Strawberry Season

These past few days Quince had the biggest urge to get up and bake - after Murmur-knows-how-long. As expected, Quince rarely has the time to bake these days - let alone pick strawberries. The last time she went out to do that task herself? Probably a few years ago. If she wants to bake - and that's a big IF - she usually buys strawberries from other Succubuns. That, or she just straight up buys the cake herself. But you know what they say, making it yourself always tastes better than buying it from someone. She takes one final look at her store, before closing the door and closing up. If someone breaks in, her dog’s still at home. Although that makes it sound like her dog is actually dangerous - in fact, if you give her dog one singular treat, they’ll definitely not give a singular fuck about the intruder. Quince quickly glances through the glass door of her shop, but her dog seems to still be asleep behind the counter. If there’s an intruder, she hopefully hears it, she thinks. Finally, she picks up the red basket next to her - inside of the basket were a pair of gloves. Strawberries usually aren’t prickly, but that doesn’t mean that there’s no nettles. Quince did that mistake once when she was picking strawberries - a dire mistake, as she came to find out. Nettles aren’t called prickly motherfuckers for nothing.

The strawberry field was around a 30 minute walk away from her store. If she could, she’d definitely own her own little plot of strawberries behind her shop - but knowing Mademoiselle, the poor strawberries would not survive a single day. So, in the end it’d just be a waste of the most important resource in the whole world - money. 

At the entrance of the field was a small booth with a Succubun inside. They were currently reading a book - Quince couldn’t make out what the title was, and quite frankly, Quince also doesn’t care. She waits in front of the booth for a minute. Then two, then three. “Uhm, hello?” Quince asked the Succubun behind the counter, who just reluctantly grumbled and raised their book even higher. Quince sighs, placing her hand on the counter. “Can I enter?” She asks. No response, the other Bun keeps reading and turns a page, taking a deep breath. They clearly don’t give a shit about their work. “Well fine, I’m entering.” Quince says, expecting that she has to pay a fee to enter. The other Bun just leans back in their seat, grumbles and replies “My Murmur, can you talk less? Isn’t it clear that I don’t give a damn about this job? The strawberries could plan an all-out-war for all I care.” The other buns' voice was quite deep - it didn’t frighten Quince - she has seen and heard worse than that. If they would have seen it, Quince would have shown them the finger.

Rows, upon rows, of red strawberries, finally available for Quince. And there is no other Bun in sight. She stops in front of every row to briefly scan the plants. “Not enough, too small, to…weirdly shaped. Ah, that’s a good row” she finally yells in excitement. If there’s one person that’d make something as simple as picking strawberries needlessly complicated, it’s Quince. Only the perfect strawberries, for the perfect cake and perfect Succubun! Oh, and maybe also the perfect Stroodle. But only maybe. All depending on how Mademoiselle behaves once she returns home. She makes her way through the selected row, occasionally kneeling down to check out the strawberries. One in particular caught her eye - big, red, and - most importantly - round. Quince scans the shrub for possible attackers - nettles - but doesn’t spot any. Then, she rips off the strawberry and bites into it. “Ohh, those strawberries are delicious.” She says to herself. Juicy strawberries, just how she likes it. She briefly thinks - what strain of strawberries could they be? Ravion maybe? Well, normally she’d ask the friendly entry Succubun, but apparently he got fired, considering the new one clearly does not give two shits about the job. She wouldn’t be surprised if the new Bun doesn’t even know what’s growing in this field. Quince shakes her head - it’s best to not think about this guy any longer. It’s clearly not worth the effort. Can’t turn shit into gold.

She spent around two hours on the field in total, and filled up the basket to the brim - in the end, she didn’t even need the gloves. Well, at least the gardeners seem to care. With a prideful strut, she marches toward the entrance, once again arriving at the booth. There, she slams down the basket filled with strawberries. “Ha, look at all of these strawberries. It’d be a shame if someone couldn’t pay for them because the booth person doesn’t do their job properly.” Quince said in a sarcastic, yet still slightly (obviously fake) sad, voice. The Bun was still reading the book - and the only sign that they’re alive was the fact that their ear was twitching. A minute passes. Maybe Quince can finally pay - if she doesn’t, she’ll feel bad for the next few weeks. The booth bun just showed her their middle finger. “Can you. Please. Leave me. The FUCK. Alone?! How clear do I have to make it that I do not care about this job?” The Bun snaps back, angrily turning a page and gesturing away from them. Quince narrows her eyes, grabs the basket and flips the finger at the Bun, who instinctively flips the finger back. 

What a total asshole.