#cracker barrel imagines

[arctic-pop]

IMAGINE: hyunjin proposes to you at cracker barrel and everyone stands up to cheer and clapping

[daisies-on-a-cup]

i like the idea of those two old gays playing footsy under the table and will is delighting in it because he thinks he's scuffing up hannibal's shiny waxed shoes with his plain sneakers or boots, but hannibal lets will do this and enjoys the contact because this is will we are talking about and hannibal enjoys anything will does to him, with the intention to cause mild harm or not

[hyolks]

your art is scrumptious

[junebugg]

I've been giggling for the past 30 minutes over this I was looking at the Cracker Barrel menu because I was hungry and every single image of the food is all gussied up and plated all beautifully like they normally do for promotional images EXCEPT for the fucking fried apples which are just. sitting in a bowl. next to a spoon. I genuinely think they might have turned the saturation down on it WHY DID THEY MAKE THEM LOOK SO SOLEMN

[fandom-hoarder]

Your tags on the Cracker Barrel post are gold

Lol thanks 😅 the outrage performance is outstanding. i mean clearly the people complaining about it haven't been there in a hot minute if they just now noticed lolol

[nintendont2502]

I want to go to cracker barrel,, it sounds like the whitest place on earth

[darsynia]

The Smoke That Roams (post-apocalypse AU Bucky/Reader)

MCU MASTERLIST | lmk if you want to be tagged for Bucky fics!

Summary: You and Bucky find each other after the world almost ends

Length/Warnings: 3,080 | sex, allusions to violence

Notes: I tagged this on AO3 as 'romance and survival soaked in metaphor,' lol. It's post-apocalyptic angst. Stop typing, Darsy.

Excerpt:

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

The Smoke That Roams

You used to compare him to a solid, cold hunk of metal. Non-reflective but uncorroded, with a metaphorical melting point so high it’s practically unreachable. A weapon when thrown but otherwise safe, foundational, inexpressive.

That was before he touched you.

Bucky Barnes is not safe. He is expressive, though. Just not with words.

now

The world isn’t destroyed. There are still plants, there are still animals, and there are still safe places to spend time. The planet may actually be better off now than in the last few hundred years, because the humans who were in the process of ruining things just barely failed.

There are no regulations, no government-enforced exclusion zones, only good- and bad-intentioned people living day to day. You figure humanity has around twenty years of 'every man for himself' to realize how difficult it is to grow crops and sustain life. Until then, everyone’s subsisting on canned food and shelf-stable meats while hating every second of it.

Boredom is an unexpectedly dystopian pandemic, post-apocalypse. Books still exist, so there’s that. Unfortunately, even if there were experienced people to keep the electrical grid going, it’s completely unsustainable without an accompanying society. When you’re really depressed, you picture various survivors all around the world hunkering down to read Jurassic Park or Gone Girl next to pine-scented candles or last year’s Pantone table tapers. Once, you imagined a group of miserable assholes warming their hands next to a bonfire of Live, Laugh, Love wall hangings outside of a Cracker Barrel. It helped. You doubt any Karens survived the apocalypse to object.

then

You survived out of luck, if you could call living in the aftermath of a failed nuclear response ‘luck.’ 

Given the honest-to-fuck alien invasion, those nuclear strikes should have taken out the whole area. Instead, a strange golden dome repelled the worst of the damage, but you knew better than to assume it would stick around. After gathering some important provisions (including a gun and all your ammo), you spent some time bundling up your lawnmower’s spare gas can. You'd read The Stand. There's no way you're strong enough to pilfer gasoline from an underground tank.

That was when you found a leather-clad warrior man standing beside your motorcycle. He didn't seem surprised to see you. “You know how to ride this?”

“You after parts or gas?” you asked, hand on the butt of your gun. You were high on survivor’s guilt and low on bravado. He noticed both.

“A bodyguard,” Bucky told you sardonically.

He eventually told you the real reason, but at the time you’d pulled courage out of the sulfuric smell of danger in the air and suggested you watch each other’s backs.

now

“Still awake?”

You roll over to see Bucky’s familiar shape standing at the window, outlined in moonlight.

“Yeah. It’s too quiet.” Yesterday the two of you had retreated further into the mountains, judging your previous temporary home too close to the river after seeing two small groups using it for through travel.

“Never thought I’d like the quiet this much,” he muses.

Getting up, you move to stand beside him, still dressed in multiple layers to ward off the colder elevation. “That’s because it matters why it’s quiet.”

He doesn’t look over, but his smile is gorgeous in the dim light. “That’s a war reference.”

“You’re damn right.”

The two of you stand in silence, watching the shadows of the nearby trees play in the wind until he speaks again, gruff and oddly defensive.

“I was right about the shelter.”

“There’s a radio? Was it the right kind?”

“Yeah. Months worth of food, too.”

You’re embarrassed at how excited you are at the thought of MREs. “That’s great,” you say, reaching out to touch his arm. It’s sopping wet. Turning to look at him more fully, you see that his hair is wet too. He’s been dripping the whole time he's stood there; there’s a halo of wet, dark spots on the floor around him that feel almost symbolic.

“Most of the food was untouched. Ghosts don’t eat much.”

“How many?” You have to dredge to find enough moisture to rub your vocal cords together.

“Just one. Buried him in the woods pretty far out, washed up in the river.”

Bucky leaves so much unsaid, but you’re good at decoding him by now. This new cabin is miles from the river. As a good ‘bodyguard,’ though, you have one more clarifying question. It’ll matter, if you want to stay here for longer than a week or two.

“Was there evidence of-- did someone else--”

“Self-inflicted.”

“Yeah, aren’t we all,” you sigh, pushing away the guilt of relief.

then

You learned him slowly.

Bucky didn’t need a bodyguard as much as a body, or more accurately a second person to help carry the items he was gathering. It made sense; even a loner like him wouldn’t separate from the other Avengers without a reason. Their version of ‘strength in numbers’ was too complicated to understand and he didn’t really explain, but it had something to do with scattered communication, whatever that meant.

The parts he needed were in military bases, abandoned (and guarded, which was fucking terrifying) high rises, and one notable item was in a corn field. Eventually he gave you his motorcycle and upgraded to one with a sidecar.

You didn’t ask why it was wet when he showed up with it, but you had an idea of why he might have needed to clean it off.

By then you were used to sharing a room with him, dressing and undressing when he was out of the room or faced away. He didn't seem to mind, but you couldn’t really tell, and he didn’t say. 

You were more like coworkers than anything else, to the point that he barely spoke once one of you started readying for bed, like an unwritten boundary. Not that night. He’d broken into a hotel with two beds, one for each of you. That night, instead of his usual steady rhythm of breaths that eventually lengthened into sleep, there was just pensive silence.

Silence was the worst part of your new life. Silence allowed doubts and fears to creep into the gaps between breaths, clawing out space for larger worries. Bucky was quiet, but he was rarely silent.

“It’s not cold,” he finally said, almost accusatory.

You didn’t know how to respond. You weren’t cold, you were in shock. Death was everywhere and nowhere; either you fought for your life or saw the evidence of those who’d lost that battle. Each choice came with terrible necessity. Had that sidecar been a necessity? 

The flashlight clicked on. “You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold.”

You weren’t afraid of him, you realized. You were afraid for him. He was a supersoldier, but he wasn’t immortal. Bucky often went off by himself without saying anything to you--but what if someday he didn’t come back? 

A pillow landed on the queen sized bed beside yours, followed by a blanket, followed by Bucky, who threw himself onto his back beside you with as much care as he’d tossed everything else. He was so warm you could feel the heat radiating through the space that separated you, even though none of it carried through to his tone.

“You’re safe. Go to sleep.”

It was… exactly what you needed.

now

“I need to build it as high up as I can,” Bucky says.

“Not ‘we?’” you ask, nowhere near as breezy as you hoped.

“I need you to be here, safe.” He reaches out and grabs your hand with his smooth, river-damp metal one, squeezing just too much. It’s as calculated as it is unintentional, like your relationship. “This time, ‘safe’ is not with me.”

He can run for days, heal his own wounds, kill in so many ways it would take a week to list them all, and you still don’t want him to go alone.

You don’t say that, though.

Instead, you tuck yourself against Bucky’s chest, wrapping your arms around his drenched torso. There are no dryers, no radiators to hang your wet clothes on, no fireplace to dry them by. It’s a message.

He holds you close in the moonlight, his river water soaking into you, your unspoken love seeping into him.

then 

Bucky learned you fiercely.

After begrudgingly joining you the first time, he slept beside you from then on, handling it the same way he handled everything: with little explanation and an air of inflexibility. Suddenly you were two people who slept (slept, mind you) together, the metal plates of your lives shifting perfectly to fit that new reality. 

You didn’t fully understand what it all meant until the night Bucky went for a walk instead of getting into bed. He’d killed a man right in front of you that day--brief, brutal, and bleak--and you'd waited for him to come back, alone with your own brutal and bleak thoughts. Had survival destroyed your morality? Why had he been beautiful as he’d ended the attacker’s life? Couldn’t things go back to the way they were? You didn’t ask for this!

Then it hit you.

Neither did he.

You got to travel with him in 2019 because someone did things to him in the 40s that he’d never asked for.

Bucky came back, but that didn't help you purge those horrible thoughts, not until he sighed in obvious annoyance and threw an arm over your hip, dragging you back against his chest like it was an obligation.

Only then could you sleep.

And so could he.

now

The moon is too high to shine through your borrowed window anymore, so Bucky leads you back to the bed in the dark. He guides your clothes over your head and down your hips as unerringly as a marksman who knows the specs of his weapons. When he kisses you, it’s sloppy and imprecise, like he doesn't have time to come up with a plan other than 'must touch, now.'

He drops you onto your back on the bed and straightens up, stripping off his shirt. You figure that out by the sound the sodden fabric makes on the hardwood floor, a wet thunk followed by the metal pinging noise his belt buckle makes.

A strange realization hits you: for the first time since everything went to hell, you don’t want water stains on the floor. This could be your place, yours and his. The thought warms the places where you’d pressed up against Bucky’s wet clothes, but soon his kisses do that for you, furnace-hot yet gentle as the curl of smoke from your frequent campfires.

You burn for him, and you have since before he touched you with intent and looked at you with desire. 

then

Post-apocalyptic isolation was finally getting to you.

The warehouse was cold, impersonal, and dangerous enough that no one lived there, despite being a single building surrounded by miles of possibly-fertile fields. Back when it was operating, that had protected the county population, and now that it was not, its position could best be called strategic. No one could sneak up on you if you were diligent, but the monotony of guard duty was wearing on you. So was the wind coming off of the unrelenting central plains.

You'd never seen Bucky that frustrated before. He came to bed each night tense and sullen, even angry, and instinctively, you’d done your best to give him space. It was only in the last few nights that ‘space’ had included sleeping separately, despite the chill of early autumn that seeped into your bones from the concrete floor.

Day five of that singular brand of loneliness happened to be day thirteen at that location. You weren’t sure how much more you could take.

“Let me help you.” Your tone was wounded, but you didn’t raise your voice.

“You are helping.”

“There’s no point in me watching for nonexistent scavengers when whatever you’re doing isn’t working down here! Especially since--” Your words turned to ash in midair. You’d been about to say ‘especially since you won’t sleep with me anymore,’ which made your relationship sound vastly different than what it actually was.

Bucky smiled for the first time in days. “Go on.”

“No way. Mad Max himself couldn’t drag it from me.”

“I think I saw that one,” he said, swiping a precious candy bar from the special stash and sitting on a stack of pallets. “Sand and cars?”

You choke out a laugh. “If any of the filmmakers are still alive, can you even imagine--”

“They probably murder anyone that brings it up.” Bucky wrapped up the rest of the candy bar and held it up like he was about to toss it to you. “Tell me.”

Your chest felt like you’d swallowed lighter fluid. He looked happier than he had in days, and you had no idea if telling him the truth would toss a match or douse it.

Well, you lived with enough fear as it is.

“Fine,” you said with fake annoyance. “I was going to say that it’s hard to sleep without you breathing on my neck and hogging the blanket.” The plan was to be flippant, to avoid seeing his response, but an arsonist can never look away from their own blaze.

Bucky was still sitting the way he had been before, but you could see the tension ebbing from his shoulders. His metal hand relaxed its grip on the pallet with the same slow relief as the growing smug look on his face.

“Yeah?” he asked, impudent and inflammatory.

“Yeah. Give me the candy bar.”

“Oh, I will,” Bucky grinned. He stood up with the kind of confident menace that had sold many an action movie ticket.

“Oh my god, turn that off!” you yelped, poised to run. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Sand,” he said. You bit your lip as he continued, “I can use it to shore up-- Never mind.”

Bucky’s gaze was intent as he started walking in your direction. It was the same kind of focus he used to defend your lives, with only difference being the impudent light in his eyes. You backed away (never turn your back on a predator) as swiftly as you could, heart pounding in your delighted chest.

Seconds later you realize he’d herded you against a dividing wall and he was still advancing. It was absurd, sexy as hell, and the aforementioned lighter fluid had completely replaced your blood volume. One touch and you’d be aflame. 

Bucky didn’t touch you.

He stopped mere breaths away, leaning his metal forearm on the wall. Bucky brought the half-wrapped candy bar up where you could see it and then ripped away the wrapping with his teeth, his eyes glittering with challenge. Holding your gaze, he brought it to your mouth.

You were breathing so heavily your breasts grazed his chest, sparking brushfires each time. Still, this was a contest of sorts, and you had precious few chances to go toe to toe with this man. You waited until the heat of your mouth smeared the chocolate on your lower lip, and only then did you move--shoving his hand to the side and arching up to kiss him.

His groan ignited something in both of you. He pulled you close with a rough hand at your thigh, curving your leg around him and taking charge of the kiss. It was exhilarating, full of the heat of something long-desired. You grabbed at the fabric of his shirt, dug your fingernails into his hair, your other hand skating over the bare metal of his arm.

Suddenly he pushed back on the wall behind you with enough force to shake the cinderblocks, eyes wild, hands at the hem of his tank top. You nodded, scraping your elbows in your haste to strip off your clothes. It took just seconds before you were on each other again, Bucky half carrying you to the corner of the warehouse where you’d piled up your bedding. He was already pumping his fingers in and out, sucking a brutal kiss on your neck even as he knelt on the pile of ragged quilts.

“You are so fucking strong-- yes, like that,” you gasped out with your eyes screwed so tightly you saw a spray of sparks. The white-hot pleasure practically rang in your ears, and then he was there, splitting you apart and putting you back together, with the taste of him healing the gaps.

“You smell just like every morning I wanted to do this,” Bucky growled into your skin. The pinpoint pain of his fingertips digging into your hip was so real, so him that you were speechless. All you could do was drag your lips across every inch you could reach, arching your back to drive the two of you toward the wreckage of your former selves.

When release came it was a second nuclear event, him panting into the join of your neck and shoulder, your hands buried in his hair.

now

There is a luxury to darkness and patience, one you never would have guessed at in the Time Before.

Bucky doesn’t have to see the ecstasy on your face to know his expert caresses are sending you skyward. You don’t have to watch him throw his head back to know he’s about to come apart inside you.

He’s seen the silhouette of your body backlit by the sunset as you ride him.

You’ve watched the lethargy of pleasure-bought peace lift months of his guilt.

Things will never go back to the way they used to be, but just as you’ve learned to navigate the chaos of the current world, you’ve also learned the comfort of being truly known.

Tomorrow, Bucky will head up the mountain to build one piece of a larger device various Avengers have been constructing across the world. Stark had called it a cosmic smoke signal, a last-ditch effort to call for rescue. After all this time, you’re not sure your heart is in it anymore. It’s engaged elsewhere; you haven’t just learned to adapt, you’ve learned to thrive with Bucky at your side.

Still, the others are counting on the two of you, and it’s all about balance. Whether the next mission is a fiery trip to the stars or the steady puff of a hand-built cookstove, you’re ready for what comes next.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

[cannibalcharon]

I was so delighted and inspired I made laios touden if he was from sweet home alabama

laios if he was from the beautiful state of tennessee

[tickle-bugs]

Cool Guy

Anon: Heya! If you're still doing them, could you make a tickle fic on Luke and Han but js Han getting Luke? I love the whole Luke being like Hans lil bro 😭 An idea being maybe Luke is embarrassing Han in front of Leia and Han gets him back, Leia maybe helping Han a bit? I like your fics a lot haha! It's alr if not ofc, js have a good day! :D <3

Summary: Han is cool, suave, and absolutely irresistible. Luke vehemently disagrees.

Han knows logically that he cannot not squish the galaxy’s last hope like a bug. That would be unwise. There is, however, zero question of if he deserves it.

Luke is almost better at being a little shit than he is at being a Jedi.

“Princess!” Han leans against the wall. The Falcon’s internals hum behind it. Leia looks up at him blankly. 

“Pest.” She takes a bite of a sandwich. “What do you want?”

Nothing. Not a thing. He just loves the irritated curve of her eyebrow, the sharpness of her gaze, the curl of her lips--

“I’d love it if you’d stop taking what’s not yours.” He nods towards the sandwich. Leia regards it, then makes deep eye contact on her next bite. Han chuckles in something like disbelief, but he knows her. Knows how she likes to provoke. 

“Nice boys share their food.” She takes another bite.

“Well, I ain’t nice. Keep your thieving little hands to yourself.” Han considers wrapping up the sandwich, just to be petty, but he knows she hardly takes interest in his things unless she needs something. He could find something else to eat. 

“Or else what?” She plays with the crust of the bread. Eye contact. God, he loves this game of theirs. She leaves him breathless too often for his liking, though. As he flounders for a comeback, he hears a high-pitched noise from the other side of the room. 

Luke. Great. 

“What are you wearing?” Luke laughs incredulously. Han looks down at himself. He’d put on a fur vest today instead of his usual cargo one. It was something he’d snatched off some mook that’d tried to set him up with a dishonest deal. It’s old and it smells a little funny, but he likes it. It’s his now. 

“Wh—it’s a vest. It’s cold.” Han frowns. 

“You look like Chewie shed on you.” Luke leans his hip against the doorway as he settles in to mock. There’s a Wookiee outcry of indignation from the cockpit that goes unanswered.

“It’s a fashion statement.” Han adjusts his posture, gives them a new angle. Luke snorts. Han scowls.

“What exactly are you stating?” Leia rests her chin in her hands. She’s got a crumb on her cheek. He does not think about brushing it away. 

“You’re both terrible.” Han stomps off to change. 

“Right back atcha!” Leia calls after him. Her laughter is sweet, even at his expense. 

….

Run-ins with Empire patrols always put Han on a fine edge--he’s a well-oiled machine with Chewie at his back, but recent additions to the Falcon have proven…distracting. As he slams them into a hyperspace jump, the twins’ noise somehow drowns out the noise of the engine. Leia’s complaining that he took too many risks, Luke’s insisting he took too little, and Han’s half tempted to spin send the Falcon into a barrel roll just to hear a different sound.

Chewie won’t let him. The honorable bastard.

The moment they finish the jump, Han swivels out of his chair and goes…well, he’s not sure where he’s going, but he knows he needs to see and hear something besides Luke crunching angrily on crackers. 

Leia follows on Han’s heels, Luke follows on hers, and Han considers just ejecting himself from the airlock and being done with it. 

“If you want to die, be my guest, but don’t put us at risk for your ego.” Leia smacks his chest. Han can’t tell if he’s imagining the lingering touch of her fingers. 

“No, you’d miss me too much.” He fires back, pulling out of her grasp. He takes long strides, taking a petty sort of joy in hearing significantly shorter legs scramble after him. 

“Not a chance in hell,” Leia snarls, snatching the back of his vest. He whirls around. 

“Yes, you would, because things are boring without me. You like having me around.” He leans into her space. She stands her ground. 

“The fate of the galaxy is boring?” She conveniently ignores that last part. Han doesn’t miss it. 

“It is without me. Face it, princess. You’re attached.” He puts his hands on his hips. Leia’s face turns an interesting color.

“Ha! See? Attached!” Han points triumphantly. Leia smacks his hand away. 

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t need to. The truth’s all over your face.” He circles that pointer finger in her face. She smacks it hard enough to bruise this time. 

“The truth that I can’t stand you, more like. You’re arrogant, reckless, irresponsible—“

“And exactly your type.” Han grins. “You like having me around. Meanwhile, I’m cool, casual, and unattached.” Han clicks his tongue. Leia attempts to burn a hole through his forehead with her gaze. He worries for a moment that she might. 

“Really?” Luke crunches loudly. “I heard you telling Chewie that you like having us around. That you wouldn’t know what you’d do without us. Didn’t sound very cool and casual.” 

“I was drunk.” Han’s face burns. Leia snorts. Han scowls. 

“Drunk mind, sober thoughts.” Luke grins teasingly, waving a chip in his face. Han tries to snatch the bag, but Luke twirls effortlessly out of the way. Damn Jedi. 

“Sounds like you’re attached, laser brain.” Leia circles her finger in his face, and Han wonders if turning himself in to the Empire might be better for his ego.

…

Han’s not sure when his game with Leia stopped being a game and started being this, but he’s not complaining. He’s made out in worse storage rooms than the ones on the Falcon. They’d started with fetching a rations restock, devolved into bickering, and, well…their arguments usually end in violence or the threat of it, so Leia trying to climb him like a tree is a much-welcomed departure from form.

Normally Han’s great at keeping his emotions in a cold, dark little box where he never has to deal with them, but Leia looked so pretty yelling at him that he just…had to kiss her. He knew at that moment he’d die if he didn’t. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed and he hopes it won’t be the last, but each touch with Leia is like drifting closer to the beautiful terror of the sun. The best part, the overwhelming part, is that she wants him too. 

All of that would’ve been well and good, great even, if Luke hadn’t been standing in the doorway. 

Luke and Leia have some kind of stare-off that Han suspects involves their twinness--there’s lots of flustered, offended noises without words being uttered. Luke raises his eyebrow in a way that really seems to get to Leia, because she splutters, which she expressly does not do. 

“Don’t you start! I tolerate him!” She glares at Luke, her cheeks turning red. 

“Aww.” Han smirks. She elbows him in the ribs.

“With your mouth?” Luke’s near hysterical. 

“Among other things.” Han smirks wider. Luke’s face twists in sheer disgust. 

“Shut up,” Leia hisses, blushing and hitting him harder. He grins.

Luke levels a finger at Han, a habit he picked up from him in the first place, and then stalks off. 

“Chances he knifes me in my sleep?” 

“Lower than me doing it myself.” Leia swats his arm once more for good measure, but she’s still glowing, and Han thinks he might want to see that smile of hers for the rest of his life.

“I’ll take those odds.” 

The difference between Luke and his sister, in Han’s opinion, is that Luke’s noise goes inwards. Leia will scream at Han until she’s red in the face and then she’ll miraculously find more air. Luke gets quiet and vengeful, which is why Han starts to suspect foul play the third time he trips over thin air. 

Han really wants to fight back, but every time he opens his mouth, Leia’s lurking around some dark corner. 

On hour three of Luke’s temper tantrum, Han’s eye begins to twitch. He’s probably bruised every inch of his shins by now, he’s tired, and he thinks if he can close his eyes for an hour he might remember how to function. Just a sweet, Skywalkerless hour. 

Han drags his hand over his face as he walks off to his cabin. He finds Luke standing in the hall like an omen. He doesn’t move when Han approaches. The little furrow in his brow is probably meant to be intimidating, and maybe one day it will be, but Han can’t bring himself to care. 

The desire to lay down overcomes his rational thought, and he does to Luke what he often does to Leia: jams his hands under Luke’s arms and lifts him out of the way.

Except, unlike Leia, Luke doesn’t try to kick him. He lets out a giggle at a pitch Han didn’t know he was capable of. 

Han pauses, raising an eyebrow at the rapidly-reddening Jedi in his arms. He twitches his fingers. Luke chokes out a surprised laugh. 

Han’s suddenly not tired anymore. Funny, that. 

“Han, don’t you dare, c’mon--”

Han sets Luke down but doesn’t release him--he viciously wiggles his fingers where they’re trapped under Luke’s arms. He goes down like a sack of droid components, filling the Falcon with bright, bouncy laughter it so desperately needs. 

“You get a minute for every bruise, and my shins are looking mighty purple.” Han whistles lowly, pressing into the gaps between Luke’s ribs. Luke lets out a giggly hiccup and kicks his legs. 

“That’s not f-fair!” Luke clutches Han’s arms desperately. Han twitches his fingers and he curls up, shaking his head. Han distantly wonders when Luke last laughed like this. If he ever has. 

“Yeah? Tell me about it. Pick on someone your own size and maybe life will be fairer.” Han tries to keep his stare blank, but his mouth quirks up at the corners. Luke lets out an indignant gasp, but he quickly tumbles right back down into laughter.

“Let go,” Luke growls, his whole face scrunching around his smile. 

“Kid, I can’t let you go if you’ve got my hands.” Han gives a dramatic tug. He stops, raising his eyebrow expectantly. Luke pouts--pouts!--at him and lifts his arms at glacial pace. Han pulls away…

…and goes right for Luke’s exposed stomach. His shout of betrayal mixes beautifully with his laughter.

“Rookie mistake,” Leia tuts, snickering at Luke’s misfortune. Han jumps at her appearance--man, he should put a bell on these two--and Luke takes that as a signal to start wriggling away. Han reels him back in with a hearty laugh.

“Leia, fetch your--” Han cuts Luke off with a squeeze to the side before he can say anything embarrassing. 

“You gonna help, Your Worship? Or are you above getting your hands dirty?” Han casts a glance at Leia. 

“Never.” Leia smirks, kneeling beside Luke. They stare at each other for a long, tense while. Leia’s gaze drifts over him the same way she sifts through a plan for holes, until she stops at his knees. 

Luke’s eyes widen. Leia grins.

She latches on like a viper and Luke squeals, drumming his feet on the ground. He throws his head back and cackles himself into silence, flopping around uselessly. 

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” Han chuckles, a little nervous.

“You’re notoriously bad at it,” she smirks. Han swears he feels the ghost of her fingers on his own legs. He shudders.

Luke’s surrender is less of a cry and more of a wheeze, but they let him go quickly all the same. He tosses his arm over his glowing face with a great, heaving sigh.

“You alright over there?” Han chuckles, nudging Luke’s boot. He lifts his arm to glare.

“I hate you.”

“I know.” Han pats his ankle. Luke kicks him. Han squeezes his knee and he immediately blurts out a tired, giggly apology. 

“Stop being a little shit and trying to trip me up. It’s not gonna work. Too cool for that.” Han pats Luke’s stomach. 

Warm hands wrap around his waist and he leans back, scaring himself with how easily he fits into Leia’s arms. She hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“Are you ready?” She murmurs, brushing her fingers over the fabric of his shirt. 

“Ready for what?” His hand finds hers. He’s more than ready, if he’s reading this right. She’s rarely like this beyond closed doors, and it sends a thrill through him. Her lips brushing his ear drives him just a little crazy. He starts to stand, but she pulls him back down. 

“To be tripped up.” She smirks. He feels it. 

“Wh—“ 

Leia’s fingers dig in with deadly accuracy. Han crumples and his bravado goes with him. Loud, hearty laughter bursts from him as he slides to the floor, boneless in her arms.

“Aw, look at you cool guy.” Luke sidles up next to him with a shit eating grin. He tickles mockingly under Han’s chin and he, mortifyingly, giggles. Luke chases the sound, having way too much fun for Han’s liking. 

Han growls and tries to kick him. Leia’s fingers find his hips—cruel and unusual—and he’s toast. He resigns himself to die in her lap, which isn’t the overall worst way to go, and makes a mental note to write Luke out of his will. 

As long as Chewie thinks he’s cool, he supposes it’s still a net win. 

[dontcareplusthisholeistoosmall]

i love imagining the soul eater characters living in the midwest. i want to see death the kid getting overstimulated in a cracker barrel. i want to see crona experiencing snickers salad. black star gets left in a corn field. i think patty would enjoy rolly-pollys

[the-starry-seas]

"Something's glowing in the woods," Fox says tensely. "It's moving." Bail sits up in his chair, peering out past the firepit and the gardens and into the treeline beyond. "I don't see anything," he says, but not like he thinks Fox is making it up. "Where?" "To the right of that blue banner." There's a rattling snort from the trees, and Fox reaches for his blaster. "Fox, it's a deer," Breha assures him. She rotates a marshmallow over the fire and lifts it up a little to check if it's done, paying no attention whatsoever to the threat only fifty paces away. "You don't know that. It sounds like something big." "A large deer would weigh almost as much as you. Darling, please don't shoot up the shrubberies, I can't imagine what the gardeners would have to say about that." Bail's hand settles on his knee, but Fox doesn't look down to appreciate it. The glowing things in the trees are moving steadily to the side, about chest height. He doesn't like that at all. His finger twitches along the barrel of his blaster, but he doesn't lift it yet. He really never will hear the end of it from the gardeners if he sets a topiary on fire. A four-legged animal steps out from the trees, its short tail wiggling side to side as it dips its head to the grass. It noses around but doesn't seem to be actually eating anything. "Is it a deer?" Breha asks, licking chocolate off her fingers. "Mhm," Bail says, leaning back in his seat and patting Fox's knee. "It's all right, Fox. If you got any closer to it, it would run away from you." Fox isn't very convinced of that. But it wanders off on its own in a few minutes, and he figures one of the dog patrols that goes around the grounds will scare it off in another few minutes. Sure enough, by the time Breha hands over the sweet crackers, there's barking from off to their left, followed by a call of just a deer! and a bit of laughter. He grumbles to himself and sits back, crossing his arms. Deer. He doesn't like the idea of deer, not when they're so close to the palace at night. Something swipes across his cheek, and he blinks. "Did you put something on my face?" he asks. "Chocolate," Bail says, grinning, and leans in to kiss it off. Fox forgets about the deer pretty quickly after that and doesn't mind one bit.

[the-carpal-tunnel-of-gingers]

can you believe young angsty bepiercinged pete wentz worked at cracker barrel. like the amish farm themed restaurant. motherfucker probably got bred like livestock in the bathroom

i'mmjust trying to apply to jobs and i cannot stop fuckingg cryinfg about this message

[noodlestaocc]

Cap'n Noodles Makes A Friend

a brief little story for fun

It was a bright, sunsoaked day in Barrelbuster Bay, the perfect kind for some sort of adventure. The sun hung high amidst the sky, and one could swear they could hear the sand just screaming for you to set out to find something neat.

Not for Cap’n Noodles however.

The normally rambunctious pirate was oblivious to the call of the day, deeply sleeping within her quarters, sprawled across her desk with an old map serving as her makeshift blanket.

She hadn’t exerted herself significantly the day prior, nor did she stay up terribly late. She just didn’t feel like getting out of bed that day, for whatever reason.

The curtains were drawn tight, and she was lost in dreams, content to remain in her cozy cocoon until her stomach rudely interrupted her pleasantries with a loud grumble.

Noodles groaned, only to roll off her cluttered desk and land with a thud on the weathered wooden floor, sending a globe and spyglass tumbling down beside her. “Ow!” she whined, wincing as her senses gradually returned. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, and the cries of gulls echoed outside, informing her it was midday, and she had slept in once more.

"Oh... late."

Her stomach interrupted her again, an insistent reminder that it was time to find something to eat.

Noodles liked food, but sometimes she wished she didn’t have to eat. To live, one must eat; to eat, one must work; and to work, one must exert themselves—not exactly the most thrilling of pursuits for a fun-oriented person like Noodles.

Yet, her stomach was unforgiving, so she reluctantly pulled herself off the floor and ventured out of her quarters. 

Squinting against the harsh sunlight that assaulted her weary eyes, she wandered the deck, contemplating her options for a meal. She was all out of noodles, because she didn’t want to work. She was also all out of bread, because she didn’t want to work. No crackers either. Why? Because she hadn’t worked a single minute in the past week.

The last thing she wanted to do was hold herself accountable, so she put her brain to work on finding a quick, easy solution to her hunger problem. And after a disappointingly considerable amount of thought, she did.

She could catch a fish.

Over by the railing, the salty seawater reflected Noodles’ unwavering gaze as she stared down into the pleasantly colored depths. The average person likely wouldn’t be able to see very far into the rippling blue, but Noodles was different. Everything was clear as glass to her, and she was just waiting for one poor sucker of a fish to swim a bit too close. 

Then, just as she began to grow bored of her little stakeout, she saw a fish meander its way to her boat, triggering an anticipating grin to swiftly make itself known on her face.

It was big. It was delightfully oblivious. Did I mention it was big? It just had to come a little closer, and then…

Noodles pounced into the waters, cutting through the seas like a dart in the wind towards her breakfast. This was the fun part. The fish’s reaction time was regrettably not as sizable as its body, and before it could notice the long-armed child barreling towards her, the captain’s sharp teeth clamped down upon its scaly exterior and violently ripped it from its ocean home.

Emerging onto the beach with her prize, Noodles spat it out onto the sand once she was sure it was dead, and did a little dance to dry off.

"He he haw, that's breakfast! Time to eat!"

She swiftly turned back to her meal, only for her eyes to meet another.

It was a fuzzy, big-eyed, spectacularly rotund seal.

The two just stared at each other for a minute or two. Noodles never imagined she’d see a seal this close, let alone at all, and the seal clearly didn’t expect her to either.

Her eyes slowly dilated at the sight of the creature until she smiled brightly and excitedly exclaimed at the top of her lungs, “SHIVER ME TIMBERS! A SEA PUPPY!!!”

The seal jolted at her reaction, grabbing the fish and bouncing off at a remarkable pace across the sand. Noodles’ face dropped at both the seal AND her lunch getting away, and it didn’t take long for her to give chase.

“SEA PUPPY, WAIT!”

The seal didn’t bother listening, as it continued bouncing down the beachside. It picked up speed once Noodles started gaining ground, attempting to make it back to the water where it’d be able to jet away with ease. Unfortunately for the seal, it just wasn’t fast enough. 

“GOTCHA!”

Noodles pounced upon her squishy escapee, rolling along the white hot sand with it tightly wrapped up in her lengthy limbs’ inescapable grip. She stared at it sternly as it thrashed about in her hold, trying in vain to get free from the peeved pirate before it could suffer any sort of consequence at her hand.

“Bad dog! Bad bad dog! Gimme back my fish!” Noodles demanded impatiently, glaring at its big, round eyes.

It eventually realized it couldn’t get away, and it reluctantly dropped the fish from its mouth. Noodles nodded firmly, trying to exude some sort of authority.

“Thank ya,” Noodles exhaled, turning the seal around in her hands to face her, holding it out at a distance. “Don’t steal! That’s bad!” she scolded, in a manner picked up from one of her crewmates.

The seal, clearly being unable to speak, just stared back at her. It was hard to properly gauge its feelings, likely given that it was a seal, but Noodles was picking up something.

“Don’t gimme that look! Yer in big trouble, mister! Or miss. I dunno.” The seal responded with more of the same, an unchanging gaze that refused to deviate from Noodles’ own. Then it barked. Noodles smiled innocently, her expression changing in an instant.

“Ok! Ya sold me!”

She sat down in the sand, set the seal down as well, and picked up her fish before ripping it in two (which was fortunately goreless given the friendly nature of the world’s programming) and giving the fish the tail while she kept the head. “Here ya go, sea puppy! We can share!” She smiled, flicking the tail a bit closer to the spherical creature.

The seal sniffed at its portion before gobbling it down in an instant, satisfied with what it could get. Noodles giggled at the voracious display before biting down on her half as well. “Sho, is it good?” She spat out, not even bothering to finish chewing. The seal had long since finished its meal but hadn’t left, so she assumed yes.

Noodles swallowed her half and continued speaking.

“Goodie! Never had breakfast with a sea puppy before,” the seal continued to lay there, not bothering to take its leave. “Toby always said there’s a first fer everything. Guess there really is, gaha!” She giggled, poking the seal and watching it wobble. She liked it, she thought it was silly. The seal was unbothered.

After a bit, Noodles had finished her portion too. She pat the seal on the head and smiled. “Well, that was yummy! I’m gonna go back to me ship now. Bye-bye sea puppy!” Noodles stood up from the sand, awkwardly waved bye with her weird arms, and trodded off.

Bopping her head to a shanty she remembered as she walked, she didn’t bother to look back until she made it back to her ship. Once there she began to climb aboard, only to notice a familiar trail alongside where she was walking.

She looked up on her deck and realized the seal had followed her! And there it was, sitting on a barrel, basking in the sun and letting itself deflate onto the warm wood.

“Mister sea puppy! Y’followed me!” Noodles shouted, wide-eyed as ever. Not that she was displeased, quite the opposite actually. She skipped up to the barrel it rested on, taking in its presence on her own property.

“D’ya like me or somethin, sea puppy?” The seal just stuck its tongue out in response to her eager inquiry. Noodles also took that as a yes. She threw her hands up in celebration before picking the seal up and swinging it around joyously.

“Yahoooo! Yer me new, uhh… eighth mate, sea puppy!”

She proclaimed, clearly overjoyed at her new friend. The seal, as usual, didn’t react much—but didn’t seem opposed to the idea. She swung the animal around until both of them were dizzy, collapsing on the floor.

“Oh oh oh! Ye gotta have a name,” she said to the seal, holding it up above her. “Y’like fish… so I’ll call ya Fishy. Aye?” The seal blinked. Noodles cheered, accidentally throwing poor Fishy into the air as she did so, but she caught him before he could hit the floor. “Ok Fishy! Yer me friend now! We should do friend things!”

Noodles contemplated hard on what she could do with her new friend. You wouldn’t believe it, but Fishy was thinking too. Eventually the two came up with a brilliant idea for something to bond over.

“SLEEPING!”

Noodles and Fishy immediately flopped on the floor, fast asleep, together. As friends do, I suppose. They wouldn't wake up until the next morning, and they dreamt of more fish.

Noodles had made a new friend that day, and she couldn’t have been happier.

i made this in two hours lol

[mademoiselle-artist]

Imagine Eli Vanto going to Cracker Barrel.

He would be in heaven

He would take thrawn there

Thrawn would play the little triangle game

Eli would want thrawn to try the food but thrawn would find it unhealthy

Eli: "come on thrawn a simple plate of biscuits n' gravy ain't gonna hurt you"

Thrawn: "I dont know why you find such a unnutritional meal delicious"

Eli: "it's comfort food! Comfort food is food that is unhealthy and makes you feel good"

Thrawn would be staring at the little old decorations on the wall

He would either enjoy the country music or not care for it

Meanwhile Eli is jamming out to dolly Parton or john denver

[icecream-headaches]

I am obsessed wirg that piece of misinformation that pete wentz worked at a fucking cracker barrel like everytime it pops up in my mind it makes me giggle becayse IMAGINE HIM BEING YOUR CRACKER BARREL WAITER HELP ME. Not that it would matter to me i am not a cracker barrel fan one time some food i got at one made me sick after

[whimsywillowwrites]

Hi!I read your fanfic and I love it! But I have a few questions

Why didn't Mallory believe Imogen when she talked about alastor? Doesn't Mallory know that magic exists because her mom is a witch and Imogen is clairsenstive?

Also when is alastor going to start calling Imogen "my little fawn"?

Hi! Thank you so much! Mallory knows magic exists, but she isn't aware Imogen stole Nora Jean's spellbook at that point in the story. I also don't think she believes her child actually has the ability to summon a powerful demon in her driveway. I would imagine that kind of magic is pretty advanced for a kid, no? ;)

I will be honest, I don't really picture Alastor outright calling Imogen that, but I still think the idea of her finding deer-themed father daughter T-shirts in a Cracker Barrel is hilarious, and I might actually write it someday.

BEHOLD ... the father daughter T-shirts.

Please don't judge me, I cannot draw, HAHAHA.

Alastor's shirt says, "Best Bucking Dad." I wanted to include some deer antlers on their shirts, and change Imogen's to "Best Little Fawn" but I doodled it in pen and had no room, rip.