want to ensure that their coffee game is as strong outside as it is at home. The brand’s Field Barista kit is the ultimate in outdoor coffee brewing setup, including a dripper, grinder, and kettle. You don’t have to opt for the entire set, each piece can be purchased separately. The dripper is cone shaped—which will keep your filters from collapsing—and disassembles to fit in a small bag, and the grinder’s handle easily folds down, which makes packing easier. The weight of the kit makes it geared at the kind adventures that include a base camp, or just a morning coffee brew in the local park, as opposed to journeys where weight is a consideration, but if you’ve got the whole set, you just might start to prefer brewing in your backyard to your kitchen counter. – Anna Brones

Photo courtesy Standart.

Standart Subscription

Creative types will appreciate an annual subscription (four issues) to Standart, a beautiful independent print magazine (and 2017 Sprudgie Award winner) dedicated to the art of coffee. The stories, illustrations, and photographs within its pages cover a wide range of global issues and perspectives. You’ll just as easily read a profile with a barista champion right after a piece exploring tasseography, the art of reading tea and coffee leaves. Content is at the forefront in Standart and there’s something for everyone. The subscription is available globally and comes with a bag of coffee roasted exclusively for subscribers. – Jenn Chen

Courtesy of Agate Publishing

Craft Coffee: A Manual

Getting into coffee can be intimidating. It feels like there is an entire lexicon to memorize just to learn how to make a pour-over. Luckily, there is Craft Coffee: A Manual by Jessica Easto. Easto is “not a coffee person,” as she described to Sprudge in our interview with her earlier this year, and that’s the perspective she brings to the pages of Craft Coffee. With the help of her husband and “coffee person” Andreas Willhoff, Easto covers just about everything you need to know to get started on your coffee journey, including: brewing basics, equipment, processing, and step-by-step guides for making coffee with 10 different brewing devices. It’s all the coffee info, none of the intimidation. – Zac Cadwalader

Image by Lindsey Shea.

Ebb Filter by GDS Cloth Goods

Coffee is a product that centers around origin, but while we focus on where our coffee comes from, we don’t always apply the same principles to our brewing equipment. For the coffee drinker who cares about how things are made and where they’re from, Ebb Filter is the perfect gift. This reusable filter is made from organic cotton grown in Texas, processed and woven into fabric in the Carolinas and sewn into final product the Bay Area by GDS Cloth Goods. The filters come in a variety of sizes to fit all types of brew methods, and are wrapped in biodegradable packaging. – Anna Brones

Courtesy of Melodrip

Melodrip

Buying gadgets for a coffee tinkerer can be a tall order because 1) geeky gear is often prohibitively expensive and 2) what even is that thing and how does it make coffee? For those wanting to gift something brewing-related that won’t break the bank, look no further than the Melodrip. Essentially just a dispersion screen on a stick, the Melodrip allows you to drastically cut down on the amount of agitation in the brewing process, which leads to a cleaner cup of coffee, according to the creators. After a successful Kickstarter campaign (of which I backed with my own actual dollars), the Melodrip is now in full production and available for purchase for a cool $45. – Zac Cadwalader

Photo courtesy IWCA.

Charitable Donation

A thoughtful gift for the coffee lover who doesn’t want any physical products, a charitable donation in their name goes a long way to supporting the communities who create your morning brew. Did you know that over 80% of women newly diagnosed with cervical cancer live in developing countries and that 70% of coffee farm laborers are women? Grounds for Health provides cervical cancer screenings at coffee farms. For a more general contribution to the coffeelands, the International Women’s Coffee Alliance (IWCA) works in 22 countries to empower women at the local community level. And if you’d like to invest in the next generation of farmers, Coffee Kids works with young farmers on business training and seed capital. – Jenn Chen

via It’s A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod World

Commandante Hand Grinder

I have more hand grinders than I care to mention in polite company, but whenever I go out of town and need a way to pulverize some whole beans, the Commandante manual grinder is always the one I bring with me. Besides being one of the most aesthetically pleasing grinders on the market—just look at all that wood grain!—the German-engineered Commandante is the perfect mix of portable and dependable, making it the ideal suitcase (or day pack) companion. At $250, this isn’t exactly a small gift, but, speaking from opinion here, it’s worth every penny. – Zac Cadwalader

Coffee Isn’t Rocket Science by Sebastien Racineux and Chung-Leng Tran

Have you ever been asked by friends and family how to make better coffee at home? Get them this book. Coffee Isn’t Rocket Science by Sebastien Racineux and Chung-Leng Tran (both co-owners of Hexagone Cafe in Paris) is a well-rounded guide to better understanding and making coffee. For the newly coffee acquainted, it’s a helpful tool for navigating the world of coffee, the kind of book that can always be kept close to the coffee brewing equipment. And for well-versed coffee lovers, it’s a fun resource to include in your coffee library, particular for those moments when you forget some of the basic details of the drink you love. – Anna Brones

Kaffe Box Subscription

Sometimes the best coffee gift is simply just coffee. For those who want to gift coffee but don’t know what is “good,” a subscription is always a solid place to start. As an American who makes primarily filter coffee, I have yet to find a subscription service more up my alley than Norway’s Kaffe Box. Each month, the subscription service works with a different Scandinavian roaster to deliver light-roasted coffee directly to your doorstep. Past roasters include big names like Tim Wendelboe, La Cabra, The Coffee Collective, and Koppi as well as lesser-known micro-roasters like Jacobsen og Svart, Nord, and Talor & Jorgen. To me, this is THE subscription service for lighter-roast filter coffee drinkers. But if you are buying for someone who is an espresso drinker or likes more developed coffees, Trade Coffee is where I would start. – Zac Cadwalader

Via Seal Press.

“So You Want to Talk About Race” by Ijeoma Oluo

A New York Times bestseller and book that transcends any industry lines, “So You Want to Talk About Race” is a must-read for the well-meaning ally. The book isn’t about coffee, yet like any industry built on colonialism and capitalism, race is inextricably tied to coffee. Oluo breaks down key concepts in a straightforward manner and provides the reader with tangible ways to talk about race. This is a great place to start for those who find themselves saying things like, “But what can I do?” and “I don’t know what that means” after listening to the Black Coffee podcast episodes. – Jenn Chen

The post The Essential Sprudge 2018 Holiday Gift Guide appeared first on Sprudge.

The Essential Sprudge 2018 Holiday Gift Guide published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[mrwilliamcharley]

The Essential Sprudge 2018 Holiday Gift Guide

It’s here! The 2018 holiday season is finally here, and with it, a swarm of gift guides great and cheap, big and small, for you and not even remotely for you at all.

Here at Sprudge holiday gift guides are a long-running tradition, dating back to the internet’s earlier, simpler, arguably less evil times. To kick the Guidesapalooza off this year, we tapped three of our favorite regular contributors: Jenn Chen, Zac Cadwalader, and Anna Brones. We asked them some very simple questions: What moves you? What coffee gifts would you give to a loved one? Does this spark joy?

Read on to find out, and happy holiday-ing from all of us at Sprudge.

Image by Sam Lee.

Handmade Mug and Dripper by Sam Lee

There is something particular about drinking coffee out of a handmade mug, something that helps to turn it from routine into ritual. San Francisco-based artist and ceramicist Sam Lee creates beautiful everyday objects, including those made for making and drinking coffee, and I love her style. Her work is simple yet stunning, like in the V60 dripper, glazed to balance the texture of both the smooth glaze and the rough ceramic. Any morning would be made just a little more beautiful with Lee’s work in it. – Anna Brones

Photo courtesy Umeshiso.

Rainbow Cupping Spoon

Born out of a desire to empower themselves and other marginalized folks in the industry at the cupping table, Umeko Motoyoshi created the Rainbow Spoon project. Their store, Umeshiso, has a wide array of pins, cupping spoons, and stickers for your favorite coffee professional. Sold as a single spoon or a set of six, these rainbow spoons offer a perfect bowl depth for a dip and slurp. The spoons are offered on a sliding scale basis to reflect the store’s inclusive mission. Choose to pay the at-cost fee or a few dollars more to contribute back into the project. – Jenn Chen

Terroir Coffee Chocolate and Coffee Blossom Honey

Coffee gifts don’t always have to be coffee. They can also be chocolate and honey. Coffee chocolate and coffee honey. From Terroir—the sister company of Onyx Coffee Lab—comes two tasty sweets cultivated on actual coffee farms. The cacao comes from one of three origins—Colombia, Uganda, and Guatemala—and each bean-to-bar dark chocolate is made with coffee from the same farm. The honey is from Finca El Apiario in Guatemala, produced by bees who only pollinate coffee blossoms. Not only are these products really tasty (I eat the honey on my morning yogurt daily), they are also providing auxiliary revenue streams for the farmers producing them. It’s a great coffee gift for non-coffee people that brings in additional money to the coffeelands. Win win win. – Zac Cadwalader

Image via Snow Peak.

Field Barista kit from Snow Peak

There’s a clear intersection between outdoor lovers and coffee drinkers, and Japanese lifestyle brand Snow Peak caters to the nature enthusiasts who want to ensure that their coffee game is as strong outside as it is at home. The brand’s Field Barista kit is the ultimate in outdoor coffee brewing setup, including a dripper, grinder, and kettle. You don’t have to opt for the entire set, each piece can be purchased separately. The dripper is cone shaped—which will keep your filters from collapsing—and disassembles to fit in a small bag, and the grinder’s handle easily folds down, which makes packing easier. The weight of the kit makes it geared at the kind adventures that include a base camp, or just a morning coffee brew in the local park, as opposed to journeys where weight is a consideration, but if you’ve got the whole set, you just might start to prefer brewing in your backyard to your kitchen counter. – Anna Brones

Photo courtesy Standart.

Standart Subscription

Creative types will appreciate an annual subscription (four issues) to Standart, a beautiful independent print magazine (and 2017 Sprudgie Award winner) dedicated to the art of coffee. The stories, illustrations, and photographs within its pages cover a wide range of global issues and perspectives. You’ll just as easily read a profile with a barista champion right after a piece exploring tasseography, the art of reading tea and coffee leaves. Content is at the forefront in Standart and there’s something for everyone. The subscription is available globally and comes with a bag of coffee roasted exclusively for subscribers. – Jenn Chen

Courtesy of Agate Publishing

Craft Coffee: A Manual

Getting into coffee can be intimidating. It feels like there is an entire lexicon to memorize just to learn how to make a pour-over. Luckily, there is Craft Coffee: A Manual by Jessica Easto. Easto is “not a coffee person,” as she described to Sprudge in our interview with her earlier this year, and that’s the perspective she brings to the pages of Craft Coffee. With the help of her husband and “coffee person” Andreas Willhoff, Easto covers just about everything you need to know to get started on your coffee journey, including: brewing basics, equipment, processing, and step-by-step guides for making coffee with 10 different brewing devices. It’s all the coffee info, none of the intimidation. – Zac Cadwalader

Image by Lindsey Shea.

Ebb Filter by GDS Cloth Goods

Coffee is a product that centers around origin, but while we focus on where our coffee comes from, we don’t always apply the same principles to our brewing equipment. For the coffee drinker who cares about how things are made and where they’re from, Ebb Filter is the perfect gift. This reusable filter is made from organic cotton grown in Texas, processed and woven into fabric in the Carolinas and sewn into final product the Bay Area by GDS Cloth Goods. The filters come in a variety of sizes to fit all types of brew methods, and are wrapped in biodegradable packaging. – Anna Brones

Courtesy of Melodrip

Melodrip

Buying gadgets for a coffee tinkerer can be a tall order because 1) geeky gear is often prohibitively expensive and 2) what even is that thing and how does it make coffee? For those wanting to gift something brewing-related that won’t break the bank, look no further than the Melodrip. Essentially just a dispersion screen on a stick, the Melodrip allows you to drastically cut down on the amount of agitation in the brewing process, which leads to a cleaner cup of coffee, according to the creators. After a successful Kickstarter campaign (of which I backed with my own actual dollars), the Melodrip is now in full production and available for purchase for a cool $45. – Zac Cadwalader

Photo courtesy IWCA.

Charitable Donation

A thoughtful gift for the coffee lover who doesn’t want any physical products, a charitable donation in their name goes a long way to supporting the communities who create your morning brew. Did you know that over 80% of women newly diagnosed with cervical cancer live in developing countries and that 70% of coffee farm laborers are women? Grounds for Health provides cervical cancer screenings at coffee farms. For a more general contribution to the coffeelands, the International Women’s Coffee Alliance (IWCA) works in 22 countries to empower women at the local community level. And if you’d like to invest in the next generation of farmers, Coffee Kids works with young farmers on business training and seed capital. – Jenn Chen

via It’s A Mod, Mod, Mod, Mod World

Commandante Hand Grinder

I have more hand grinders than I care to mention in polite company, but whenever I go out of town and need a way to pulverize some whole beans, the Commandante manual grinder is always the one I bring with me. Besides being one of the most aesthetically pleasing grinders on the market—just look at all that wood grain!—the German-engineered Commandante is the perfect mix of portable and dependable, making it the ideal suitcase (or day pack) companion. At $250, this isn’t exactly a small gift, but, speaking from opinion here, it’s worth every penny. – Zac Cadwalader

Coffee Isn’t Rocket Science by Sebastien Racineux and Chung-Leng Tran

Have you ever been asked by friends and family how to make better coffee at home? Get them this book. Coffee Isn’t Rocket Science by Sebastien Racineux and Chung-Leng Tran (both co-owners of Hexagone Cafe in Paris) is a well-rounded guide to better understanding and making coffee. For the newly coffee acquainted, it’s a helpful tool for navigating the world of coffee, the kind of book that can always be kept close to the coffee brewing equipment. And for well-versed coffee lovers, it’s a fun resource to include in your coffee library, particular for those moments when you forget some of the basic details of the drink you love. – Anna Brones

Kaffe Box Subscription

Sometimes the best coffee gift is simply just coffee. For those who want to gift coffee but don’t know what is “good,” a subscription is always a solid place to start. As an American who makes primarily filter coffee, I have yet to find a subscription service more up my alley than Norway’s Kaffe Box. Each month, the subscription service works with a different Scandinavian roaster to deliver light-roasted coffee directly to your doorstep. Past roasters include big names like Tim Wendelboe, La Cabra, The Coffee Collective, and Koppi as well as lesser-known micro-roasters like Jacobsen og Svart, Nord, and Talor & Jorgen. To me, this is THE subscription service for lighter-roast filter coffee drinkers. But if you are buying for someone who is an espresso drinker or likes more developed coffees, Trade Coffee is where I would start. – Zac Cadwalader

Via Seal Press.

“So You Want to Talk About Race” by Ijeoma Oluo

A New York Times bestseller and book that transcends any industry lines, “So You Want to Talk About Race” is a must-read for the well-meaning ally. The book isn’t about coffee, yet like any industry built on colonialism and capitalism, race is inextricably tied to coffee. Oluo breaks down key concepts in a straightforward manner and provides the reader with tangible ways to talk about race. This is a great place to start for those who find themselves saying things like, “But what can I do?” and “I don’t know what that means” after listening to the Black Coffee podcast episodes. – Jenn Chen

The post The Essential Sprudge 2018 Holiday Gift Guide appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge https://ift.tt/2r5Levs

[newstfionline]

Running Free in Germany’s Outdoor Preschools

By Alice Gregory, NY Times Magazine, May 18, 2017

ONE EARLY MORNING this past February, before the frost melted or the sun fully rose, 20 small children gathered in a scabby municipal park in Pankow, the northernmost borough of Berlin. The sky was gray and the ground was gray, but the children’s cheeks were bright and so were their moods. They ran in circles, shrieked with delight and spent a great deal of time rolling around atop frozen soil as traffic whizzed by just meters away. Their parents, shivering and anxious to get on with the day, paid them little mind. They smiled absent-mindedly and took sips of coffee from environmentally friendly stainless steel to-go cups.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

At the sound of the bird call, mimicked loudly and with eerie accuracy by a man in his early 40s named Picco Peters, the children gathered together and formed a tight circle. A spirited round of songs, sung in both English and German, began and was finished off by a chorus of wolf howls. The circle then dissolved and the group’s 15 older children, ranging in age from 3 to 6, marched past a community garden and toward a busy intersection. (The remaining children, who were younger, stayed in the park.) A woman named Christa Baule led the way, carrying a backpack with a three-foot-long branch sticking dangerously out of it; Peters took up the back.

The children continued to chatter until the public bus came, at which point they wordlessly formed a single-file line and climbed in. Ten minutes later, the bus stopped. Everyone was deposited at the entrance of an 84-acre public park and proceeded to run amok.

Robin Hood Waldkindergarten, which opened in 2005, is one of more than 1,500 waldkitas, or “forest kindergartens,” in Germany; Berlin alone has about 20. Most have opened in the last 15 years and are usually located in the city’s parks, with a bare-bones structure serving as a sort of home base, but others, like Robin Hood, rely on public transportation to shuttle their charges daily out into the wilderness, where they spend most of the day, regardless of weather. Toys, typically disparaged at waldkitas, are replaced by the imaginative use of sticks, rocks and leaves. A 2003 Ph.D. dissertation by Peter Häfner at Heidelberg University showed that graduates of German forest kindergartens had a “clear advantage” over the graduates of regular kindergartens, performing better in cognitive and physical ability, as well as in creativity and social development.

The American journalist Richard Louv, who coined the term “nature-deficit disorder” in his 2005 book, “Last Child in the Woods,” is cited often by Robin Hood staff, as is “Coyote’s Guide to Connecting With Nature,” by Jon Young, Ellen Haas and Evan McGown. (“Savage Park,” by Amy Fusselman, is another book that chronicles uninhibited play and was inspired by a visit to an adventure playground in Tokyo.) The pedagogical philosophy of waldkitas, which privileges outdoor play and hands-on environmental learning, comes originally from Scandinavia, but, as one teacher put it to me, “they don’t make a big fuss about it like they do here.” The trend’s non-Teutonic origins are somewhat surprising: There might be nothing “more German” than a state-funded preschool based primarily in a forest.

Germany has nearly three times as much protected land as the U.S., proportionate to the countries’ sizes, a nontrivial fact that highlights the way much of the country thinks about nature and its role in the emotional health of its citizens. “It’s terrible that kids today know all about technology but nothing about the little bird outside their window,” Peters said, gesturing out toward the woods and sounding like any number of quotable Germans, from Goethe to Beethoven to Bismarck, all of whom have rhapsodized on the psychic benefits of spending time in the forest. He continued: “In life, bad things happen--you lose your job or your partner or everyone just hates you--but you’ll always have this.”

AT AROUND 9 A.M., one child discovered a gruesome scene and pulled Baule over. “Ah,” she said, beckoning everyone else over. She pointed to the ground, where a pile of dark feathers lay lumped beneath a fir tree. She asked the children to guess who “killed” the blackbird. One small boy suggested that it was maybe the work of a fox. Baule, the school’s director, pantomimed exaggerated thought. “Well, no,” she said. “See how smooth the quill is?” The boy ran his fingers along the feather and nodded. “That means it was plucked. So the blackbird was killed by a bird of prey, not a fox.”

Within a few minutes, the children were spread out over an expanse of at least 10 acres. Some were jumping from boulders; others were dragging logs through marshland. Most were sucking on filthy icicles that had fallen from the eave of a greenhouse. At Robin Hood, the children are allowed to be out of eyesight of their minders, but not out of earshot. “Being secretive is good for child development,” Peters said. But whenever an adult called out “cuckoo,” the children all dutifully returned from whatever dangerous thing they were doing, which on the day I spent with them included climbing at least 10 feet up a tree and sliding unsupervised across a frozen pond.

“We used to bring very simple things, lengths of rope for instance,” Peters said. “But soon we realized even that wasn’t necessary.” The lack of toys, he explained, means less fighting and more inclusiveness. “They realize that they need friends if they’re going to play.”

By the time a secluded spot had been chosen for breakfast, the childrens’ fingernails were black with dirt, and although it was exceptionally cold nobody was complaining. Instead they all arranged their backpacks into a circle and wandered off in various directions to pee semi-privately, each one undressing out of their snowsuits without help. They returned and took out small Tupperware containers full of fresh produce from their backpacks. Two girls, both under 5, began arranging the fruit into an elaborate mandala atop a wooden tray. They piled carrot coins in the middle and surrounded them with concentric circles of tangerines, bell pepper slices and cucumber sticks; dates went in one corner and apple chunks in another, with a scattering of walnuts on the opposite side of the plate. Baule had encouraged them to organize the food “neatly” but provided no further instructions. The girls did all this slowly and wordlessly, rearranging items when they didn’t like a particular combination. The end result was as beautiful as anything you’d see in a restaurant.

As it is on most mornings, breakfast was eaten in complete quiet. Children took turns silently presenting everyone else with the tray from which they each chose a single piece of fruit until it was all gone. For months, they had been reminded that by not making any noise at all while eating, it is more likely that a deer might approach them, and at the very least they’ll better hear the bird calls. In over 45 minutes I didn’t hear a single giggle. When they were done, Baule excused them. There were sudden laughs and yelps and everyone vanished into the forest.

THERE ARE SCATTERINGS of forest kindergartens in the U.S. as well as in the U.K. Even in Japan and South Korea, where education is famously strict, waldkitas are becoming increasingly popular. They have spread mostly through word-of-mouth among parents. And in Germany, it’s not just the wealthy--or the eccentric--who send their children. Like all other preschools in Berlin, tuition at Robin Hood is covered by the government for kids aged 2 through 6 (apart from a 100 euro per month fee because it’s a private school). New York City preschools can cost upward of $40,000 per year.

Though it was below freezing and we had been outside for five and a half hours by the time we made our way to the bus stop, nobody--besides me--wanted to go back inside. When we returned to Robin Hood’s modest three-room building, which is filled with indoor plants and wooden forts, the children immediately kicked off their boots and stripped off their snow clothes. I suddenly saw them as they really were: tiny. In every case, their volume had decreased by at least 60 percent. They ran into the main play space where a long table had been set for them. Ceramic plates were heaped with salad and polenta, which they devoured with real flatware. One particularly squirmy boy was gently instructed to “please sit properly” five times. For dessert, every child was given a mug filled with elderberry juice, made from fruit that they had picked the summer before.

After lunch, Baule showed me a photo album, filled mostly with pictures taken in the last couple of years. A few children got interested and came over to sit in her lap, excited to see themselves “as babies.” One photograph captured the image of a towheaded boy of about 3, stripping bark off a stick with a jackknife. In another, a different boy was crushing walnuts with a log. A third picture depicted four children walking across a gravelly path, completely naked and covered with mud.

The room, which was warm and lined with pillows and books, suddenly seemed stuffy. The children would be picked up in about an hour, but I left early. I hailed a cab, and within five minutes regretted it. I rolled the window all the way down, and stuck my head out.