#fresh doodle bucket

[adrianeringmarc]

Islet

The face you make when the girlfriend you kidnapped kills you and shoves your soul into a sword to use it to kill more people (not click bait) (gone sexual) (gone wrong)

[ashiemochi]

hey bestie <3

I’d like to request a birthday smut with death island! Leon please and thank you 💕

wrote this on phone bc im on a trip and my phone is actually starting to drop dead so </3 time for a new phone ig. But!! here's something 💕 (don't point out mistakes or weird formatting, my phone is ASS)

Leon never liked being late in any way.

Traffic was his arch nemesis because it always resulted to him getting late to work – which also resulted in numerous lectures from his higher-ups.

Another thing he hated; alarms.

Those fuckers either don't do their jobs or are just for show – or maybe he should be getting a new phone or an actual rooster to cock-a-doodle-doo at the glimpse of the sunrise.

Late to events were even worse than mundane things. The amount of times the President would give him a look that simply said "you're late and I'm not impressed" were endless. It wasn't like he had much of a choice when he'd be fresh out of a mission or an assignment that he'd wear the wrong colour of suit, or mismatch his socks in a hurry.

Not to mention. Fucking. Traffic.

However, there was one thing Leon for sure hated the most, absolutely revolted at the idea.

Missing your birthday.

Much to his shitty worse line of luck, he was ordered to rush to the Alcatraz Island for an assignment. To his luck, some deranged guy with a bucket load of issues and untreated trauma decided on a random Sunday at church that he was going to be playing God and start an outbreak via mosquitoes.

Leon was never going to catch a break. All the time at the island, the agent couldn't stop thinking about how to make it up to you. Even when he was infected with the virus and minutes away from losing his last bits of humanity, you were on his mind all the time.

When he returned home, you had opened the door to a bruised and bandaged up Leon with a bouquet of roses in hand. A tired but apologetic tilted grin was on his face, his side leaning against the doorframe.

"Happy... Late birthday, sweetheart..."

While he didn't expect you to be mad at him, a tiny nagging something within him relaxed when you were nowhere near upset. Your worry and glee that he was back in one piece made you forget about your birthday, your arms residing around his neck into a tight embrace where his arms went for your waist – where they belonged.

But the flowers weren't his only way of apologizing – because what started as a simple reunion kiss turned into something more and hotter.

"Oh, fuck..."

His voice was breathy right next to your ear, nearly over clouding the creaking sounds of the bed. His skin was searingly hot against yours, your body painted with hickies and lovebites. Galaxies and nebulas in all the right spots, painless and painful.

Yet they were tomorrow's problem.

His hand was pinning your wrist to the mattress, the other gripping the back of your knee to push it back against your chest. His fingers were digging into your flesh, his hips moving in a perfectly powerful rhythm that had your mind reeling.

"Oh, god... Ah, Leon–nhh~" Your moans were his favourite sound. A sex playlist would usually be on, but on nights like these, it'd be just you and him.

His cock was diving into your pussy, emitting that moist gushing noise the harder he moved. Your clit was throbbing with how intense the pleasure was for you, bringing you a lot closer to yet another orgasm. You really tried to keep track of how many times Leon had made you cum, but after four, everything just became a mixed haze of lust and longingness.

Leon grunted lowly, his blueblue eyes observing your expressions sharply. His lips were parted for your own favourite sounds, his groans and growly moans sending shivers to your core; red and swollen from the countless hickies on your body and kissing you.

Those lips of yours were absolutely intoxicating.

The blunt tip of his bigbig cock was slamming into your walls, going almost rogue as your arousal and previous orgasms dripped and dropped to the drenched sheets.

You never knew you could squirt, but Leon was confident in his skills. It took time, and god was it worth it.

Your face was flushed, your free hand on his back with your nails digging into him. You could feel his toned muscles flexing and shifting right beneath his skin. Your gaze trailed up to him, your moans and soft whines escaping nonstop.

"L–Le– f–fuck, you're too," You keened, your other leg wrapping around his waist, whimpering as your walls squeezed hard on his thick dick, "deep!"

"Oh, yeah?" Leon muttered, the corner of his lips irking upwards into an amused smirk.

That was the last thing you heard before he released your wrist only to switch his grip to your other leg. He hooked both legs into either of his elbows, pushing them onto his shoulders and easily tugging you close to him his figure towering over you completely. His cock hit that spot in you, bringing stars to your eyes with a hitched squeak.

His whole length was inside, especially when he leaned over you, causing his pelvis to brush against your needy pearl. His hands returned to your waist to keep you pinned in place, his hips relentless as he pounded into you.

"Mmh, that's deeper, isn't it, honey?" Leon hummed, his thrusts growing ruthless as he fucked you with vigour, pushing a moan from him, "Oh, fuck... You're just so fucking wet and tight for me..."

"Nnh! Oh, g–god! Leon!" You cried out, your body starting to tremble and your arm joined the other around his back, your nails forming angry red crescent moons, "S–shit!"

The pleasure was looming once again, the knot within you tightening more and more. Leon's hips were out of his control, revealing he was just as close to his peak as you were.

Leon groaned, his eyes screwing shut for a second as he felt your walls starting to clasp around his cock as if trying to feel every ridge and bulging vein on it. His toes curled up on the bed sheets, his thighs tensing.

"Oh, fuck, fuck..." Leon let out a choked sound, his desperation to release causing his voice to break and hitch into a lower octave.

"Leon, I–" Your moans cut you off, whining as your legs trembled over his shoulders, "'m gonna, ah!"

Leon's lustful eyes found yours, for a second his love for you spilling through the thick dirty haze and he couldn't help but feel every so grateful for having someone to return home to.

Someone to fight for when the world's going to shit.

His lips met yours hard in a searing heated kiss, your breathless moans making it a bit difficult but it all felt just right. It ticked you off first when he dove his cock to the hilt, pistoning into your squelching cunt and pressing up against your clit.

A loud moan went muffled, swallowed by him as he groaned against your lips. The white-hot pleasure rattled your bones, coiling around your muscles at the intensity that your back arched off the bed. Your gushy walls clamped tight around his cock, consequently pushing him straight to the peak he craved.

His lips parted from yours to push his face into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering to a stop flush against yours as if trying to keep his twitching cock as deep he could. His groan was, if not, just as loud even when he obviously tried to stay quiet. His cum spurted out thickly, filling you up so good and so warm. You could almost feel it in your tummy at this point.

A shaky exhale escaped from him, his hips moving again but at a slower pace, gently riding you both down from your cloud nine. He panted heavily as he moved his face away from your neck, his eyes shut as his lips peppered kisses from your jaw, cheek, inching closer to the corner of your lips before sealing them with his.

You faint hum merged with his, your hands kneeding and massaging against the angry scratches on his back. His hips retreated slowly, slipping his cock out that was still visibly twitching and his cum seaping and dripping from the red tip. A string of his climax connected between him and your abused cunt.

Leon parted from the kiss, his sweaty fringes dangling with the tips brushing against your forehead. One of his hands reached up to the side of your face, his gaze doing their usual scan to make sure you were okay and that he didn't go too far.

"I'm okay..." You whispered softly, your voice just as breathy as you brushing away his bangs which only dangled wetly about so your hand rested on his neck, your thumb tracing the stubble across his jawline, and with a faint giggle, "And I forgive you."

Leon chuckled, his eyes growing gentle as he caressed your sides gingerly, "Good, maybe I should start missing your birthdays a bit more, yeah?"

You huffed, lightly smacking his shoulder, "Don't push it."

"Yeah, yeah," He smiled before carefully setting your legs back onto the bed which they only fell limply, still shaking and he squeezed your thighs, "Okay, I'll get us water and something to drink, then we'll continue."

That made you blink, confused as you tilted your head to the side, watching him as he sat at the edge of the bed with his eyes trying to locate his boxers at least. With a soft groan, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, giving him a puzzled look when he stood up and slipped on his undergarment.

"Continue?" You repeated, your heart starting to pound once again, "We're not done?"

Leon gave you a look as if you had grown another head and he approached you, his hand pressing into the pillow next to your head and the other tilting your chin up with just his index and thumb.

"Of course we're not done, birthday girl." Leon grinned, his nose brushing against yours, "Still gotta make up for our anniversary."

Way to go for Leon asking you to be his on your birthday.

[clown-friend-gt]

Up, Up, and Away Chapter 10

Fresh Meat?

1.4k words

(CW: Violence, broken bones)

Link to Masterpost

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

Trevor had heard people joke before that school was a lot like prison. He wasn’t entirely certain that was true, but he was starting to see the similarities. For one, it was just as mind-numbingly dull, especially without his phone to scroll through, or something to doodle on to occupy his time.

Then there was the fact that he still had to attend class. Something about that didn’t quite feel right. But all of the corrections officers who’d talked to him emphasized the importance of keeping up with his studies. So he trudged off to class with everyone else.

Trevor had never had to move to a new school before. But if he had, he imagined it’d go a lot like it did when class started that day. He carried his stuff in one hand, hoping to find some corner to hunker down in. But the teacher stopped him at the front of the classroom.

“Class, I want to introduce you to our new student. This is Trevor.” The teacher gestured to him.

Trevor stared blankly at the people sitting around the room. They stared blankly back. No one spoke for a brief moment.

“Ooh, fresh meat!” a voice from the middle of the room jeered. Trevor’s eyes darted over to the source. A lanky boy with short black hair was looking to the people sitting around him for approval. He got a few chuckles, but most of the room was silent.

“Shut up, Will,” the teacher reprimanded him, though her voice sounded tired.

Trevor took the opportunity to sidle off. He carefully picked his way to the back of the room, then found a spot to sit down. He quickly zoned out as the teacher began her lesson.

As for other similarities between school and prison, he didn’t get the chance to see if the food was any better. One of the kitchen staff handed him a bucket of that nutritional sludge the institute had devised for him. He took a look at the weird, gray substance and his lip curled in disgust. But he took it anyway and walked away.

He felt eyes on him again as he wandered through the cafeteria. He tried not to look, but curiosity got the better of him. He happened to make eye contact with the kid who’d shouted at him earlier.

Will sat at the end of a table with a group of boys who talked and laughed amongst each other. He stood out as the only one paying Trevor any mind, glaring at him. He traced his finger across his neck menacingly.

Trevor rolled his eyes and kept walking. If Will wanted to act all tough, he could. If only he’d leave Trevor out of it.

Physical activity was also just as important here as it was at school. Everyone had to spend time outside in the prison yard, and everyone had to participate in some kind of sport, unless they were excused from it by a doctor. Trevor wondered if they’d accept ‘freak of nature’ as a medical excuse.

He never got the chance to find out. Trevor forced himself through the double doors that led outside during the free time before they had to join an activity. Straightening out, he blinked his eyes a few times to get them used to being in the sunlight. Then he made his way down from the landing outside the doors and into the prison yard.

He was starting to get really tired of the feeling of being stared at. Glancing around, he counted half a dozen people openly watching him. Despite his growing irritation, he chose to ignore them. He fixed his eyes straight ahead and began walking with no direction in mind.

One good thing about his size was that whenever he was headed somewhere quickly, people tended to get out of his way. It allowed him to wander around somewhat freely. He could hear whispered complaints and vague threats as people moved out of his way, but he paid no attention to them.

He found himself standing in a lone corner of the yard. It was around the middle of the day and the sun shone brightly overhead. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face. It had been a few days since he’d been able to spend any time in the sun, and he’d found himself starting to miss it.

He was able to enjoy a few minutes of peaceful solitude. Then he was interrupted by someone shouting somewhere behind him.

“Hey, you!” the voice called. Trevor didn’t respond, praying silently that they were referring to anyone else.

“Don’t you just ignore me!” they yelled, sounding somewhat offended.

Sighing internally, he opened his eyes and turned to see what all the fuss was about. Standing a few feet away was Will, who glared up at Trevor again.

“Yeah, you! The giant freak! I’m talking to you!”

Trevor felt himself becoming more exasperated with every word the other boy spoke. He glanced past him to the group he’d seen earlier, who stood a decent distance away from them both. They whispered amongst themselves and looked in his direction, like they were expecting something exciting to happen.

Trevor did his best to keep a level head. “Is there a problem?” he asked as coolly as he could manage.

“Yeah, there’s problem,” Will said, crossing his arms. “The problem is you walking around like you own the place.”

Trevor looked at him incredulously. “Seriously? That’s what you’re yelling about?”

Will scowled. “Don’t you look down on me.”

Trevor rolled his eyes, his patience beginning to wear thin. He crouched down to the other boy’s level. If people found him so intimidating now, at least he could try to use that to his advantage.

“I’m so sorry, is this better?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Trevor looked him straight in the eye, daring him to back down. For a moment, Will looked like he was considering it.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes.

“Back off, if you know what’s good for you,” Will warned him.

Trevor scowled. “You came up to me, asshole.”

Will’s scowl deepened. He reared back his fist as if to punch Trevor. Despite the size difference between them, Trevor felt a familiar sense of fear bubbling up in his stomach. He’d been in situations like this before, always at the receiving end of some attack.

While his mind floundered in a panic, his body acted on its own. His hand flew out and snatched the other boy’s wrist, stopping his strike before it could even begin.

“What the—” the boy’s eyes darted to his entrapped wrist. “Let me go!”

Trevor had been at the receiving end of attacks like this before. But that was before he was big enough to fight back. Now, he was the one in control.

He stood back up, leaving Will dangling in mid-air by the wrist. He kicked and flailed, trying desperately to escape Trevor’s grasp, but to no avail.

Trevor lifted him higher into the air. He stared him down as Will’s movements became more frantic.

“Leave me alone,” he told him, punctuating each word.

He figured he’d just hold him here until he got the message, then drop him. That way, he could scare him off before he ended up hurting him by accident.

But Will, it seemed, had other ideas.

The hairs on the back of Trevor's neck began to stand up. The air around them grew staticky. He watched as sparks darted across Will’s body, travelling up his arm to Trevor’s hand with a loud ZZZZZAP!

The shock was so much worse than he could’ve imagined. It felt like being zapped by static electricity, times a million. Like being stung by thousands of bees from the inside. Every muscle in his body tensed simultaneously, and his teeth clenched together so hard he was convinced they might shatter.

From within his fist, he felt the crunching of bones. There was a sickening crack, and Will began to scream. The electricity shocking him left his body in a rush, and he numbly released his grip. Will fell to the ground in a heap. Bile rose into Trevor’s throat.

Curled up on the ground, Will continued to wail in pain. From across the yard, he heard guards yelling at him to stand down. But everything felt so far away, now. He stared at the red, steaming hand that had held Will a moment ago. He began to feel faint.

Not again, he thought to himself, falling into despair.

First/Last/Next

[chaos--mode]

The first time Dawn Matthews saw Eddie Munson, it was like getting splashed with a bucket of cold water.

She was 14, fresh on the heels of puberty and desperately trying to understand why everyone was suddenly so obsessed with boys. Cheryl Watters had a sleepover the week before the official start of freshman year, where they played a round of truth or dare that somehow devolved into the entire group of girls going around in a circle talking about what boys they had a crush on. Dawn had nothing to offer but it seemed like a weird answer to say "I don't like any boys", so she awkwardly stammered out what seemed to be the most popular answer. Nobody called her on it, and then eventually the group of sugar-high girls succumbed to the pull of sleep almost all at once.

Her dream was... different than usual, that night. It didn't feel like a dream at all. She opened her eyes, almost blinked into consciousness like she was actually waking up, in a small room filled to the brim with stuff. Posters practically plastered the walls, bands she'd never heard of before, clutter and books and magazines strewn everywhere. There was a guitar with the words "this machine slays dragons" written on it in block white marker that Dawn had to tilt her head almost upside down to read.

There was music playing, something loud and angry and discordant that somehow made it work. It smelled weird, which probably should have seemed strange to her considering she was dreaming, but the part of her that would usually question something like that seemed blocked, like it was still sleeping.

And then there was the boy in the room. He was older than her by at least a year or two, a proper teenager, with a bob of wavy brown hair that came down past his chin. What really got her, though, the thing that would keep her up at night for the next six years with stars in her eyes and a soft kick of her heart, was that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the messy room, tongue stuck out one side of his mouth and brows furrowed in concentration, as he coloured in a flock of bats that he'd outlined on his forearm.

He paused after a minute and looked up, casting his eyes around the room. Dawn expected him to look at her, maybe say something, but his glance carried right over her like she wasn't even there. He seemed confused for a moment before he shrugged and went back to his doodling.

Dawn had never understood the sudden obsession her friends had with boys until that dream. He was the prettiest boy she'd ever seen, all soft edges and big eyes. She'd never had a crush on any of the boys at her school. They were all rough and mean and gross, trying to shove their spit-slick fingers in her ear or putting their tongues in places they very much did not belong. And they were never soft or pretty like he was, this boy, drawing on his arm in that stuffed-full room.

It took her a surprisingly short amount of time to realize that she wasn't dreaming. Dawn didn't see that boy again until she was 15, had mostly forgotten about it save how she'd always compare any boy that asked her out to the one from her not-a-dream.

This time the boy was sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg folded under him while the other dangled, strumming on the guitar with the writing. He was good, great even, and she found herself sitting on the floor of his room to listen. He hummed softly under his breath, doing certain parts over and over again until he seemed satisfied with them, crooked little grin making Dawn's heart do treacherous things.

The third not-a-dream a few months later was when she found out what the boy's name was. She'd had other non-dreams in the interim, seen glimpses of other people's lives, and had come to realize what she was, what she could do.

So she was curious, as always, wanting to know more about him, still trying to figure out why she went on these little visits in the first place, why she saw these people specifically.

Someone called the boy's name from outside the room: Eddie. A man's voice, gruff and low with a sharp southern twang. Eddie answered with a quick "be out in a minute!", and Dawn realized it was the first time she'd his voice proper.

Pretty, she decided, just like the rest of him.

[plutominho]

spidey kiss || lee know

✧ WRITTEN BY: max

✧ GENRE: established relationship, high school au, fluff

✧ PAIRING: lee know/minho x gn!reader

✧ SUMMARY: minho is a teensy bit distracting as you try to study for a test.

✧ WORD COUNT: 1.1k

✧ NOTES/WARNINGS: none!! 

✧ TAGLIST: @svtbabiesrecs @svtbabies​ @felix-neverbad​ (message me if you want to be on the taglist!)

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

you blinked a few times, bringing yourself back to focusing on your notes in front of you. 

cramming review for a midterm during lunch wasn’t necessarily on your high school bucket list, yet here you were. 

perhaps if you hadn’t put off studying for weeks, you wouldn’t be here, stressed in an almost empty classroom when you were supposed to be having lunch. 

you could hear the sound of minho munching on some chips echoing off the classroom walls as he paced through the rows of desks. 

you’d told him to have lunch without you, but he’d insisted on “fulfilling his boyfriend duties” and staying with you. 

a part of him probably wished he was outside, in the fresh air, away from the dusty classroom, but he had made the commitment, and he had to stick with it.

he pulled up a chair and sat across from you at your desk, watching your face intently as you tried to focus on your work. 

“y/n.” he whispered. 

you ignored him, flipping your study guide to review the back side. 

“y/nn,” he whined, resting his forehead on the desk, some of his hair covering your paper. 

you pushed his forehead up with your palm, and he slumped back in his seat for a second before sitting up straight again. 

he pressed a chip up against your mouth, repeatedly poking between your top and bottom lip until you opened your mouth. 

“y/n, honey, you need to eat.” 

“no, i need to stud—“ 

you were cut off by minho pushing the chip into your mouth as you spoke, and you shot him a glare as you chewed roughly before looking back at your paper. 

he laughed to himself as he stood up, feeling accomplished. 

“if you don’t eat, you’re for sure going to fail! you’ll be too hungry to even think, and your stomach will be speaking to you during the test, ‘y/nnnnnnn, feed meeeeee’ and then you won’t be able to focus and then—“

“minho. please.”

he apologized softly, making an action of zipping his lips as he moved to stand behind you, massaging your shoulders rather roughly before proceeding to put another chip in your mouth and leaving again. 

you heard him go to the front, look out the door into the hallways, snoop around the teacher’s desk, and quickly doodle on the whiteboard before making his way to the back of the room. 

of course, he made sure to put another chip in your mouth when he walked past you to admire the posters on the classroom’s back wall. then he came to sit at the desk next to you. 

he rested his head on the desk, using his arm as a cushion as he turned his head to the side to look at you. 

you were grateful for him accompanying you and feeding you, knowing how bored he was not doing anything when he could’ve been enjoying his break.

“you look insanely attractive when you study,” he muttered, still looking at you. 

you scoffed, but suddenly felt self conscious as you glanced at him, his hair highlighted by the light coming from the window behind him. 

“no, i’m serious! smart people are sexy, y’know!” 

you let out a laugh in embarrassment, and he laughed to himself as you used your hand to hide your face from him. 

the laughter died down rather quickly, and you went back to studying and making quick notes to remember. 

you heard minho move around the room again, followed by the squeaking of dry erase markers on the whiteboard.

he got bored again, and moved to stand behind you, watching over your head as you continued studying. he reached his hands to your front, resting his wrists on your shoulders as his fingers fiddled with the necklace he’d given you for your birthday a few months prior. 

“y/n, look up.”

“min, i need to study…”

“please? i won’t bother you after this. i pinkie promise.”

he ran his hands through your hair, and you sighed as you craned your neck to look up at him. you groaned a little, feeling your back stretch against the metal school chair.

you had to blink a few times to bring him into focus, your eyes having been so used to staring closely at words on a page. 

“i wanna try something–” he laughed softly. “you look cute when you’re blinking like that.”

you looked up at him with a puzzled look on your face, wondering why he was acting excessively sweet all of a sudden. 

“thanks, can i…” 

you dropped your head to go back to studying, until you felt his cold hands cup your cheeks and tilt your head back again. 

“bro, what the hell?”

minho gasped. “don’t bro me! i’m your boyfriend! the love of your life! your soulmate!”

you rolled your eyes. “whatever, whatever. what are you gonna do?”

“oh, yeah! close your eyes.”

you closed your eyes and rested your head against his stomach as you waited in anticipation for a few seconds, wondering what he was going to do. 

before you knew it, you felt minho’s familiar pair of lips on yours, but something was different. they were… upside down?

it all clicked, and you laughed to yourself at how cheesy he was being. 

he kissed with uncertainty, not taking a lead like he usually did, as if he was carefully gauging your reaction. 

it was a strange sensation, feeling something so familiar suddenly feel so foreign. 

the two of you got the hang of it, your hands reaching up to gently rest over his, which were still resting on either side of your face. 

although he was upside down, you felt him smile into the kiss as you fell into a comfortable pace and he brushed his fingers against your jaw. 

he pulled away, kissing your forehead before letting you go completely and stepping away. 

“okay, thank you for your time! also, lunch ends in less than a minute, you might want to pack up now.”

as if on cue, the bell rang and signaled the end of lunch. he smiled widely, observing the dazed expression on your face as your fingers lingered over your lips.

“minho, you are going to be the death of me…” you muttered to yourself, shoving your things into your backpack. 

“oh, trust me honey, i know.”

[unluckybreadling]

Caretaker Ibuki and Cow Twogami headcanons?

Cow!Two.gami

- the biggest one there were already established, has his own wing and everything.

- he ended up in this position because that imposter Ing did not last long and was caught by the Togami. Corp before any real damage could be done. Still the CEO and heir agreed to sell him off as science experiment considering he has no real family background to speak off. He just so happened to land in Hope peaks hands.

-This is later considered a win-win in the eyes of the Togami .mcorp as they do fund the farm and when twogami milk sells that shit sells. So they get to make profit off him as well, all the while togami corp still stands strong.

- he was the first to be immobile, as his starting weight was 286, his weight pretty much skyrockets sometime after they gave him the serum

- Just because the biggest and technically produces the most milk, he refuses to be milked. He can be overflowing and will just let all those precious gallons of milk go to waste on the floor. Why? He just doesn’t want to give milk, he gives it on his own time.

-that being said his milk is considered a limit edition item. It creamer than most and packed with richness, heavy calories and a good amount of protein!!

- He has managed to give three bull of the bulls ptsd because of them moving him all the way to the otherside of the farm (where he currently resides)

-Still a mother hen, if he sees or hears about a fellow cow not eating enough or losing weight rapidly. He won’t hesitate to give over some of his own helps or give them his own milk (from the source, he views tampered with milk as a disgrace)

-despite him acting like Togami, he does enjoy Ibuki’s presence, she’ll say the goofiest shit and that does get a giggle out him. She’s a breath of fresh air in his rather lonely wing.

Caretaker! Ibuki

-the most energetic caretaker you’ll ever meet, even though she isn’t passionate about farming or anything she always gives her ibukiness 100%

-Why is she doing this? Well.., constantly breaking your guitars in the heat of the moment during shows to the point of no repair is one.

- originally a normal worker, she wasn’t a very good one often ignoring duties that she deemed boringggg!! And would rather make makeshift drums with buckets or goof off with the cows. Seeing how more easy going they moved her from worker to caretaker.

-they paired her with twogami after seeing that she wasn’t put off of by the comments of cows who aren’t very friendly. Also because no one wanted work him since he was so far.

-She’s one of the main tour guides for elementary school tours due to her high energy and goofiness. She’s also a spokeswoman for when the the farm goes to county fairs, for the same reasons.

-sometimes she’ll bring her guitar and teach Leon how to play. Though most don’t appreciate their ruckus they don’t care.

-She’s pretty easy to spot, (minus her hair) she often sports overalls with a tee shirt underneath and accessories that look like Spencer’s and hot topic threw up on her

- When her tasks are done for the day she often doodles on twogami with eyeliner or body paint for fun. Twogami knows that means extra scrubbing brine and he likes her methods so he lets her do as she pleases

-despite working with twogami she hasn’t had any of his milk before, he refuses to let her have some for her own safety. He has sense that if ibuki became a cow ..she wouldn’t produce much and he doesn’t want to see her go.

-Although machines milk the cows, ibuki will sometimes do it buy hand even though it’s pretty pointless. The milks him like she’s in a rhythm game. And twogami is very confused.

Good times for both all around!

[adrianeringmarc]

The death of the Marquis.

Islet kidnapped the woman he was obsessed with from the modern world and made a pact with a demon to help bring himself and her to a fantasy world where he taken the place as a Marquis there. However, he overestimated himself and underestimated his victim’s bloodlust.

She pretended to love him, and he bought it so easily until she found the opportunity and killed him. He begged for his life, but she didn’t care.

[fluffy-lee]

Magic!

Part 8 of the series Vacation

This is a TICKLE series

PLATONIC Avengers x reader

Warnings: Mentions of separation anxiety.

Summary: Y/n has a lot of fun messing with Bucky and Steve under Wanda’s magical protection, but what happens when Wanda and Vision have date night, leaving Y/n at the cabin unprotected from the vicious super soldiers?

Steve had carried you up to your bed after the two of you made up. You nearly fell asleep in his arms with your head on his shoulder. He was careful to not wake Natasha when he laid you down. The last thing you remember is Steve kissing your head before you fell asleep. 

  Is this what it is to be unconditionally loved by someone? No matter how mad you made them, they’d still be willing to forgive you the same day, and love you the same, if not more. When you were in the HYDRA base, you expected that was what your whole life would be. Never escaping, ruled by the evil that killed your mother for falling in love with you and wanting a better life for you. You knew if you tried to get away, they would kill you too. 

You remember spying on Captain America one time. He was wearing regular clothes, a hat and sunglasses. He was with Natasha. Your job was to find out what they were doing. You never would’ve believed that man would become like a big brother, father, uncle, or best friend to you. You never knew how to properly describe what he is to you. He is just… Steve. You knew Steve wouldn’t hesitate to lay down his life for you. You would do the same for him. 

You knew Steve’s heart. You knew he missed the past. You knew he still missed his mother. You knew he had struggles that he kept to himself. You knew he was pure, and a good man. You wanted nothing but for him to be happy. 

...

  “Y/n.” 

You heard your name being whispered and felt yourself being shaken softly awake. 

  “Hmm? What?” You mumbled confused. 

  “Open your eyes!” The voice whispered. 

You knew exactly who it was. You opened your eyes to meet the all-too-familiar warm, brown eyes. 

  “Peter?” You asked. “What do you need?”

  “Let’s go swimming!” Peter whisper-yelled. 

You rolled over and saw the clock read 7:02 a.m. A morning swim sounded nice, and it was beautiful and sunny outside, the birds were chirping and you could see a slight breeze blowing through the pines out the white paned windows. 

  “I’ll meet you downstairs in five.” You whispered. 

Peter smiled and left the room. 

You hopped out of bed and went into the bathroom to change into your swimsuit. After you changed you brushed your teeth and made your way downstairs. Peter had towels and sunscreen ready for the both of you. 

  “I’ll make us some iced coffee. You better put sunscreen on, Peter Benjamin!” You scolded. 

  “Yay coffee! And I wiiiill-uh!” Peter groaned. 

You chuckled and pulled out the ingredients for the drinks. You were surprised that you and Peter were the only two awake. A lot of times, the adults woke up before you. 

  You brought the glasses of iced coffee out to the pool deck. You walked up the steps to find your best friend lounging in a lounge chair with his favorite pair of sunglasses on (that Tony gifted him with). 

  “Peeeter? Did you put sunscreen on?” You asked, suspiciously. 

  “Yes I did!” He nodded

You picked up the sunscreen only to find out it was a brand new bottle… and the seal was yet to be broken. You smirked and walked over to him, towering over him. 

He slightly pushed his sunglasses down to peer over them at you. 

  “What Y/n/n?”

  “Don’t you “Y/n/n” me, you liar!” You exclaimed dramatically, holding the sealed sunscreen to his face. 

Peter smiled guiltily with a blush. 

You dug your fingers around his collarbones and neck to tickle him. 

  “AHAH! Y/N! Nohhohoho!” Peter began, kicking frantically.

  “This is whatcha get!” You teased in a cute voice, projecting your adoration for him. 

He was too cute for his own good. 

  “Y/n! Plehehehease! I don’t want suhuhunscreehehen!” Peter cried through his ticklish agony. 

You switched to scritching around his belly button, making him scream. 

  “You better wear sunscreen or I’m gonna get Tony!” You warned. 

Peter’s eyes went wide at you. 

  “OKAY! OKAHAHAY! I will! Plehehehease stohohop tickling!” He whined through his laughter, obviously threatened by the thought of you getting Tony. 

You ceased the tickles and began opening the bottle of sunscreen, grinning to yourself over what just happened. 

  “I’m going to get you back for that miss Y/n.” Peter said, sitting up on the edge of the lounge chair. 

  “No Peter! You can’t!” You whined. 

  “And why not?” 

  “I made you coffee!” You argued, pointing over to the glasses with the cute swirly straws. 

  “Oh alright. You’re safe... for now.” 

You furrowed your brows at him with a smirk. “Stand up.” You ordered. 

Peter did as told and you began spraying his back and shoulders with sunscreen. You reached up to rub extra on his upper back and shoulders where he most often burned for extra protection. 

When Peter had all his sunscreen on, he grabbed the bottle to help you. He sprayed your tummy and rubbed it in, but made sure to make it tickle by digging his fingertips into the skin. 

  “Hehehehey! Yohohou said I wahahas safe!” You giggled, flinching away. 

Peter smirked evilly. 

  “I’m just trying to help you! Gosh!” He fibbed. 

You rolled your eyes and finished applying the sunscreen. 

  You and Peter spent the next twenty minutes sunbathing by the pool, drinking the refreshing iced coffee and letting the sunscreen set in. Peter had tanned so much over the trip. Tony was right to be so strict about Peter wearing sunscreen because of his skin. Your skin was glowing too, and you felt extra confident in yourself. Luckily, being surrounded by such encouraging and accepting people really helped you feel good about yourself. You had been degraded a lot growing up by the people at HYDRA. They always wanted you to feel weak, so you’d do what you were told. They sucked. However, you always knew you were beautiful, because your mother always told you so, and instilled that in you. You missed her, even though you were so young when she passed. You were glad Bucky was such a good father and that he was in your life. You always felt it was a miracle that Sam spotted you that dreadful morning. Here you were now, enjoying a beautiful vacation with a family to call your own. 

   It was now July 1st, and this was your last week here. Steve’s birthday and the Fourth of July was just three days away. There were big plans for the week and you still felt you had plenty of vacation left. 

 You and Peter finally jumped in the pool, doing flips, splashing each other and laughing. You had some random, deep conversations, but you also found yourselves laughing so hard your abs ached. You floated on your back, looking up at the blue sky through a semi-circle of pine tree tops. It was so beautiful and you could smell the evergreens in the fresh, mountain air. 

  You and Peter were soon quietly laying on pool floaties, sunglasses on. This lasted for a while, until something felt different. You felt like you were floating, not on the water, but… above the water. You and Peter opened your eyes to see you were six feet above the pool. Familiar red magic surrounded you. 

  “WANDA!!” You and Peter screamed in unison, before being dropped and flipped into the water. 

You came up from the water and you both couldn’t help but laugh. 

  “What was that for?!” You asked. 

  “Breakfast is ready!” Wanda cheered, turning and going back inside. 

  “That was fun!” You and Peter said in unison. 

  “Jinx!” 

…

 After you and Peter got out of the pool and dried off, you went to your rooms and got ready for breakfast. 

  You walked into the kitchen to see everyone awake. 

 “How was your morning swim?” Wanda asked with a smirk. 

 “It was quite relaxing… until… you know.” You answered with a smile.

Wanda patted your head and placed your plate in front of you. It was your favorite breakfast and you were hungry after swimming, so you dug in. 

  Steve plopped down next to you and gave you a loving smile. You returned the smile with a blush. He rubbed the middle of your back lovingly. 

  “When did you two make up?” Bucky asked before taking a bite of his food. 

  “At like midnight.” You said. 

Steve nodded. 

  “Yeah I got up to use the bathroom and I heard Y/n laughing. I thought “Dang! It’s too late for all that!” said Sam, sitting across from you. 

You and Steve laughed. 

…

  After breakfast, everyone had spread out and was doing their own thing for a while before it was time to get ready to go down to the town to have lunch and go to some gift shops. 

This was the first time you had really been alone for the trip, so you were just kind of exploring the cabin. You opened the closet by the front door and found things that made your heart soar! Bubbles, jump ropes, hoola-hoops, and a big bucket of chalk. You grabbed the bucket of chalk and slipped on your flip-flops. You went out the door and found a shady spot in the small looped driveway and began drawing all kinds of doodles. You were actually working pretty hard on them and wiped some sweat off your forehead from the heat. 

  “What are you doing out here, kid?” Sam asked, walking down the porch steps to you.

You gave him your bubbly smile and showed him your work. 

  “Oooh you found the sidewalk chalk!” He said. “I’m impressed! These are cute!” 

  “Thank you!” You exclaimed. 

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Please!” You answered. 

You and Sam drew, laughing and enjoying each other's company. 

  “Now let me show you something we used to do when we were kids.” Sam started, taking what he knew was your favorite color. 

He began swirling the chalk in circles, until it created a thick layer of chalk on the ground. 

  “Okay, now watch.” He said, and then pressed his whole hand in the chalk, coating it. 

You smiled wide. “That’s such a good idea!”

Sam made his hand print on the concrete and you did the same, dipping your hand in it, and placing your hand print next to his. Sam dipped his hand in it again, this time placing his print on your shin. 

  “Hey!” You giggled and placed your print on his arm. 

Sam laughed and poked your sides, making you squeal. You placed your print on his shirt. 

  “Oh it’s on!” Sam challenged and you both began racing, swirling all different colors of chalk on the ground and covering each other in chalk, all while laughing up a storm. 

  Bucky opened the door and walked out to find you two. Purple chalk in Sam’s beard, blue and pink chalk in your hair, orange chalk on Sam’s face, yellow and blue on your face, and your clothes looked like the rainbow. Bucky’s mouth hung open. 

  “What in the world?” Bucky blurted. 

  “Hi Daddy!” 

  “Uhh hi Y/n…” Then, Bucky smirked. “Hi Sam!” He said in a teasing voice, obviously amused to see Sam in such a childish state.

  “Hey.” Sam said seriously, waiting to be teased to the ends of the earth by Bucky. 

Bucky, however, wasn’t going to tease him. He thought it was really sweet how big, tough Sam could be a kid with you. You loved that too. 

 Wanda walked outside to see the scene, a giant smile on her face. 

  “Smile you two!” She said, holding her phone up to take a bunch of pictures, which you and Sam had fun with- making funny faces, throwing up peace signs, and hugs. 

  Steve walked out to see what was going on and his contagious laughter rang throughout the cabin. He had never seen Sam like that. Sam just rolled his eyes and laughed with him. 

 Tony and Peter soon walked out. 

  “Oh sweet! Chalk!” Peter cheered, running down the steps to draw something. 

  “You guys better be hosed off before you come inside dragging chalk all over the place!” Tony scolded. He really just wanted an excuse to spray you with the hose. 

You and Sam walked over to the hose and Tony followed, a mischievous grin on his face. 

  “I can do it myself!” Sam snapped, taking the hose and spraying himself down. 

You felt like messing with Tony, so the perfect idea came to your mind. 

  “I’m just going to go inside like this.” You shrugged, walking towards the house.

  “Uh! No ma’am!” Tony scolded. 

  “Yes sir, I am!” You replied, giving him a playful look before running toward the front door, flip-flops flying off. 

  “Y/N! NO!” Tony yelled, chasing you around the yard. 

You giggled as you ran and would squeal any time he got close to catching you, but you were doing good. Natasha made you run almost every day. 

Bucky, Steve, Wanda, and Peter laughed as they watched the chase. 

It had been too long and Tony decided to call for backup. You stood in the middle of the yard, away from Tony. Your heart sank with nervousness. What was he going to do? 

  “Cap! Help me get her!” Tony shouted. 

Steve bit his lip with a grin and started slowly walking down the steps, cracking his knuckles. 

You curled in on yourself where you stood in the grass and screamed. Steve started running toward you. You knew you were done-for, but you ran anyway, circling behind the trees. Tony stayed behind catching his breath. 

Your feet slammed against the grass and you could hear Steve close behind. You stopped and turned around. He was right there and reached out to grab you but you dove between his legs and came out the other side, and barely made it, much to your surprise. You got away. You launched to your feet again and sprinted, but this was Captain America. Next thing you knew, you felt his arms snake around your waist, making you scream again and you were lifted up in his arms. He laughed evilly. 

  “Got her, Tony!” Steve cheered. 

  “Thanks Cap! Hold her down for me?”

  “Why of course!” Steve answered, a teasing tone in his voice. 

You just took the time to catch your breath because you knew you wouldn’t be breathing much longer. Steve laid you on the grass. 

  “I must say, Y/n, that was very good! You’re a good runner, and you dodged me! I’m impressed!” Steve praised you. 

That made you really happy. He was impressed with you!

Steve saw you smile at that and tilted his head and smiled back. He saw how much his approval meant to you and he noted that. He used that as a reminder to keep that in mind. 

    “That’s the last time you run from me, Y/n/n!” Tony said, towering over you and wiggling his fingers at you. 

 “I’m sorry, Tony! Plehehease dohohn’t!” You begged. 

 “Too late!” He said, and immediately began dancing his fingers around your belly, causing you to burst into your belly laughter, making Tony and Steve both smile and look at each other over how cute it was. 

Peter who was drawing with the chalk looked up with a smile at Tony tickling your tummy and he got butterflies and blushed. He knew what you were going through, that’s for sure. He decided it was probably a good time to go inside and get ready to leave. 

 “I’m gonna… go inside.” Peter said to Wanda, slipping past her. 

 “Probably a good idea.” She giggled, rolling her eyes. 

Steve laughed along with you as he held you down to let Tony tickle you. Tony was now squeezing your sides and you were laughing like a maniac. 

  “Plehehease let mehehe gohoho, Steve!” You squealed, dying for him to let you move. 

  “Okay, if you say so!” Steve responded, releasing his grip on your wrists and joined Tony in tickling you. Steve dug one hand into your belly and the other in your armpit while Tony continued tickling your ribs and sides. 

 “NOOOO! AHAHAHAHAHA!” You screamed. 

The feeling of being tickled by two people at once was like torture, and all you could do was squirm and laugh. You couldn’t admit you were actually having fun. Once Tony’s hands found their way to your knees, and Steve’s to your neck, you couldn’t stand it any longer. 

  “STAHAHAHAP!” You cried, making Tony and Steve laugh. 

  “NO!” Steve teased, and he and Tony continued, making you think they weren’t going to stop. 

  “PLEHEHEASE!’ You squealed, finally making them stop. 

  “Well that should teach you.” Tony smirked. 

You blushed at him with a playful smile, sitting up in the grass. 

  “My hands are covered in chalk now!” Steve laughed. 

  “Looks like the Care Bears threw up on us.” Tony chuckled, standing up, pulling you up with him. 

  “I have an idea!” You perked up. 

Next thing you knew, you, Tony, and Steve were standing on the edge of the pool. 

 “3...2….1!” You counted down, and the three of you jumped into the pool, laughing and splashing each other. 

…

  Everyone was getting ready to go to town. You were now showered and dressed, standing on the back porch practicing braiding Thor’s hair while Natasha did yours.  

  “Am I doing this right, Nat?” You asked her, showing her the progress you made on Thor’s long, blonde hair. 

Nat looked over your shoulder. 

  “Hmm, you’re getting there. It’s a little lop-sided.” Nat smirked. 

  “I’m gonna restart it.” You said for the fifth time. 

  “I’m sure you’re doing a lovely job, Y/n.” Thor encouraged. 

 Suddenly, Tony stepped out on the porch. He was nearly ready and you could smell his cologne. You liked that smell. 

 “Hey Nat, you’ve got a call from Barton.” Tony said, holding up his phone. 

 “Oh okay, I’ll be right there. Thor, can you finish her hair, please?” She asked, stepping inside. 

 “Of course!” Thor said, standing up. Your progress on the new braid fell from his hair. 

 “Aww. That one was looking straighter!” You whined. 

Thor chuckled and began running his fingers on the nape of your neck, collecting your hair. It made you shiver and scrunch your shoulders. 

 “Does that tickle?” He asked with a smirk. 

You got butterflies and blushed, but you nodded. 

 “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” He asked, sarcasm in his voice. 

You rolled your eyes and let him finish your hair. 

When he was done, he picked you up and threw you high in the air, making you shriek. He caught you and you giggled. 

…

  “Tony, I want to talk to you about something.” Bucky said, walking into the kitchen where Tony was. 

 “What’s up?” Tony asked, filling up everyone’s water bottles. 

 “Well, with everything that happened with Y/n the past few days… I was thinking she really needs social interaction with kids her age.” Bucky suggested. 

 “Oh, definitely.” Tony replied, giving Bucky his full attention.

Tony had suggested this before, but you had said you really wanted to be homeschooled. You wanted to be home with the Avengers as much as possible. You really hated being away from them. 

  “Y/n has bad separation anxiety… but as her dad, I just can’t let that rule her life. I want to help her overcome it.” Bucky explained. 

  “You are absolutely right, Barnes.” 

Steve, who was leaning in the doorway, entered the kitchen. 

  “It has really taken a bit of a toll on her.” Steve added, catching their attention. 

  “I just don’t know how on earth we’re going to get her to do it.” Tony said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to force her into anything.” 

  “But at the end of the day, we can’t just sit back and let her continue to be taken over by fear.” Steve sighed. 

  “That’s why I was thinking we don’t send her to school. We get her involved in some extra-curricular activities. She’s way too talented to not be!” Bucky said. 

Steve and Tony agreed. They actually felt excited about it. They wanted Y/n to be happy, and to start developing more of her own life. 

  “I think we should get her to try a few different things, and let her pick the things she likes best.” Bucky added. 

 “That is a fantastic idea, Buck.” Steve smiled. 

 “Alright, we’re all in agreement. We’ll talk to her when we get home, and this Fall, we’ll get her started.” Tony concluded, patting Bucky’s back. 

The three grinned at each other. 

…

 “Alright, everyone in the van.” Tony urged.

Steve and Bucky climbed into the backseat of the van, leaving a space between them. You looked at them, and then looked at Wanda and Vision in the middle seat. 

  “I’m going to be smart and NOT get myself trapped between you two.” You said to Bucky and Steve. 

  “Awww really? We weren’t gonna do anything!” Bucky whined, sarcasm evident in his voice.

 “Yes! You can sit with us!” Wanda cheered happily. 

You smiled brightly at her and Vision. Vision leaned over and lifted you into the vehicle and placed you in between him and Wanda. You giggled at that. You loved Wanda and Vision. They always looked out for you, and you knew Vision would always be an ally to you. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have gotten to experience Asgard. 

  “Aww come on!” Peter groaned, standing outside the van when he saw he was going to be stuck between the two super soldiers. 

They chuckled.

  “I don’t think we’re very popular amongst the kids, Buck.” Steve smirked. 

  “Sorry Peter.” You apologized. 

Peter dramatically sulked his way into the seat. He didn’t actually mind. He enjoyed playing around with them. 

  Pepper and Tony got in the front and Natasha, Sam, and Thor took the other car. 

  Tony put on his music and everyone in the car was jamming and having fun. You were watching the pretty scenery out the window in front of you when suddenly you felt thirty fingers (5/30 which were metal)  fluttering around your neck. You squealed and scrunched your shoulders up. 

  "What?" Bucky teased. "You thought we wouldn't find a way to get you from back here?" 

Bucky, Steve, and Peter were all giving you little tickles on your neck and shoulders. You were red, gasping for air as you cackled. 

  "Silly girl!" Steve chimed in. 

  "Oh, do you guys ever quit? Let her be!" Wanda hissed protectively. Still, she couldn't help but smile at your state. 

  "I guess they tickle her because… it is quite adorable." Vision grinned. 

Vision’s statement made you blush more. 

  "STAHAHAP!" You cried as they continued to torment you. 

Just when you thought you wouldn't be able to take it anymore, you felt a pair of hands leave your neck. You immediately knew they were Steve's.

  "BUHUHUCKY! STAHAHAP!" Steve shouted. 

You felt the other two pairs of hands leave your neck.

 "IHIHIT'S NOT MEHEHE!" Bucky cried. 

"WHAHAHAT'S HAHAHAPPENING?" Peter joined. 

You looked back to see the three of them in stitches, clutching their torsos and squirming. 

Something red caught your eye, and you looked down to see Wanda's fingers wiggling, the scarlet magic dancing around her hands. 

You smiled wide and turned around to watch the three superheroes in ticklish agony. Pepper and Tony saw what was going on and were cracking up themselves. 

Steve, Peter, and Bucky (much to his dismay) begged and begged for Wanda to stop. 

  "No more torturing poor Y/n! Deal?" She asked. 

 "DEAL!" They hollered. 

Wanda ceased her magic and grinned at you. 

  "Thank you, Wanda!" You smiled. 

 "You're welcome." She said cooly. "You want to know how they felt?" 

 "Yes… I MEAN NO!" You answered, realizing what she meant. 

Next thing you knew,  the ticklish sensation was now going through your belly, and you'd never felt anything quite like it. Sure, when Steve would tickle you, you'd feel his fingertips wiggling into your ticklish spots, making you laugh so hard you could barely breathe, or when Bucky would squeeze your thighs in just the right way, you'd cry with laughter and thrash around, or when Peter would blow a raspberry on your neck and you'd feel the ticklish buzz all the way up to your ears- this was different. It tickled deeper, and you felt that you'd collapse into madness before too long, or just straight up pass out. You'd be surprised if any of them dared to tickle you in front of Wanda again. 

Wanda saw your reaction and knew to let up. 

  "Do you know what that feels like?" You asked her, residual giggles pouring out of you. 

  "Yes. I based it off how I'd feel when Pietro would tickle me." She answered with a fond smile. 

  "Ooooh you poor thing!" Peter said sincerely. 

Wanda laughed. 

"I think the magic makes it… a little worse." She smirked. 

 … 

 All the Avengers wore hats and sunglasses in an attempt to not draw attention to themselves. Thor even wore Earth clothes. Tony had F.R.I.D.A.Y. monitoring to make sure no one or nothing could take pictures or record without permission, in order to protect Peter's identity. People may be suspicious of him being Spider-Man, and walking around in the suit wouldn't help with drawing attention either. Needless to say, you all were safe and free to have a normal day at the town. 

After lunch, you and Peter ran ahead of everyone into the first gift shop. The gift shop looked like a cabin and there was lots of lake and forest themed stuff. There were tons and tons of friendship bracelets, t-shirts, hoodies, little knick knacks, and more. Tony let everyone get pretty much whatever they want. You and Peter picked out various bracelets and necklaces, and even got matching tie-dye shirts. 

 As you all walked around town into the many different stores, Bucky gave you a piggy-back ride. You were quite grateful he didn’t get tired, because your leg was bothering you a bit. Bucky didn’t set you down until you were at the snow cone stand. Everyone got their favorite flavors and you were sitting at the picnic tables, enjoying the shade of the umbrellas. You sat in between Bucky and Sam. You were feeling playful and you knew you could mess with Bucky, Steve, and even Peter, because you had Wanda to protect you. 

You smirked to yourself and reached up and ruffled Bucky’s hair. He smiled at you a first, but then you did it again. He raised his “claw’ but stopped when Wanda gave him a look. He sighed and you giggled to yourself. This is going to be fun. You squeezed Bucky’s thigh under the table, making him slam it on the bottom of the table with a loud BANG! You laugh hysterically as everyone else was confused about what just happened. 

  “Y/n stop!” Bucky urged.

You figured you’d give him a break and mess with someone else. Everyone finished their snowcones and began walking to the next location. You were going to walk next to Peter and maybe mess with him, but you soon found yourself being lifted up high in the air. You didn’t even flinch as this was a common occurrence. Steve placed you on his back to give you a piggyback ride, not knowing he just made himself your next victim. You slipped your hands to his ribs and scribbled. Steve let out a loud laugh and nearly dropped you.

  “HEHEY! NOHOHO Y/N!” He shouted through his laughter while you couldn’t help but giggle. 

He attacked your knees and shins the best he could while you held on. 

  “Steheheve nonono!” You giggled, but he kept going. “WANDA!” You shouted, catching her attention. 

Steve slowly stopped tickling, locking eyes with Wanda. 

  “I’m normally up for a fight… but I'm on vacation.” Steve huffed. 

Wanda smirked at you and you grinned back. She was letting you get your revenge and you were having a field day. You reached up and scribbled all over Steve’s neck and ears, making him scrunch his shoulders up and cackle. 

  “Ahahahaha! Alrihihight, thahahat’s enough!” Steve declared, prying you off him and setting you down.  “Go get someone else, would ya?” He said, gently pushing you away. 

You laughed at him and skipped into the store. Steve shook his head with a smile.

   “Y/n come here! Do you like these, sweetheart?” Bucky asked, standing in front of a display for really cool friendship bracelets. 

You gasped. “I love them! Can we get matching ones?” You asked him. 

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” Bucky grinned happily and picked out two to go check out. 

You went with him to the check out and you were so excited for the bracelets, but your mission wasn’t over. You had to get as much revenge tickles in as possible before Wanda’s protection from them was no longer over you. So, as Bucky was talking to the lady at check out, who was very cute, you snuck your fingers around his waist and started tickling him. 

Bucky’s eyes went wide as he was reaching into his wallet, and he tried his best not to squirm and laugh. You were having trouble holding in your laughter yourself. The clerk was very confused as she couldn’t see you tickling him, because the counter was tall, blocking the view of Bucky’s belly. She tried to make conversation with Bucky who was frozen in ticklish agony and would be so embarrassed to break out into laughter in front of her. This was too good, and pretty mean, but you couldn’t resist. 

  “Have a nice day!” The pretty lady said with a smile. 

  “You too.” Bucky managed to say cooly, with a smirk. He grabbed this little bag with the bracelets and turned around in your arms. You ran outside and he followed quickly after you. 

  “OH YOU LITTLE- THAT WAS HUMILIATING!” Bucky thundered, but he couldn’t help the smile creeping on his lips. 

You clutched your torso in hysterical laughter. 

  “OH I’M GONNA-” Bucky snatched you up in his arms baby style, and lifted your shirt up a bit, the cold metal fingertips slowly slid across your belly. He was ready to give you the biggest raspberry of your life, but was soon cut off by your cries for help.

  “WANDA! WANDA!” 

Wanda looked over and instantly shot tickles at Bucky and he collapsed into laughter, and set you down. Wanda ceased her magic and you got away. 

  “How fair.” Bucky grumbled sarcastically. 

You struted back over to him with a mischievous smile. Bucky sat down on a bench and had a little bit of a nervous look on his face. Were you coming back to tickle him some more? You weren’t. You came back because you were ready to wear your new bracelet. 

  “Let’s wear our bracelets now.” You said sweetly. 

  “Okay.” Bucky smiled at you adoringly. 

He got the bracelets out of the bag, and you tied his on his right wrist first. He was now tying yours on. 

  “Do you like it?” He asked. 

  “I love it.”

Once he had it tied on you, you were ready to go, but he yanked you very close to him by your wrist, making your eyes widen in surprise. 

  “Don’t think I won’t get you back for your shenanigans, Y/n, because I am going to.” He warned through gritted teeth. 

You gulped. He pulled you closer and placed kisses on your cheek making you giggle. You got butterflies at the thought of his revenge, but you knew it was worth it. Bucky stood back up, towering over you, and you were on your way. 

…

You figured Peter would be your final victim of the day, but you saw he was having such a good time with Tony, and you didn’t want to interrupt that. Peter had practically been glued to Tony’s hip all day. You saw he was happy and maybe he just needed Tony right now. Plus, you were saving your future self from a third person wanting revenge. 

  When it was a time to leave, you stood behind Steve as he climbed in the van and you rapidly poked his sides. 

  “Y/N! NOHOHO!” Steve yelled as he quickly got into his seat. 

You giggled, and then found yourself being scooped up into Vision’s arms. 

  “Are you having fun tormenting Steve and Bucky, Y/n?” Vision teased, holding you baby style. 

You nodded, making Vision chuckle. He sat down in the van, still holding you. 

  “You know, Y/n, Wanda can’t and won’t protect you from me.” Vision said in a teasing tone you don’t hear often enough. 

Wanda smirked at him. 

 You smiled up expectantly at him. He scribbled into your tummy and you curled in on yourself and began laughing and squirming, but he held you still in his arms. Wanda giggled at the sight. 

  “I bet that tickles, doesn’t it?” Vision teased through his smile. He had never tickled you before, because he figured you got enough from everyone else. You were very flustered, but were really loving this. Vision plopped you down into your seat, giving you a few more pokes with a chuckle. You blushed, residual giggles pouring out of your smile. You definitely felt closer to Vision after that. 

…

 You all had been back at the cabin for about two hours. You, Wanda, Natasha, and Pepper lounged in the sun by the pool for a while and now you were inside changed. You sat on your bed reading when Wanda came in all dressed up. 

  “You look so pretty!” You gasped.

  “Thank you, Y/n! Listen, I came here to warn you.” She whispered. 

You dropped your book and sat up. 

  “About what?” You asked nervously. 

  “I’m not going to be able to protect you tonight. Vis and I are having a date night.” She said with a grin. 

  “No! You can’t! You have to stay!” You begged. 

She rolled her eyes. “Y/n, we’re going!”

  “Oh alright… have fun then.” You sighed with a smile. 

Wanda ruffled your hair lovingly and left. 

 You grabbed your book and a flashlight off the nightstand. You were going to hide in the hall closet and read until she got home. It’s not that you were scared, but you felt way too bashful to face Steve and Bucky. You knew if they got a hold of you they’d not only tickle you, but tease you into oblivion. So, you got comfortable in the upstairs hall closet ready to hideout for the night.

…

  “Where’s Y/n?” Steve asked, walking into the living room. 

  “Hiding.” Bucky answered. He didn’t know where you were hiding, but he knew Wanda was gone for the evening, and wasn’t there to save you from the soldiers’ wrath. 

  “Hiding? Why?” Tony asked, sitting next to Peter on the couch watching a movie.

  “She’s scared.” Bucky smirked. 

Steve chuckled and crossed his arms. “Huh. I’m gonna find her.”

He began searching the downstairs of the cabin, not finding you anywhere, so he decided to check the upstairs. 

You were lost in your book when you heard footsteps. Your eyes widened and your breathing quickened. You quietly turned off your flashlight and held your book to your nose. The footsteps got closer and you squeezed your eyes shut. You knew the footsteps, too. Steve. 

Suddenly, the door swung open and the light flicked on. You looked up at Steve. You gave him your famous puppy dog eyes. 

  “Hello!” You said to him innocently. 

  “Well hello Y/n/n! Enjoying your book? Tell me, honey, why are you hiding in the closet?” Steve teased. 

  “I just like it in here. It’s nice and quiet!” You shrugged. 

Steve tilted his head at you and raised an eyebrow at you. 

You couldn’t look him in the eye. You screamed when he snatched you up. 

   “NOHOHOHO STEHEHEVE DOHOHON’T!” You squealed, curling in on yourself. 

   “I’m not even doing anything!” Steve laughed.

   “But you’re gonna!” 

   “Awww Y/n! You know me too well!” Steve teased. 

  “I see you got her!” Bucky said, entering the hallway. 

  “You know, I think you guys should just let me go.” You shrugged.

  “And why would we do that? After what you pulled today?” Bucky seethed through gritted teeth.

  “Steeeeve don’t do it pleeease? I just wanna read my book!” You whined, leaning in to give him butterfly kisses on his eyelashes. This always melted his heart. 

  “Awww. Maybe we should just have mercy on her.” Steve supposed, returning the butterfly kisses and pressing his nose to your cheek. 

  “Oh you are such a chump! Snap out of it!” Bucky ordered, snatching you from Steve and throwing you over his shoulder, carrying you into the room and throwing you on your bed. 

  “I gotta say… you had me there, Y/n! But not anymore!” Steve teased. 

Bucky immediately attacked your belly with raspberries. You squealed and laughed and pushed at his head, but he wouldn’t let up. When he finally did, Steve grabbed your ankle and pulled you toward him, making you yelp. He shook his hand into your tummy and you belly laughed your heart out. Butterflies always swarmed into your stomach when Steve did this. He just laughed at you as he sent you into ticklish agony. Bucky laid down on his side next to you, propping himself up on one arm and danced his fingers around your neck while Steve continued to shake your tummy. 

  “It’s so easy to tickle you to pieces!” Steve teased, making you blush. 

  “Aww look at her blush!” Bucky joined, sitting up and pinning your arms above your head. Though you put up a fight, he got them down and dug in your armpit. 

You screamed with laughter. 

  “Get her feet, Steve!” Bucky demanded, now, digging into both your armpits while you trapped his hands by throwing your arms down. Classic.

  “NOHOHOHO!” You shouted, while Steve put your ankles in a headlock. 

Bucky ceased his tickles to hold you down. 

  “Y/n I have a question for you.” Steve stated, that teasing tone never leaving his voice. 

  “What!” You spat, catching your breath. You couldn’t hide the smile on your face that said you were having fun.

Steve shook his head and shrugged at your sass. He slowly dragged a single finger up your foot from your heel to your toe. You giggled and flinched. 

  “Does that tickle?” He asked. 

  “Yes.” You said unamused. 

  “Okay, and what about this?” 

He scribbled his hands across both of your feet and you screamed and laughed and kicked. 

Bucky just laughed at you and began tickling your ribs. You went crazy with laughter and began begging for mercy. 

  “PLEHEHEHAE PLEHEHEASE STAHAHAP! PLEHEHEASE! I CAHAHAN’T TAHAHAKE IHIHIT!” You cried. 

  “Should we stop, Buck?”

  “Yeah let’s stop.” Bucky chuckled, letting you go soon followed by Steve. 

You caught your breath.

  “That was mean.”

  “You asked for it.” Bucky shrugged. 

  “I always ask for it. I don’t know why.” You admitted with a blush making them smile. 

  “When will you learn, Y/n?” Steve teased, rolling onto you and attacking your neck with raspberries.  

You were laughing, enduring Steve ticklish raspberries when suddenly his raspberries turned into laughter, and of course that still tickled you. 

  “Are you torturing my Y/n/n, Steve?” Nat quipped, as she squeezed his sides. Steve collapsed with laughter next to you.  

 You sat up and watched her tickle Steve. She finally let up on him and he sat up with you, wrapping his arm around you. 

  “My Y/n/n!” Steve claimed. 

  “Uhhh no! My Y/n/n.” Bucky said, taking you from Steve. 

You looked at all of them. 

  “First one to bring me a bowl of ice cream loves me the most!” You challenged. 

Bucky dropped you on the bed and you watched them all fight their way out the door.

You laid back on the bed, rolled your eyes and smiled. You loved them more.

[catchmewiddershins]

What it’s like to be loved by them

Ah yes I am throwing out some scraps of content because I finally was able to free up some time to write! And then had no ideas! So we’re doing something cliché lol - Also I used a random character wheel to pick who to write for- (I CAN’T SPELL HINATA’S FIRST NAME IT ALL LOOKS WRONG)

Includes: Miya Osamu, Ushijima Wakatoshi, Hinata Shoyou, Yaku Morisuke, Akaashi Keiji, Oikawa Tooru and Shouhei Fukunaga

Miya Osamu:

Osamu is silver-blue piano and soft chords, the sunlight that slips so softly through the slats on blinds that are slightly broken, the slightly sticky feeling of wet rice in your hands as it fits into the lines that weave across your palms. He is white, cotton blankets and fluffed pillows, cloudy lemonade and losing sight of your toes in a thick carpet. He’s the feeling of calloused fingers on yours, fluffy socks and the taste of warm soups in winter as it breathes its hot steam down your throat and heats your stomach. He is cold cheeks and noses, tea-stained pages and the golden scent of fresh bread that signifies the best feelings of life. Osamu is hand-knitted tea cosies and watercolour paintings blu-tacked to the wall, warm, buttered popcorn and the feeling of the highstreet at night. He is the lights that glimmer on the midnight motorway and moon when it's risen in a blue afternoon sky. Being loved by Osamu is to bob on the ocean, the sun at your back and baking your legs, with salt crusting your skin and the taste of the sea on your lips while his fingers lock with yours, the perfect puzzle pieces to finish you both as the crowing laughs of seagulls echo above you.

Ushijima Wakatoshi: 

Ushijima is solid wood and tall forests, the green sound of a breeze ruffling grass like a father’s hand on the head of his child. He is apples and ice cubes and soft, plaid blankets laid on the dirt. He is the sight of a small ladybird, crouched on the tip of a finger, wings spread to fly into the great expanse of sky that stretches before it. He is red sunrises and purple evenings, the hazy, grey brightness that slows the day, the syrupy sluggish afternoons of drizzled rain and icing on lemon cakes, eaten with hot tea in a library. He is muffled laughter in the corridors and coats and hands that swamp and cover and protect, and the feeling of always looking up, up, up. He is the dusty, old clock you found in the attic and the wooden slats of old houses, he is peeling plaster and new paint, and the squeak and shine of polished floors. He is secret passages through the walls and flights of stairs that extend to infinity, and the deep, throbbing, beetroot purple of the tightest hugs that root themselves down into your chest. Being loved by Ushijima is being loved by the bass line of life, it’s his hand on your head and the other hovering at your waist, slow dancing to songs that weren’t meant for such smooth delight, him spinning you out as the air sparkles and being close to the beat of his heart and mind as you glide and dip and swerve to the thrum of his voice.

Hinata Shoyou:

Hinata is the tightness in your thighs they day after exercise and the sweet tang of mangoes in summer. He's August days when the ground wavers and the grass becomes caramel. He is hot red bricks under bare feet and the dizzying height of the walls of your garden. He is water fights and sprinklers in the baking sun, the squinting eyes and glaring lights, the shortest shorts you own. He is the smokey scent of sausage that stings and waters your tongue, the barbequed weekends and idle chatter of friends and the chink of ice that melts too quickly in glasses of juice that have been kept in the fridge. He's the soft comfort of pyjamas and burning hot skin on a cold day, marshmallows and fire and smouldering logs. He is the dance of heated air and the warmth that fogs the bathroom mirror. He is sand in your toes at one moment and the top of a cliff the next. Being loved by Hinata is the kites that float over the hilltops and the whipped foam of waves and the splattered paint of blankets, the mismatch of deckchairs and parasols at the beach, a sandcastle and the flagpole on top, and the horizon that stretches so far into the distance.

Yaku Morisuke:

Yaku is beaming, sunshine laughter and the ruffled hair of little kids. He is the background chatter in a café and the music playing in your favourite shops, the rushing of places and people as you're dragged down the street on your way to somewhere special. He's the thud, thud, thud of sprinting down a massive hill as the air is ripped from your lungs and your joyful screams are lost to the spiraling sky. He's the blur of green and blue and the smell of grass as you roll half of the way. He is the juice of melting ice lollies and the teasing winks of wind chimes by the sea, he's the sticky residue of broken stems that leaves itself on your fingers after the construction of a daisy chain. He's the light of a phone screen in the dark and the print of an old book where the s and f look irritatingly similar. He is the warmth of your own bed and the scent of your own home, the feeling of old clothes and attachment. Being loved by Yaku is to call to the birds that circle overhead and to feed fresh strawberries to one another, to play fight with sticks and paint your legs with grass stains and to trundle home with the exhaustion that comes from euphoria, sharing a hand, high on life.

Akaashi Keiji:

Akaashi is a lake, clear as glass and just as cold, although not the biting cold, but the cold that invites hot chocolate and a log fire. He is the lakes that teem with fish that nudge your numbing fingers and make you wonder at the world, he is the sunlight that glints off of slick rocks and your glimmering skin. He's the royal blue of day and the navy of night, the colour of the ocean, and of flowers, and of the quiet hum of a cello played delicately. He is the fingers of trees that reach to the sun, and the crunching silence of wet autumn leaves, the scent of old books and ink and the eternal echo of time in a museum. He is the sculpted face of statue and the warmth of a flushed face, the fragility of butterfly wings and flower petals and the strength of the trunk of an oak. He is hummingbirds and kingfishers and the simmering yellow of a springtime kiss. He is the sun at your neck and the shade of a tree above you, the splash of a diving duck and the tickle of grass on your bare feet. Being loved by Akaashi is staring up at him from where you sit, serene tranquility, the faint thrum of a river beneath you as your hand disturbs it, the creak of an aging wooden boat and the dappled sunlight that streams through the trees as he rows you to love.

Oikawa Tooru:

Oikawa is the tinkling of bells and the birdsong that flies in the early morning. He is the banded sunrise and all of its colours, the yellow songs on the radio that you sing along to, the orange-gold warmth of early evening, the pink of a blush on his cheeks, the purple light of the night that casts his face into shadow and the navy blue of his wallpaper. He is doodles on desks and using highlighter ink for nail varnish, he is cute stationery and over-curled handwriting and the giggles that come from sharing a secret. He is the creak of benches that have been sat on too many times and the blinding colours of tropical fish in an aquarium. He’s the blasting sound of loud radio, the rush of windows wide open at seventy miles an hour, the pressure against an arm thrown out of the window and the crescendo of voices singing at the top of their lungs until your voices crack and your throats are deserts. Being loved by Oikawa is whipped cream on your nose and joyful laughter, pancakes on the ceiling and sprinkles scattered over the floor, it’s playing children’s games while waiting for a cake to cook, and snuggling up with popcorn in a fairy-light bedecked fort, with foundations of cotton and walls of blankets as the white glare of television shines in your eyes.

Shouhei Fukunaga:

Fukunaga is uncontrollable giggling and whispered jokes, he is the fire-engine red of plastic buckets and spades, the sweetness of sugary treats and the fizz of sherbert on your tongue. He is brightly coloured doors and hanging baskets of flowers, the unevenness of cobbled streets and pastel houses. He’s the soft song of a springtime breeze when it brushes your cheek with a tender hand and blows your eyes open, dusting your face and head, the exhilarating rush of staring into the wind, the drop in your stomach as you lean backwards into its support. He is the chime of a shop door and the crinkle of packets that have been piled into your arms, the warmth of a kitchen and the taste of joy. He’s puns and playful nudges and blinding grins, crinkling eyes and soft cheeks stretched wide, he’s homemade food and the sparkling expression of the one who made it, he’s the warmth of a borrowed jumper, the mould of a side that you fit to so easily, the clicking of a keyboard when online games are played together. He is the snacks that have melted slightly in his bag, odd socks with garish patterns, googly eyes stuck all over his books, doodles in the margins and fluffy pencil toppers, dancing with no rhythm to old songs in the kitchen and letting yourselves go wild. Being loved by Fukunaga is to lie under the coffee table, your eyes falling into his as he stares you down, deft fingers nimbly shuffling cards, it’s to laugh in disbelief as he pulls your card from the deck, eyebrows wiggling their way off of his face, a playful beam poking through his lips, your legs are tangled together and one of your arms is going numb but it doesn’t matter, you are his and he is yours.

[mqfx]

After a few steps, he saw another stall; a chicken soup shop that appeared cleanly put-together. The sign in front of the door said: “home-raised chicken, slow-cooked broth. Made fresh, guaranteed clean”.

Xie Lian stopped. “Oh, chicken soup. How about a bowl?”

Hua Cheng, however, said again, “Not this one either.”

Xie Lian blinked. “Is it a problem with the plates, or is it with the chicken?”

Hua Cheng brought him into the shop, pulled aside a set of curtains, and gestured for Xie Lian to look. Curious, Xie Lian poked his head in, and immediately became speechless. Inside the kitchen was an enormous pot, a roaring fire beneath it, and steam rolled out of it. Inside the pot was a large man with a bright red cockscomb on his head, and he was simmering in the boiling waters, happily taking a bath. Next to the pot were many buckets; they contained salt, pepper, herbs, and other such seasonings.

In the shop’s front, a customer yelled, “BOSS, ADD MORE SALT TO THE SOUP! IT’S TOO PLAIN!”

As he bathed, that man grabbed a large handful of seasoning and smeared it on himself, rubbing it hard into his body with a towel, increasing the flavour.

Then, he let out a long crow: “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”

Xie Lian dropped the curtains and silently walked out.

[demonstrativepronoun]

I posted 22 times in 2021

16 posts created (73%)

6 posts reblogged (27%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 0.4 posts.

I added 27 tags in 2021

#5crookedfingers - 5 posts

#january2021 - 3 posts

#calligraphersofinstagram - 3 posts

#uncialscript - 3 posts

#spiralcalligraphy - 3 posts

#calligraphyart - 2 posts

#paulocoelho - 2 posts

#paulocoelhoquotes - 2 posts

#paulocoelhobooks - 2 posts

#postercolours - 2 posts

Longest Tag: 39 characters

#its way more better than i ever thought

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

We are having a random holiday because of the prelim exams of our senior grade and when we told our psych teacher about it, she just mumbled softly you’re having a holiday?! Even I want a holiday. Lucky you, sad me. Anyways and then continued with the class. I swear that was the cutest thing ever.

3 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 04:52:16 GMT

#4

why did it never occur to me that I could literally have animal illustrations, emojis and cute drawings as my signature and no one would give a damn. 

11 notes • Posted 2021-02-04 07:20:30 GMT

#3

Are you not overwhelmed every night, or are you not alive. Are you not trying to justify yourself to yourself or are you not socially functioning.Are are not empty inside with constellations of sparks zinging inside unleashed or are you not human Are you not writing random stuff on tumblr just for the sake of old times only to bring back the writing and doodling on school benches, while college continues as background score  or are you not academic. Are you not constantly embarrassing yourself in front of your crush or are you not dumb

11 notes • Posted 2021-01-20 04:38:44 GMT

#2

ok guys, just toinform u all...this blog has reached its saturation...cuz many people know me here by now, and that defies the very reason the blog was made. So, yeah, time for a nomad to go somewhere else, and start another blog

24 notes • Posted 2021-02-18 04:29:16 GMT

#1

January rain

It did rain.

somewhere, sometime even for mere 5 minutes. The thing is, it did rain fresh, anew. Moreover, totally unexpected I don't care what consequences it would have, or why did it precipitated in January. Incredibly early, withing just 4 days. The thing is, it did rain. Trust me, it was beautiful not the kind of beautiful that would glitter in your eyes, but the kind that would make you smile in a calm fashion, beneath your face mask, unintentionally. Beautiful. I love how vague that word is. Today, it was so beautiful that I left no space to think about the regrets or aftermaths that I would have tomorrow. I celebrated this auspicious moment with 1 medium bucket of chicken popcorn, with the dip, from KFC. Rs. 130 ma'am, I recieve Rs. 350 back. I order something from a restaurant totally on my own a friend for initial moral support. I walk, and walk, and walk till I find new places to call home, where it magically rains.

- Hinal 10:10 (hey make a wish) 8-Jan-20

32 notes • Posted 2021-01-09 12:50:55 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

Aahdjdvsgsjdvsvvzhxbxbbaaaahhhhhhh I was going to disown and stop using this blog. Lmao I had almost forgotten abtthe top post

[peachpety]

Life Imitates Art

* * *

The year of the first pumpkin carving contest at Hogwarts is a fact highly contested. Some claim it was initiated by Godric Gryffindor, deep into his spiced metheglin, hastily carving Salazar Slytherin’s likeness into a gourd out of spite. Some claim the Baron originated the competition to woo Helena Ravenclaw by presenting her with a garden of grinning Jack-o-lanterns. 

Regardless of its origin, the annual Halloween event was highly anticipated by Hogwarts students and teachers alike. Another way to pit the Houses against each other in the name of “good sportsmanship.”

So, of course, it became a highly competitive event.

There’s a row of glass cases lining both walls of an expanded corridor in Hogwarts that extends for nearly a half kilometer and has remained miraculously unscathed after the Battle. The cases house the winning Jack-o-lanterns of years past, kept fresh in preserving magic, each glowing from within by the winning House color. The six pumpkins from 1992 to 1997 all glow red.

A pumpkin — whole and uncarved — bathed in red, green, blue, and golden lights sits In Memorium in the space reserved for the winning pumpkin from 1998.

The empty case beside it is reserved for the 1999 winner.

Draco Malfoy visits the case every day since his 8th year term started, a wish held deep in his heart.

* * *

From the golden owl podium, Headmistress McGonagall announces, “Welcome, Hogwarts students to the Annual Pumpkin Carving Contest.” 

The Great Hall erupts into cheers, whistles, and a few contraband WWW whiz-poppers. Draco rolls his eyes at Filch trotting to apprehend the perpetrators from his assigned spot at the Slytherin table, arrayed with carving utensils and buckets.

“As most of you know,” McGonagall continues, “In year’s past, this tradition has pitted House against House and the Gryffindors have upheld quite a winning streak.” 

The Gryffindors yell, while Potter and Weasley bang their hands on the tabletop, rattling the utensils with their enthusiasm. Beside them, Hermione shakes her head, straightening her workspace.

“Not this year, Gryffs!” Pansy calls out from her spot next to Draco.

“Oh, we’re gonna knock you down to the bottom, Parkinson,” Weasely yells back.

“Don’t underestimate me, Weasley,” Pansy snarks. “I’ve been known to top from the bottom.”

Potter and Weasley howl and slap palms, Weasley clutching his chest and blowing Pansy a kiss. Draco tsks and directs his frown from Potter’s over-bright smile punctuated by a single dimple to the parchment on which he’s been doodling squiggly lines, not at all shaped like lightning bolts and sketches of pumpkin carvings with round spectacles and golden snitches.

McGonagall silences the uproar with a stern glare. “This year, however,” she says, “we are initiating a new rule.”

Draco lifts his eyes from his doodles, attention captured. At the Gryffindor table, Harry sits taller.

“To further inter-house unity,” McGonagall says, “Students from different houses will be paired for the competition.” A chorus of groans and protests echo off the walls. “I expect you all to set a good example for the younger students,” McGonagall says loudly. 

“Ooh,” Pansy murmurs from beside Draco. “I wonder with whom Potter is paired.”

“I could care less,” Draco says, sniffing. Across the Hall, Harry leans to murmur into Weasley’s ear and catches Draco looking. Draco quickly averts his eyes, and Pansy snorts.

McGonagall levitates a parchment, unrolling it with a flick of her wrist. “The Heads of Houses and I have spent quite a fair amount of time vetting this list, and the pairings are final. No exceptions.”

One by one, students are paired off. Ginny and Luna squeal together and hug. Pansy skips to Weasley with glee, sitting in his lap with a cackle and setting his face aflame to match his hair. Theo trips over himself at his pairing with Hermione, his longtime crush. 

McGonagall says, “Harry Potter,” and a hush falls over the Hall. Draco’s heart stalls.

“And Draco Malfoy,” Harry says, dropping down onto the bench next to Draco. “I kinda like the sound of that.” His knee brushes against Draco’s under the desk, jumpstarting Draco’s heart.

“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall laments, dropping the parchment on the desk in exasperation.

Harry folds his hands on the table and raises his eyebrows. “Yes, Minerva?”

McGonagall’s eyes narrow. 

Weasley pipes up, “I think, Headmistress, if you check your parchment there, you’ll see that Harry is indeed paired with the ferret, I mean, Malfoy, ow!” He cringes and grabs Pansy’s pinching fingers. 

McGonagall peers at the parchment. “Merlin, help us all,” she sighs heavily, resigned. “Pairing accepted. Moving on, Seamus, you’re paired with…”

“What the fuck are you doing, Potter?” Draco hisses under this breath. 

“Saving your arse,” Harry murmurs. “And such a lovely arse, at that.”

Heat explodes up Draco’s neck, flaming his ears. “My arse is none of your business,” he sputters.

Harry hums. “Not yet,” he says so quietly Draco doubts he heard correctly. “Anyway,” he continues, “Seamus was to be your partner and if you recall his penchant for explosives, you should be thanking me.” He scoots closer, knee brushing Draco’s leg again, sending Draco’s heart skittering in his chest. “Are these Jack-o-lantern ideas?” He points at Draco’s doodles.

Draco’s heart lurches, and he quickly vanishes the parchment. “No.”

“Too bad, I liked the one with the glasses and the snitch.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows and grins.

“I’ve no idea what you mean,” Draco says, too riveted by the bloody dimple to be mortified. “But I do have some thoughts on how to dimple this pumpkin.” He cringes, the heat burning his ears expanding to his cheeks. “Carve! How to carve this pumpkin.” He takes a deep breath and levels Harry with a glare. “I intend to win this year, Potter, so don’t fuck this up.”

“Students,” McGonagall intones joyously, “You have 3 hours. Your time starts now!”

Harry’s grin widens, and he hands Draco the knife. 

* * *

Their first spat evolves from Harry lecturing Draco on the proper way to cut the Jack-o-lantern’s cap, which he insists are “mere suggestions” on how to hold the knife. This ends with a trip to Madame Pince to mend Draco’s cut finger, Harry hovering nervously and biting his cuticles, green eyes wide with worry.

They lose thirty minutes in the Infirmary.

They are thoroughly reprimanded after a minor disagreement over which tool is the best to remove the pumpkin’s innards that quickly escalates into a food fight, covering them in pumpkin guts. Draco bites back a smile at the seeds dangling from Harry’s glasses.

Draco thinks the docking of thirty minutes off their time is excessive.

They finally reach an agreement to carve a Quidditch seekers game in the damn pumpkin after much deliberation. Draco schools Harry, at length, on the 1967 amendments to the official Hogwarts Pumpkin Carving Contest rule book limiting the use of magic to carve pumpkins — to be informed that they only have 5 minutes in which to do the actual carving.

Draco has a panic attack; Harry performs some quick slicing...

And the contest is over.

* * *

“Merlin’s saggy ball sack,” Draco groans. “This is all your fault, Potter! What even did you carve?” He drops his head into his hands. “No, don’t show me. I don’t want to know.”

“It’ll be fine!” Harry says, bouncing his knee. “I’m glad you're lucid again, though.”

“Oh, what do you know?”

“I know,” Harry says, leaning over and removing a pumpkin seed from Draco’s fringe, “that it will be fine.” He smiles, the dimple pops, and Draco’s heart palpitates. He slumps. He can’t even be appropriately peeved. Damn the power of the dimple. 

“We have our winners!” McGonagall sweeps into the Great Room, parchment in hand. “In third place is Pansy Parkinson and Ronald Weasley with a pair of pumpkins.” The duo whoop and high five. Ron picks up a pumpkin carved with a frowning, grumpy ferret face. Draco frowns. 

“Look!” Ron cries out. “Life imitates art!”

“And Harry, too!” Pansy holds up her more massive pumpkin carved with round glasses and a lightning scar.

“That’s so simple for third place!” Seamus complains, and Draco silently agrees. Hope nestles in his gut. He and Harry just might have a chance.

“Says the lad with the exploded pumpkin on his face,” Pansy retorts.

“In second place,” McGonagall says, “is Hermione Granger and Theo Nott for their beautiful rendition of Hogwarts!” 

Hermione beams and kisses a blushing Theo on the cheek, levitating their perfectly carved pumpkin off the table. Draco’s heart sinks. 

“Fuck, that’s amazing,” Harry says, eyes wide.

“More amazing than ours?” Draco asks sharply, fearing he already knows the answer. 

“Shhh. The announcement for first place.”

“And in first place,” McGonagall swishes her wand, and a drum roll fills the room, “Luna Lovegood and Ginny Weasley!” 

Ginny whoops and stands on the bench, holding their first place pumpkin overhead. 

“Oh, we won!” Luna says, clapping. 

“What even is it?” Ron says, squinting. “Two blokes… yelling?”

“It’s Harry and Draco fighting!” Ginny says. She hops off the bench and presents the pumpkin to Harry and Draco with a dramatic flourish of her hands. The carving displays Draco with his mouth open, yelling and pointing at Harry, sitting with his face scrunched and arms crossed. Harry bursts out laughing.

Draco presses his mouth closed, embarrassment warming his face. “It’s not funny!”

“It’s pretty funny,” Harry says, wiping his eyes. 

“Ooh, wait, there’s more!” Luna sets the inside of the Jack-o-lantern aglow and places the carved cap into place. Ginny holds up a piece of parchment. The wavering shadow shows two boys kissing, arms wrapped around each other. 

“And now they kiss,” Ginny says proudly. 

Ron and Pansy pick up their pumpkins and smoosh them together, ferret face to Harry face. 

Draco blinks, hardly breathing. “They what now?”

“Oh, I can’t wait to see this in the Hall of Pumpkins!” Luna beams.

Draco’s eyes go wide.

This pumpkin, this thing, with the image of he and Harry fighting and kissing, for fuck’s sake, will be on display for all to witness. For eternity. Draco opens and closes his mouth, unable to form words because he’s pretty sure his brain is now oozing out of his ears. 

“We do have an honorable mention,” McGonagall offers, lips pursed in an approximation of a smile. “Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter!”

“I told you I liked the sound of that,” Harry says, his smile slanting crooked as he turns their pumpkin to face Draco.

Carved into the orange flesh are words forming a question.

“Wicked,” Ron says, grinning. 

Draco looks around at the expectant faces crowded around the table, heartbeat galloping, heat swelling through his veins. He settles his eyes on Harry. 

“I mean, we need to make the first place Jack-o-lantern honest.” Harry bites his lip, green eyes questioning, and hopeful. 

Draco’s heart pulses out a massive beat, and he throws his arms around Harry’s neck. “Yes,” he says breathlessly. “Yes, I’ll date you.”

Cheers and yells fade into the background of their kiss, life imitating art.

* * *

Day 19 of Autumn Drarry Drabbles, y’all! A ficlet (because this just wouldn’t stop) inspired by the fantastic Jack-o-lantern art! by @gallifrey1sburning! M’dear your art inspired this and paired with the prompt Person A always wins the pumpkin carving contest every year. Person B is determined to beat them, well, this ficlet came to pass. Thank you for the inspiration, lovely, this is for you! Also, to my lovely bff, @lovelynirish, mwah! HUGE COLOSSAL THANKS to my sweet friend and fantastic beta for this, @veelawings - BIG LOVE ALL THE LOVE!!!

Send me an ask if you like! Reference this post for potential prompts to send!

Read on AO3

Day 18 || Day 20

[kai-n-ali]

In the Fields of Asphodel (My Regrets Follow You to the Grave) | Chapter One

Eleanor Blum didn’t know what to think of this man, this Peaky Blinder devil that made all of Small Heath cower before him, this almost-stranger with his dead wife and dead stare, but she wished he’d stop showing up at the flower shop she worked in. And that he’d stop looking at her with those blue eyes of his. 

Follows aftermath of Season 03 throughout Season 04. Tommy x OFC.

Warnings: Depictions of child abuse, antisemitism towards OFC (slurs), canon-typical violence, canonical deaths, sexual themes, etc.

Word Count: 5K

Chapter Two ❀ Chapter Three

                               Chapter 1: Citron (Ill-natured Beauty)

   The bell let out a series of chimes as the door creaked on its hinges, and in a small florist shop tucked between a gelateria and an abandoned butchery, Eleanor Blum officially met the devil of Small Heath.

   She wasn’t impressed.

   Flora’s, the little florist and botanical shop, had become a haven for the twenty-three-year-old in the time that she’d lived above Cora Evans’ storefront: only a few short weeks. Flora’s, partially named after Cora’s granddaughter, Florence, was a bright spot of color among the grit and grimness of Birmingham, with flower boxes brimming with asters and foxgloves, strawflowers and marigolds. Along the south-facing wall, honeysuckle crawled up the scratched brick, and the thick, sweet scent of the flowers almost washed out the stench of shit wafting up from the nearby horse stables or the sour-milk scent from gone-off gelato dumped in the dumpster, left to fester in the summer heat.

    Inside, the shop was cluttered, bouquets dotting the window display and trailing back in colorful bunches all throughout the front of the store, some put in ornate vases, others in ribbon-adorned mason jars, and a few placed into half-rusted buckets. Petals and leaves dotted the floor, and the room reeked of lavender and fresh-cut stems, grassy and clean. In the back of the store where the rare plants were, packets of seeds labelled in Cora’s handwriting, and now in Eleanor’s own scrawl, lined their worktable in rows.

    When he first came in, she didn’t bother looking up from her spot bent over one of the tables, hands streaked in dirt from potting snapdragon cuttings—they were very fashionable right now for front gardens, apparently—and the charcoal from her pencils. She’d plucked a honeysuckle bloom off its stem earlier in the morning and was practicing the loose lines of it on paper with strokes of a pencil. 

    The bell chimed, and Eleanor heard none of it, not until a voice cleared its throat a few paces in front of her. Eleanor jolted up, pushed a few curls out of her eyes.

    The man in front of her was beautiful in the way most wild things were when trapped behind glass. The way vines were beautiful when they were confined to the cracks of cobblestone, peeking out in glimpses of brilliant green. With cheekbones that looked like they’d split the pads of her fingers if she reached out to touch, that looked like they were meant for dinner parties as much as they were for being flecked in blood, Eleanor felt herself stiffen. She knew this man. Sort of.

    That newsboy cap was just ridiculous.

    Thomas Shelby, the husband of Grace Shelby, stood in her new place of employment. The last time she’d seen him, Eleanor had been at a gala in a new dress, gems dripping from her throat and beading trickling off her hem while she grilled his wife on her new orphanage and its living conditions for the second time.

    He was a ghost. Some half-wilted thing.

    Eleanor tilted her head, taking in the stiff lines of him, the strained civility held in the pale blue of eyes, and thought: how disappointing.

    She hadn’t taken Shelby for the kind of man to wilt.

    Meanwhile, it seemed Mr. Shelby was studying her as well. The startling blue of his eyes trained on her, cut across by the thicket of his lashes. He swept up and down her form, and she avoided fidgeting just barely. It seemed he recognized her, perhaps from the charity gala for the Shelby Foundation that went so wrong. Eleanor herself had only seen glimpses of him at said event, dressed in a black tux, the cut of his jaw severe and the stretch of his coat across his shoulders making her mouth go dry. She’d seen him as a dark shadow lingering behind his wife, his hand curling around her pale shoulder or tucking a loose, golden curl behind her ear before he was up and off again.

    Though, she realized she’d lied before. The last time she’d seen Thomas Shelby, it’d been a black-and-white photo shot from quite a distance, his back ramrod straight as he stood over the coffin of his dead wife. Surrounded by chrysanthemums and hydrangeas. His family stone-faced beside hordes of men in full military garb.

    The thought of Mrs. Shelby made her wince, and if anything, that made him stare harder. Something in his eyes questioned, how do I know you? Eleanor wasn’t obliged to answer.

    She locked her jaw and crossed her arms over the dirt-streaked cotton of her blouse. “Can I help you?” she asked, “or did you come just to ogle?”

    Somewhere from close behind, Eleanor heard a small squeak. She turned to face the noise. Florence, or Flora, sat on one of their many wooden benches, nearly toppling over a vase of petunias with every swing of her feet. Her eyes were very wide. “Ella,” she said, high-pitched, in a more-than-loud whisper. “Ella, that’s Mr. Shelby.”

    Flora was a girl of thirteen, with straight, dark hair cut right below her ears, and a smile that grew more lopsided the harder she grinned. When the chores were through and if the shop wasn’t busy, Eleanor would sit down and entertain her with little doodles, half-formed sketches.

    Right now, however, she was white as a freshly bleached sheet, her gangly legs jiggling with nerves. She hadn’t grown into them yet, but Eleanor found them endearing—almost coltish. Her eyes darted for her grandmother, but Cora was long gone on an errand.

    Mr. Shelby seemed unaffected, clearing his throat again with a cough. One hand rested on his pocket-watch, as though already eager to check the time. “Ella, eh?” She’d never heard him speak before, and the coarseness of his voice made her stomach flip-flop alongside the annoyance burning away at her. “Well, Ella—”

    “Eleanor.”

    There was a slight furrow to his brow now. It really was painfully fucking charming. He just sort of looked at her, head cocked, considering. Eleanor let out a gust of a sigh.

    “It’s Eleanor. My name. Not Ella.” Not to you, she thought. There was a pause, and she heard more than saw Flora place her head into the palms of her hands.

    “Tommy Shelby,” he said, as if she didn’t know that, and offered her his hand. Eleanor looked at that hand, the deceptive slimness of his fingers and the narrow taper of his wrist. His callouses were faded, softened with time.

    There was dirt under her nails and specks of dried mud up to her wrists, but she shook Mr. Thomas Shelby’s hand like she was wearing silk gloves. All lowered lashes and a coquettish flick of her wrist bone. The high-society ladies back home would surely applaud her if they saw.

    Then she ruined it.

    “What kind of grown-ass man still goes by the name Tommy?” she blurted before she could stop herself, her hand still in his. His hand had looked almost delicate before, but it engulfed her own. The shocked jerk of it against hers sent a vibration up her arm, and she suppressed a smirk. His eyes narrowed in on her face, a sudden intensity there he hadn’t possessed before. Like he wanted to peel back her skin and look beneath. Off-to-the-side, Flora let out a distressed little sound, akin to a mourner at a funeral. Viewing the body one last time before it lowered into the earth with the worms.

    The next sound past his lips was a huff that could’ve been taken for a laugh. If he were any other man. “One without a stick up the ass, I bet.” He tossed a glance Flora’s way, quirked up his mouth. He really had a lovely mouth. “Miss Eleanor.”

    And Eleanor couldn’t hold back a grin. “Hm. Agree to disagree, Mr. Shelby.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaned over the countertop until her curls swung into her face. They were close enough now she could almost feel his breath ghosting the top of her head. “So, what’re you here for, then? Haven’t got all day.” Now, she sweetened her smile so the next bit wouldn’t bite, only sting. “Not even for the likes of you.”

    “Y’ know,” and his voice was a slow drawl that made her spine tingle and her hair stand on end, the way his lips formed around the words with the barest hint of threat, of teeth, “people rarely speak to me this way, Miss Eleanor.”

    “Not to your face, I’m sure.” She paused. “Mr. Shelby.”

    Was it just her, or was he almost smiling? “Fair enough. Just a bouquet for me.” His eyes hadn’t left her face. “Of your choosing.”

    “Right away,” she said, but something nagged at her. Taking a glance at his clothing—well-pressed and well-tailored, with a dark coat that had to be far too hot for the late July humidity and slacks with a crease down each leg—and thought he looked like a man heading to a funeral. Or a gravestone. Eleanor swallowed. Thought back to that black-and-white photo from near a year ago. Chrysanthemums and hydrangeas.

    Despite herself, she wondered if those had been Mrs. Shelby’s favorite flowers. They weren’t the flowers of funerals. Of mourning.

    Eleanor cast her gaze around the shop, but there was no arrangement that caught her interest, that fit the bill. She worried at her bottom lip. “Gimme a moment,” she muttered, almost to herself, and stepped out from behind the table. She felt his eyes on the back of her neck.

    Off-to-the side, pressed against the wall, were paint buckets filled with loose flowers, rows upon rows of color and texture, bunched together and stems kept in nutrient-enriched water. Among them, she found what she was looking for: chrysanthemums, white and ruffled with their pale green centers; hydrangeas, their purple petals in clusters. She also went for baby’s breath, as sparse and dainty as it was. A good filler for a bouquet, with the bonus of a powerful meaning. Everlasting love. Not that Thomas would know that.

    From a pail on one of the many counter spaces, she hunted for a ribbon. All knotted up in a ball, it took her a moment before she found the perfect one and managed to untangle it from the rest. Silky, sage green embroidered with indistinguishable little white buds. Perhaps a touch too long. Plucking and tweaking until it formed into a proper flower arrangement, if not a bit of a rustic one, she made a simple bow around the bundle before turning back to her customer. Taking quick steps to get back behind the main counter. “All done,” Eleanor said. She couldn’t look at him. With the heft of one shoulder, an almost-shrug, she offered the bouquet forward, level with his chest. She traced the pattern of his vest with her eyes, the stitching.

    The bouquet was smaller than a lot of the ones on display, less elaborate.

    But it felt right.

    Reaching into the pocket of her skirts, she rifled for the few spare coins she kept there for emergencies with her spare hand. He’d yet to take the bouquet. She slapped them onto the space in front of him with a clink. Just enough. Flora was strangely silent. “And already paid for.”

    Thomas’ eyes felt hot on her face. Almost a brand.

    He didn’t say a thank you, just gave a hum under his breath, and when he reached out to grab the flowers, his fingers grazed her own. She wondered what he thought of the scar tissue stretched across her knuckles, her fingers, if he could feel it against his skin, bumpy and rigid. This touch felt different than when he’d shook her hand, and it sent pinpricks of sensation up her forearm. When he let go, she shook out her hand away from view, trying to force the odd tingling away. It lingered.

    “Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

    “Eleanor.” And when he left, it was with a chime of the shop’s bell.

    For a moment, the whole shop was suspended in a hush, as if the world itself had paused, reverberating with that single chime. But then Florence was up in a flurry of movement, flinging herself into Eleanor’s space with a string of expletives that didn’t belong in the mouth of a grown man, not to mention a fourteen-year-old girl. Eleanor laughed despite herself. Threw back her head with the force of it.

    “Language,” she chided.

    “D’ you ‘ave a death wish?”

    Florence’s round eyes were roving over Eleanor’s face, her hands on her hips. She looked very serious—or would’ve, if not for the spot of dirt on the side of her nose.

    Eleanor smiled. “Not recently, no.”

    The younger girl didn’t seem to find that very funny, and a scowl twisted her features. “That’s Tommy Shelby you just ran your mouth off to, Ella,” she stated, jabbed a finger at her chest. Adorable, Eleanor thought. “Tommy. Shelby.” The stress on these two words was punctuated with another two jabs.

    “I know his name.” I’ve met his wife.

    “You don’t get it,” she said, and there was a franticness to her voice, her posture. Her hands twitched and fidgeted. “’E’s the leader of the Peaky fuckin’ Blinders. People say ‘e’s worse than the devil ‘imself."

    “Language.” But Eleanor’s head was already tilted in curiosity. Worse than the devil? “Peaky Blinders, huh?" She snorted. “Cute.”

    “Not cute, Ella, not cute. Dangerous. Deadly. They’re the biggest gang in Birmingham. Turned businessmen. They own us.” She puffed a stray hair out of her eyes. “You get a glance at his cap?” At Eleanor’s nod, she continued. “They sew razors into the brim. You fuck with ‘em, they cut out your eyes.”

    Huh. “Is that very effective?” she asked, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. “I mean, that’s a bit of an awkward angle, isn’t it?” Flora groaned, flopping onto a stool besides her, propping her elbows on the counter and resting her forehead in her hands. Eleanor rubbed her back. She seemed to do this quite a lot when Eleanor was around.

   Her next words came out muffled by her palms. “The Blinders ain’t no joke, Ella. They set fire to The Marquis for messin’ with one of theirs. Their enemies get found in The Cut without their faces.” Her voice became very quiet, near trembling. Almost tearful. “You shoulda never spoken to Mr. Shelby like that.”

   Despite her best efforts, Eleanor felt a shiver run through her. Only she could be stupid enough to meet a devil and reach out to shake his hand. With a smile, no less. Well, it was too late now. She leaned until her shoulder pressed into Flora’s own. “Hey,” she soothed. “Look at me, huh?” Eleanor tapped at the girl’s cheek with a nail until she peered up at her, eyes a bit puffy. “Relax, sweetheart. I doubt he’ll be back anytime soon. Not with the warm welcome I gave him.” And she smiled until Florence couldn’t help but smile back.

    The second time Eleanor saw the devil of Small Heath, it was a week later. At Flora’s. And it would be the same as the first.

    That damn bell chimed.

    It was with relief that Eleanor noted Florence was out of the shop when a Mr. Thomas Shelby arrived for the second time, having been sent off by Cora to the gelateria with just enough money for scoop of her favorite, strawberry swirl. This time around, it was just her and Cora in the near silence of the shop, the record player in the back a mere whisper of jazz. Instead of being up to her elbows in damp soil, she had a paintbrush in her mouth and another clutched between her fingers and thumb, making a new display sign with some thick paper and her tin of watercolors. A sketch of Flora, blowing petals out of the palm of her hand. It was as she was halfway through mixing a color for the shadows of her face that the front door opened. At her side, using twine to bind their loose flowers for the paint buckets, Cora gave a sharp intake of breath.

    “Mr. Shelby,” the older woman greeted, hurrying to stand. A strong-featured woman of near fifty, Cora Evans wasn’t one to show fear, or much emotion at all beyond a muted amusement at her surroundings. This sort of “why the hell not?” air of being that she'd clearly perfected over her years. Yet, while her own blue eyes were unwavering on Thomas’ own, Eleanor detected the tense line of her broad shoulders, hiked nearly up to her ears and tickling the grey-brown of her hair. Thomas inclined his head at her boss, and if he looked her way, Eleanor didn’t see it, because she had already turned back to her work, watering down a vermilion for the high spots of color on Flora’s youthful cheeks.

    If she didn’t look at him, maybe she wouldn’t be compelled by whatever urge had struck her before—a sudden desire to pick at and tease, to wrestle up a smile on that pretty mouth.

    Eleanor shook her head, a minuscule gesture, and huffed a curl out of her eyes. Get it together.

    “’Ow may I ‘elp you, sir?” And Cora’s voice was polite, restrained, the normal warmth in her Brummie accent stripped into something foreign to Eleanor. “On the ‘ouse, of course.” At that, she felt her lips pinch despite herself.

    While Cora hadn’t been upset when her granddaughter had finally told her the story of Eleanor back-talking to a Peaky Blinder, she had gone a bit pale, setting down the pot in her hands with a heavy clunk on their scraped-up work table. Staring at Eleanor with new eyes. “Pretty fuckin’ stupid of you, love,” she’d said. “They’ve set fire to businesses for less.” And she’d shaken her head. “Messin’ with that Blinder Devil—thought you had some wits about you.” In the end, though, Cora shooed her off when she hastened to spill out apologies, holding out a hand to pat her on her shoulder.

    “That Thomas Shelby is more sensible than most of ‘em put together. Not like his mad dog brother. It’ll work out for the best, I bet.”

    But now he was back yet again, in a suit lighter than the one before, a pale grey waistcoat with no jacket in sight. His tie was missing, she could tell even from where she hunched over her work, the top button of his dress-shirt undone at the throat. Still looking unbearably hot for the weather. Even the thin material of her house dress clung to her skin with the sweat of being trapped in the shop all day. She didn’t know how he bore it.

    “No need,” he said in that already familiar rasp, and she ducked her head further down instead of looking up and catching a glimpse of his face like she wanted. “Found myself in need of another bouquet.” And she could hear the amusement in his voice. “Eleanor. If you would.”

    The empty space to the upper right of her drawing distracted her. Should she fill it with roses? Lilies? There was a pause that could be felt hanging in the shop, like a physical touch against her skin, but she kept her gaze to that expanse of untouched white.

    “Eleanor,” Cora said, touching gentle fingers to the bared skin of her upper arm. She very rarely wore short sleeves, but with the heat, it felt unavoidable. The circular burns that peppered her arms like kisses—they weren’t even that noticeable, not anymore. Still.

    (On another August day, one from over a decade ago, she recalled the press and hiss of the cigarette when it hit her skin, and the way the mud never dried in that miserable backyard back in New York. Before her uncle came and packed her off to London. The backs of her knees were slippery with it as she squirmed and kicked. But the older girl kept a firm grip on her, and Eleanor stayed in place, sinking into the mud and dead, yellow grass. The cigarette was pulled back, still fizzling, and with the click of a lighter, was relit again. And again.)

    Eleanor blinked. Blinked again and rubbed a hand over her eyes, eyes that felt much more tired than before. She pulled the paintbrush from her mouth, set it on the countertop. “Of course, I can make you another bouquet, Mr. Shelby. Anything in mind?”

    She couldn’t see him, no, but she knew his eyes were smirking at her. Her fingers twitched on her remaining paintbrush. Smug bastard. “Oh, just something to brighten up me office, I think.” And Eleanor clenched her jaw, because that sounded like such shit to her. Why’re you here again, Thomas? She nodded nonetheless, kept her eyes down. You make it very hard to behave. She set down the brush with a clatter.

    “I can do that.”

    She searched for the most spiteful fucking flowers she could think of. Valerian, an herb frequently used for insomnia, green stems bloomed with clusters of white flowers. Readiness. I could take you, Mr. Shelby. Borage, or starflower, brilliant blue with hints of blush from the blooms with their white spines. Rudeness. Bluntness. And buttercups, their delicate yellow blossoms. A personal favorite and a good splash of color against all the blues and whites. Childishness. And, finally, Love-in-a-mist, or Nigella damascena, with their needle-point leaves and rich indigo petals ending in jagged points. A confession more than anything else, not that he’d know it. You puzzle me.

    In her youth, she’d gobbled up all the books on plants and herbs that she could find in her botanically obsessed uncle’s extensive library, and that included tomes on the language of flowers. The knowledge had stuck. And now more than ever, she found herself grateful.

    Eleanor plucked all the respective flowers out of their different buckets, organized by color, and set to work gathering the right amounts of each. She took a canary yellow ribbon from the ribbon pail with a flourish, flicking it in the air to get the kinks out. Grabbing a random empty vase that had once housed a beautiful but boring bouquet of a dozen roses—bought by a very frantic man in worker’s clothes and sturdy boots an hour prior, who looked like he was running quite late—she set the mass of flowers inside and set to arranging them.

    Flora, who hid a chuckle with a cough at the sight of her flowers of choice, left with a quick word to the backroom and a warning glance that burned into the back of Eleanor’s head. She tried not to fidget.

    She was wrapping the ribbon around the hunk of stems when a throat cleared from right by her side. Fuck. Eleanor started, spasming fingers losing the ability to form a bow. Fuck.

    “What’s a rich socialite like yourself doing in a flower shop in Birmingham, eh?”

    But, God, she couldn’t help but spin to face the man now. Thomas stood with his hip propped up against the table she was using, head tilted and pieces of the unshaved part of his hair near falling into his eyes. Seemed he recognized her now. He looked curious. Hungry. Up close as he was, their shoulders near brushing, she saw the hint of freckles beneath his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. It seemed even devils tanned in the sun.

    Everything about him was all graceful command, words spoken in a way that showed he expected to be answered, obeyed.

    It reminded her of his wife.

    The first time she’d ever seen Mrs. Grace Shelby, it had been at a luncheon held at The Midland Hotel, for the sake of convincing the richest of London society to donate to her cause—the Shelby Foundation, whose first action was building an orphanage in Birmingham. When her uncle, Samuel Connolly, had told her the news, alongside the fact that he’d been invited to attend a luncheon on the subject, she’d begged to be brought along.

    “If anyone would have a stake in this,” she’d said at their breakfast table, pointing at his chest with a grapefruit spoon, “it’s me, don’t you think? Let me see how genuine this is.” Sam had set his hazel eyes on hers, lips pursed, but he hadn’t disagreed.

    “You’ll have to dress up,” he’d warned, and she’d stuck out her tongue at him, taking a stab at a section of fruit.

    Eleanor remembered the way the beading of her dress weighted her down that afternoon, and how all she wanted was to be back home in a pair of trousers, lounging with a book in her lap and Fennel, Sam’s Spinone Italiano, laying on the tops of her bare feet. Keeping her warm. But the rich had an ability to do any good works as half-assed as possible, and with all of her blunt Brooklynite manners from childhood, she had sworn to dig out the truth from this Mrs. Grace Shelby even if it meant pulling out the plyers and using some old-fashioned elbow grease.

    That hadn’t been necessary.

    The waitress that escorted them both to the hotel’s largest dining room was a near-silent woman, who meekly commented on the pale jade color of Eleanor’s dress before showing them to a room with a table longer than she’d ever seen. A rich, dark-colored wood leaning near black. The napkins were a fashionable rose, the plates rimmed in gold and dotted in florals along the edges. All the candles smelled of faint vanilla and sandalwood.

    Even for Eleanor, who had spent her teen years and beyond in Sam’s by-no-means-minuscule manor and had attended many a party due to his notoriety, it was extravagant beyond measure.

    At the head of the table, not yet seated and chatting with a plastic but pretty smile on her painted lips, was a woman with honeyed hair and aristocratic, well-bred features. She radiated old wealth in a way Eleanor never could, brought into the fold far-too-late.

    (“Oh my, it’s the little orphan bastard.” One of the wives of some business mogul whispered to her friends behind a glove. They all tittered away at her remark, and Eleanor, all awkward limbs and pale pink scars at fifteen years old, sunk back into the shadows of the sitting room. Uncomfortable in her new dress. Uncomfortable in her new life. “How quaint. It seems he really did pick up a new stray, after all.”)

    Most of the night was a blur, filled with soft, exaggerated laughter and mutual back-patting. In the dining room, the lighting was dim, almost sensual despite it being only two in the afternoon. Flattering everything into a near dream-like state. At the front of the table, Mrs. Shelby had glowed. Almost an hour prior, her hand had been soft and unblemished in Eleanor’s own. Even her handshakes felt soft as silk. But when Eleanor had cornered her later in the evening over a round of drinks, her own whiskey-sour in a fine crystal glass that felt like a paperweight in her hand, she had revealed pure steel beneath the refined veneer. Eleanor could barely recall her barrage of questions now, from over a year ago.

    “What of the orphans with surviving family? Will they be entitled to visitation? And the staff—what of them? Would they be receiving proper background checks prior to their employment?” It had gone on-and-on, and Grace Shelby had answered with assurance blanketing her tone, and a blade tucked beneath her tongue, ready to wield. Her eyes steady. Demanding trust. Eleanor had, though begrudgingly, given it. And promised to have more questions the next time they met. Mrs. Shelby had seemed, almost, like she was looking forward to it.

    But, well, the second and last time she’d seen Grace Shelby. Well.

    In the present, Eleanor zeroed back in on Thomas. He was studying her.

    She knew the red of her lipstick must be smudged. That there was surely charcoal streaked on her face from using her pencils earlier in the day. That the nape of her neck was sticky with sweat, soaking the curls there.

    Still, Eleanor arched her brow at who, apparently, was the most fearsome man in Birmingham. “I used the wrong fork,” she drawled. “Perilous mistake.”

    “Yeah?”

    “Yeah.”

    They locked eyes, and Eleanor wasn’t going to be the one to blink first. Without looking, she knotted the bow and pulled tight. “All done,” she said. She rambled off a price, perhaps one a little higher than necessary. She couldn’t help herself.

    He blinked at her before reaching into his pocket for the money, and Eleanor let out a gust of air when his eyes left her. How were they so blue? Reaching under the table for some tissue paper to wrap the bouquet in, she offered it forward, gripping it by the bottom of the stems. His own fingers grasped it above her own and tugged it out of her hand. He was oddly gentle about it. “Have a nice day, Thomas,” she told him, a clear dismissal, and he quirked a brow at her in a barely-there question. Whether it was because of the curt tone or the usage of his first name—it had just slipped out, she didn’t know why—she wasn’t sure.

    Either way, he left. And Eleanor slumped, boneless, against the countertop. What the honest fuck.

    Now, she knew better than to believe this would be the last time they saw each other.

    And true enough, they met yet again. This time at no fault of their own.

[adrianeringmarc]

From left to right

Gustav, Mictlan, and Rowan.

The bastards who have all tried to stab each other at least once. They’re friends don’t worry :)))

[cowboycassini]

Partners

Chapter One

Rating: Overall E, this chapter T

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Kix (mentioned), Jotopa Kaid, Toby

Warnings/Tags: Eventual Smut, dehumanization of clones, mutual pining, a pair of idiots running around a jungle

Summary: Anakin calls up his friend and fellow Knight Jotopa Kaid to run "a little mission" with clone captain Toby and basically ruins both their lives.

--- Mission Start ---

Unlike most of his brothers, Toby looked forward to the dreamlike state of deep stasis. He did not enjoy the fact that, born and bred as he was to command troops, he was put up in storage when not in use. Ever since the first hint of beard stubble had dusted the edges of his jaw as a gangly limbed cadet, whenever he dreamed, he dreamed of her.

Dreaming was not something of which he put much stock. Often, it interrupted what could otherwise be a deep and restful sleep with things he would much rather not remember. Even when he was young, it was so. It was better to sleep hard and think of nothing than so lightly that your mind is free to plague you with nonsensical renditions of all your fears, insecurities, and mistakes rolled into some terrifying metaphor that might trouble you for hours or days after and possibly lower your efficiency rating.

But dreams of her…

Despite popular belief, there were women on Kamino. There was the female Kaminiise, of course. They were as professional and impersonal in their treatment of him and his brothers as their male counterparts. When they hit puberty, the long necks exhibited the same levels of generalized disgust at their bodily emissions as well as their frequency. The Kaminiise seemed especially horrified by the fact that their position over their human creations and overall role as oppressors did not preclude them from being subjects of crude humor and worse. As if any human male had ever been especially picky when it came time to jack it. Their trainers, who they collectively regarded with a mingled sense of hate, respect, and misplaced love, also received the same treatment.

Not even the women trainers whom he had grown up under, who were brutal and competent, terrifying and awful and beautiful in the way only Mando’ade could be, could hold a candle to her.

He dreamed of her hands most often. The first time he saw them (in what his studies and training told him must be a forest though as a gangly seven and a half-year-old he’d still never set foot off Kamino, and half that first dream he spent staring in amazement at everything around him, everything he could never have dreamed of imagining) he’d been struck by how much smaller they had to be than his own were. A deep, dark brown, so rich he immediately wanted to reach out and touch it, the bones of her fingers long and delicate and strong. Elegant, he thought, the first time he’d ever needed to use the word seriously, these must be the hands of a princess. And then he watched enraptured as those lovely, lovely hands shouldered a rifle and sniped a man from three hundred meters.

Other dreams, regrettably, were not as violent or visceral in their intensity, but as he grew, his appreciation for them increased. Toby liked to see the galaxy through her eyes. He enjoyed seeing the vaunted, columnated, and shadowed halls she seemed to dread entering a little more each time he visited her. He looked forward to dreaming because it meant he might get to watch her practice movements that were strange and familiar in a room that seemed older than the bones of the planet he had been made on.

At first, nearly bursting out of his skin with excitement, with longing, with the urge to describe each new and incredible image seared into his rib cage, he would crawl into his brothers’ tubes and tell them about her, the beautiful princess he saw in his dreams. Pyro, the oldest after him, would listen sleepily so long as Toby let him stick his face in his neck and cuddle and didn’t complain about drool. Kit would listen absently as long as he offered the blank expanse of his back as a sacrifice for her doodling while he ranted. Checkmate wasn’t interested in his princess so much as her surroundings, and he would interrupt Toby’s sometimes painstaking descriptions of the exact curvature of her hips to ask detailed questions about her surroundings. Snow only cared when he mentioned food. But that who Snow was period, so Toby was unrepentant and unresponsive to his vod’ika’s complaints about missed sleep. Lucky was his most sympathetic brother in all things, always forgiving him his many, many faults, so he didn’t often disturb his rest with this.

Bad enough to be saddled with an ori’vod such as himself; Lucky should at least be allowed his complete ration’s sleep. And of course, for Toby, there was no breaching the solid wall of disdain Joker and Blue had erected. Within a few years, he learned to keep mentioning her to himself and focused on overcoming the mountain of defects he was decanted with.

When Toby was nearly full-grown and in ARC training, he comforted himself at night by recalling the vivid flashes of her in what must have been a festival in a small village. She’d caught the briefest glimpse of herself in a hazy mirror in that thick crush of sweaty, celebrating bodies, and the impression of her body burned in his mind’s eye. But there was still so much he didn’t comprehend no matter how he turned it over in his hands. He understood the glimpses of her thigh he got as she slapped a bacta patch over a wound, the sounds of blaster fire, of measured breathing as she ran or jumped or leaped what seemed to be impossible distances. She was a warrior and a competent one by all accounts. He did not understand why these seemed to occur less and less the older he grew. Why did the sound of her laughter make his chest ache? Why did it hurt more when reproachful silence replaced her laughter? And why, no matter how hard he tried, couldn’t he explain any of it to his brothers?

Though he had very little to go on, Toby knew she was the most beautiful woman in the universe. He knew it like he knew the feel of his blasters, knew it as intimately as his face, and Toby knew that if given a chance, he would do whatever he could to hear that laugh again and ease the ache in his chest its absence created.

Neck still slightly wet, and his hair freshly shaved into his trademarked undercut, toweled dry but still damp and curling in the crisp, sterile air of medbay, CC-4267, Toby slowly pulled on his blacks and armor as his superior officer stood off to the side with the medic, Kix, and made small talk.

He hadn’t been in stasis very long this time, he thought quietly, putting away thoughts of her, watching the way Skywalker and Kix spoke with such easy familiarity and not even noticing the pang of envy that lanced him, applying himself to the ordinary tasks of cataloging his kit and body. He’d been in the stasis tank long enough for his wounds to close but not so long that his newly acquired scar had smoothed over. Several times in the scant hour he’d been conscious, Toby had to physically stop himself from fingering the thick tissue running the width of his nose, from grimacing at the way it pulled when he so much as twitched his mouth. It would take getting used to. Thankfully, that’s what buckets were for, and so far, no jetiise he had the displeasure of working with had been so desperate to see his ugly mug as to order him to part with it.

His kit was the same as the last time he laid eyes on it though someone, likely Rex for reasons Toby could never understand, had retouched the scratched and faded blue lines. All of it was standard issue infantry gear and had been brand spanking new when given to him his first days under Skywalker’s command. It had only been the work of a few missions to rectify that. His loadout hadn’t been all that different in the Guard, really, but it was more trouble than it was worth to try and blast all that distinctive red paint off the plastoid when he could be issued fresh. He was a new man. Shiny to go with his shiny new promotion and shiny new unit. In the end, all he’d been able to take from his native company was his kama and the pair of gloves a fellow lieutenant had surreptitiously stuffed in his pack.

The helmet, of course, was new and looked utterly out of place, but that was fine. It would match its owner in that regard. He’d have to go down to the armory to check out his deecees, but unless the blast that had cracked his bucket and given him his pretty new scar had also done damage to his blasters, Toby was sure he would be issued the same pair of 17s he’d carried since coming to the 501st.

He rolled his shoulders, irritated to find that they were already knotted up with tension, and started pulling his armor on.

—

When Jedi Knight Jotopa Kaid of the significantly diminished House Ordo was somewhere around twelve or thirteen years old, she began to have strange dreams. They came, as many odd dreams do to young and inexperienced Force users such as herself, right as her life was turning to shit. She found it hard to give much thought to the jolting sense of awareness of vague l o n g i n g, a hollow, itching pull in her chest that tugged with a dull sort of insistence always in the same general direction when her Master had just up and abandoned her. D’Aleric traded her away to a Corellian smuggler for a juicy piece of intel, and even with her sheltered Temple upbringing, she knew enough to be terrified by the long and considering look Choruk Vance gave her once her Master’s ship made the jump to hyperspace without her inside.

But the Force, and Choruk Vance, had something else in mind when the smuggler looked into eyes that, though frightened, still bravely met his own. It was not long before Jotopa found herself handed off again, this time to the Mandalorian, Asha Kaid, herself and her sabers swapped for some previously agreed-upon amount. Asha Kaid would bestow her clan name upon Jotopa. But in those early days, it remained a mystery how or why a Mandalorian would want a discarded padawan.

These events kept her from thinking about her dreams, but as weeks then months went by, it truly settled in that her Master had abandoned her. She may as well get the grieving process for her old life over with sooner rather than later, she began to retake note of them. They were nothing to write home about initially, impressions more than anything: of being submerged, of pale, statuesque beings walking to and fro, their forms hazy, a sleepy sort of awareness over everything. It was strangely soothing and familiar in an almost primal way. She paid it no mind, and the dreams were not such a frequent occurrence that it was worth interrupting the daily rhythms of learning what being Mando’ade meant, especially for her.

It was not so different in its way than her early years at the Temple had been though the lessons were learning her way around various types of blasters and blades, detonators and when to use them, when to stand and fight and when to save your strength for another time. Though, she knew better than to say so to Asha Kaid! Her mentor, quickly her buir, was a typical Mandalorian and would not have appreciated the comparison for all its accuracy. She kept her sabers and the skills associated with them sharp because the Force was another tool in her arsenal, and only a foolish warrior did not use every tool at her disposal.

The years passed with slow surety. Jotopa fought, she meditated, grew in the Force, and her murky dreams gradually expanded. Now there would be startlingly vivid flashes of the same group of identical faces, their brown eyes wide and old in their young faces, and when she would wake, something about the sight of their still baby soft hands disassembling rifles would disquiet her for the rest of the day. A week would pass or perhaps a month or two, or maybe she was seventeen now, a time when once again her life was going to shit. Her memory is a bit chaotic, but she sees them again, older now, but she’s sure it’s the same set of identical faces, the one that she knows lying down and humming soothingly to another one. Somehow, she knows that a live-fire exercise killed one of her special boy’s brothers.

She carries his grief on the back of her tongue, its weight as heavy as the presence of her Master come to reclaim her.

You don’t have to go, her mother said with the resigned air of a lifelong inmate. You don’t have to go back to the Jetiise, kebii’tra.

And just as resigned, looking not at her Master but through him, thinking instead of the golden-eyed boy in her dreams, she said, No, but I want to.

But going back to the Jetiise did not make her a Jetii. Not to her, and not to them. To be sure, to the Council it did, and in the end, it was their opinion on the matter that most counted, but in the final long year of her apprenticeship in which she and her Master did not pretend to have any illusions with one another, it was not so.

Do you think me cruel, Kadijah? D’Aleric’s question, like so many she could recall put to her as a young learner, did not warrant an answer, and yet the use of her birth name encouraged her to do so regardless. Her Master used it so casually, as though he was still worthy of the honor of knowing the young girl to which it belonged. As if that girl still existed. Typical Jetii bullshit, she thought, looking steadily into the crimson eyes and rich sapphire face that had looked into her own and found her wanting.

I think nothing of you at all, Master. She’d said with a small, deprecating laugh. Who am I to challenge the will of the Force as interpreted by my elders? She paused then, eyes dark and hard as unworked beskar. And you will call me Jotopa from now on.

A series of whistles and chirps from her astrodroid shook her from her half-dreaming, half meditative state. From the wide span of the viewport of her standard-issue starfighter, Jotopa could just make out the ruggedly elegant outline of the Resolute breaking up the uniform blackness of open space around it. Her droid, R6, well used to her mistress's ways, had dropped out of hyperspace farther away than was usual for most Jedi, and Jotopa didn’t think she imagined the wearied tone the droid took with her.

“Yes, thank you, R6; I can see we’ve made it. I wasn’t sleeping; I was meditating! Please, please: don’t let me stop you from hailing them! I don’t want to be on the receiving end of their guns either.” She said with a laugh in response to R6’s messages. The little astrodroid was a delight to a life spent so much skimming the surface of other’s turmoils. She rather hoped that she would be able to take her along on whatever “top secret, super special, you’d be doing me suuuuuch a huge favor, JaJa, pleaseeeee” mission Anakin had called her across the galaxy for.

The Force prickled across her skin, grew thick and heavy in her blood. A sense of anticipation that weighed almost as heavily as her curiosity as she landed in the large bay. Jotopa sat for a moment with the feeling, breathed deeply even as her eyes scanned across the familiar armored forms moving here and there a respectful distance away from her ship. Clone troopers, she thought, has it been that long since my mission with Lieutenant Thire? Maybe I’ll get to talk to one or two before I leave and find out how he’s doing. The feeling settled to a manageable level, and she opened the hatch, releasing R6 from her place. The little blue and pink painted droid wheeled around to where she was indulging in a full-body stretch on the wing of her fighter. Jotopa noted the trooper who seemed to be waiting patiently for her and tilted her head at R6.

“I don’t have to tell you, but see about getting a tune-up while I’m busy? Who knows what sort of trouble Anakin has in store.” She said to her droid before jumping down from the wing of her ship and approaching the trooper. She bowed to him in greeting, a move that, though he was completely encased in his armor, surprised him because when she asked if he was there to escort her to General Skywalker; it took him several seconds to process the question and answer in the affirmative.

The walk was mostly silent, which was fine by her; there was plenty to see. Boarding the Resolute was her first time on such a large ship, and the immensity of it, its incredible smallness in the grandness of the universe, was startling. The life energy of the troopers pulsed around her, bright as any star, and when she caught a look at a few of them without their helmets, she saw the same freshness of face that had unsettled and humbled her in Thire. And permeating all, the sense of anticipation thickened so that she could barely breathe around it. This is it, the Force whispered as they walked down hallways and took lifts. They were going to medbay, the trooper was kind enough to explain. He was fresh, she thought around the shouting in her blood, too young and earnest to die in a war like this. This is it. This is it. This is it, thisisitthisisthisisitthisisitthisisitthisis itthisisitthisisitthisisitthisistthisisitthisis

“We’re here, sir.” He said at the entrance to medbay, and behind the impassive face of his bucket, he was eyeing the details of her serene face, the rich dark brown eyes only outdone by the hue of her skin, her lush mouth, and the black, coily cloud of her hair framing it all, and he sighed, inwardly jealous of the vod who was assigned to accompany her on her mission.

“We certainly are. Thank you for guiding me, kotep’ad. I can take it from here.” Jotopa said absently, completely missing the subtle double-take the trooper gave her. Were her steps hesitant? No, nothing scared her, not since that night. Her steps lengthened. She could hear the low tenor of Anakin’s voice and could tell that he was in a good mood as he spoke to two others. His Force presence was as it always was: a red giant, swollen and pulsing. No. A more apt description would be a star on the verge of going supernova. A star could go millions, billions of years in that state, existing just on the edge until something tipped it over, and the resulting blast destroyed everything in its wake.

The medbay of the Resolute was moderately full, which told her that their last battle was recent but not terribly so. Most of the troopers in the beds were either sleeping or busying themselves with their datapads, but she could see sabacc cards and even a few poorly concealed dice bags. A few were well enough to sit with each other, a fact that one with heavy beard stubble and a healing slash across his eye seemed to regret as she noted him being bombarded by his very chatty bedmate. Jotopa was still stifling her laugh into her hand at the longsuffering look he shot her way when she passed him when she finally approached the row of bacta tanks and beds next to them.

Anakin was standing with his back to her, talking with a clone dressed in medical scrubs who she assumed must be a technician of some sort. Behind them was another clone, but she could only see his boots and the blue paint of his shin guards. This is it! Her blood was singing with the strength of the Force’s exultant song. This is it! Finally! Finally! It crackled over her skin, and her fists clenched around the wild desire to run and dispelled it. A sense of questioning, a tendril of sentience that most wouldn’t dare speak of: This is it, are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?

Those armored legs, the nervous tapping of fingers in a curiously red-painted gauntlet as he shifted slightly forward and a knee came into view.

Yes, she answered. Yes. Yes.

“I could’ve killed you ten different times by now, Anakin.” She said, grinning when he spun around, lively blue eyes wide and startled.

“Sleenspit, JaJa, you scared the hell outta me! Is it your mission in life to shave years off of my life, huh?” He asked, bundling her up in a friendly side hug. She rolled her eyes and tilted her head up.

“It wouldn’t be so easy if you weren’t so trusting.” She said pointedly, and now it was his turn to roll his eyes. Anakin was one of the few who had not shunned her when she returned to the Temple. Perhaps because of his pariah status, or maybe because they often ran into each other in the same deserted halls of the Temple, despite the vast gulf in their training though not their comparative years, the two of them had become fast friends. When she had been Knighted and took on the mysterious work of the Sentinel, he was one of the few she kept in contact with.

“Yeah yeah, you’ve said it a million times: a friend is quicker with a knife than an enemy. I hear you, O wise Jedi Master, I hear you.” Jotopa barely refrained from scoffing and instead glanced at the medic, who was watching their interaction with undisguised curiosity. Anakin still had her tucked loosely against his side, and his sturdy form blocked her view of the other trooper, the one the Force was leaping for joy around. Couldn’t Anakin feel it? Couldn’t he tell how special, how important that man was?

“Aren’t you going to introduce me? I know Master Obi-Wan taught you better than that!” She jabbed him gently in the ribs. With his flesh hand, he rubbed the spot where her elbow had dug into his side, his face relaying his usual crack about her sharp elbows. He nodded toward the young clone in the scrubs, a smile of pride lighting over his features.

“This is Kix, my Chief Medical Officer. He oversees any time any of my guys comes out of stasis, and this,” he said, (Finally! This is it! Finally!) stepping back so that the trooper sitting on the bed could be fully seen, “is Captain Toby. When I heard about this mission, I knew he’d be the perfect one to help you with it, JaJa. He’s great.” Anakin’s words seem to come to her from a long way off. She heard them, and she was sure she was saying something, but Jotopa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man sitting on the bed. He was sitting at attention, his shoulders stiff with a tension that wasn’t noticeable in the politely attentive expression on his face. The thick scar that stretched across his nose looked fresh, still shiny in a way that explained the faint twitching of his nose, as though he wasn’t used to how it pulled at his skin. He didn’t look thrilled to see her. There’d been something akin to horror on that achingly handsome face for the briefest of moments, but when she queried, hesitantly, of the Force, she was nearly bowled over by the certainty of the response.

This is the one. This is the one you’ve been waiting for.

Well shit. At least she could breathe a bit easier now. After accepting the datapad with the mission details from Anakin, Jotopa turned and watched as he and Kix walked away with only the slightest hint of rising hysteria. Leave it to Anakin, who did everything from the seat of his pants, to use her utter shock against her and dump a mission and a strange man on her. She didn’t even know if he’d requisitioned a ship for them to travel in, and the mental image of her attempting to stuff the captain in her starfighter nearly made her choke.

“Ah, excuse me…? Knight Kaid, sir?” He asked, and Jotopa closed her eyes and inwardly swore. His voice! It was just like hangar bay trooper’s and like Kix’s, and yet neither one of their voices made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end. Perhaps from being in stasis? It sent goosebumps rippling up her bare arms. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice. She forcefully released her anxiety into the Force and turned to face him. She’d met countless handsome men in her lifetime. He was no different, Force shenanigans or no, and she would not ogle him; she would treat him like the competent soldier he was, complete this mission, and that was that.

--

When General Skywalker told him the Jetii he would be working with was a good friend of his, Toby wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. He liked his General and admired his courage and fighting spirit, but it didn’t take an incredibly smart vod to notice how much of a disaster the man was. And with Jetiise in particular, like attracted like, so he couldn’t help nor dispel the nervous jiggling of his leg that started up when it came through that the Jetii, Knight Kaid, had arrived and was making her way to medbay. At least in the Guard, you knew what you were getting into day to day with snooty senators. Each Jetii was as different as a fingerprint. Skywalker, kind in his awkward way, noticed his show of nerves.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing with Jotopa, Toby. She’s excellent; you won’t have any problems. If you two don’t come back as best friends, I’ll file my reports on time.” He said with his usual confident smile.

Kix snorted. “Better not then, sir. If the General starts filing his reports on time, Captain Rex might keel over from the shock to his system.” Toby huffed a laugh at Skywalker’s indignant exclamation.

He would have thought they would announce her presence over the ship’s comms, but she slipped in among them silent as a ghost. His first glimpse of her was around the startled twist of Skywalker’s body, a flash of dark skin and a cloud of hair, and then her voice, soft and husky and sweet even in the chiding tone she took with her fellow Jetii. There was a feeling, overwhelming and strange and familiar. He swallowed his heart back down where it had lodged beneath his jaw, unsure where to look and even more unsure why, and then there was nowhere to look but Knight Kaid because Skywalker was stepping back and introducing them. It was all he could do to sit at attention and keep the blank face that hid all feeling because it was her, the woman with the elegant hands, the princess he saw in his dreams, and dead stars; she was even more beautiful in person. Like Skywalker, she didn’t wear the traditional Jetiise clothing; instead, she wore a sleeveless black leather vest brightly detailed in red and pink embroidery. It was half unzipped and revealed a mesh undershirt. To keep himself professional, he looked instead at the well-cared-for utility belt around her hips. Toby noted her black spandex shorts covered by a delicately detailed kama made of sturdy cloth. Her boots ended at midcalf. His eyebrows twitched in surprise when she turned to watch Skywalker and Kix leave, and he spotted the cleverly hidden handles of two knives on them.

Now that the full force of her gaze wasn’t on him, he ran a gloved hand through his hair and reasoned with himself. Calm down, di’kut. You’re still loopy from stasis. It can’t be her. She’s a figment of your imagination, a product of getting knocked around too many times as a cadet. Don’t start acting like a karking lunatic around this Jetii and get sent off for reconditioning. It made sense. It made a ton of sense, just as it had when Joker, sick of hearing his talk about his dream princess, had first sat down and said it to him. Lucky had told Joker to leave him be. It was a harmless fantasy, a coping mechanism. Just his luck that his coping mechanism manifested herself right before his eyes. She was still turned, the datapad held loosely in her hand, her head tilted. He got the impression that she would be content standing there until the last star burned out.

Against his better judgment, he got her attention. She turned to face him, a soft frown pulling at her full lips, and panic surged up his spine. Had he already managed to upset her?!

“Captain? Would you do me a favor please?” She asked, and now she was at the edge of his personal space, just enough that he could log away in the back of his mind that she smelled like jasmine and vanilla and had to tilt his head up just slightly to meet her eyes. Her eyes were an even darker brown than her skin but just as rich, he thought. From a distance, they appeared black.

“Yes, sir. If I can, I will.” He liked the way her nose crinkled around the smile she gave him at his answer.

“I know it’s probably in your regulations, gotta respect rank and all, but at least when it’s just you and I, do you think you could call me Jotopa? I would appreciate it a lot.”

He didn’t know who the brave soldier it was who rumbled, “Elek, think I can manage that, sir,” in reply but if it earned him more of those looks, a look he wasn’t sure she knew she gave him, he was fine with the vod seizing hold of his faculties every now and again.

She cleared her throat and looked down at the datapad in her hand, her brows furrowing as she scanned the details of their mission. Suddenly, she laughed, the sound vaguely disbelieving.

“I pity the trooper tasked with putting this briefing together. They might as well have not bothered. The barest details are here: the planet name, coordinates, and our objective. I’ve done more with less, but this is ridiculous. And I still don’t know if Anakin got us a ship.” Toby bit the inside of his cheek to control his expression. She was grousing like an old field sergeant! And had the face to match! He recalled his earlier sentiment about Skywalker and his friends and bit his cheek harder.

“May I see the datapad, sir? I may be able to see if the quartermaster requisitioned any supplies for us.” She handed it over easily enough, an annoyed glint playing around her dark eyes, another fascinating expression Toby memorized and logged away in the back of his mind before quickly focusing on the pad. It was interesting having her eyes on him while performing one of the simplest tasks he knew. Something about the heaviness of her eyes, her gaze almost a physical weight: it scattered his focus like water through open fingers. But still, it wasn’t more than thirty seconds before he had the pertinent information pulled up.

“Here it is, sir.” He said, muting his amusement as much as he could.

“Where?” She asked, and now she was entirely in his personal space, bent over to scowl at the screen, her hair and its thousands of tiny coiling ringlets brushing his jaw.

“Ah, see? Right here, it says you were issued a small ship, one ARC-rated clone, and two months’ worth of rations, plus weapons.” He said, only daring to breathe again when she pulled back, a sheepish expression on her face. She half-turned, her hands clasped in front of her. He had the fleeting thought that she was upset. The surety of the notion prickled across his skin, and Toby shivered, unsure of what to do with the feeling or why he was feeling it. He cocked his head, considering. Should he say something…? But she was smiling at him, her posture calm and assured again, and he dismissed it as more stasis nonsense. She was fine. She was a Jetii, wasn’t she? Wouldn’t appreciate the undue concern from the likes of him, of that Toby was certain.

“I’m glad to see that our supplies are in order, Captain. If you’d like to say your goodbyes to any of your brothers and gather whatever else you need, I’ll meet you on our transport when you're ready?” Toby knew a dismissal when he heard one, so he nodded and stood. It wasn’t important for her to know that there were no brothers on board who cared much about his comings and goings, so he followed her out of medbay, went right when she went left, making his way to the armory to check out his DCs. They were the same ones. The armorer, Oops, held him for about fifteen minutes because she wanted to know just what he’d gotten into for the blasters to need the kind of TLC she’d had to put into them to make them serviceable again. Since she loved his babies probably more than he did, he did her the solid of telling her the story blow by blow. They needed to let the kid out to see a little action now and then, but she had the magic touch when it came to breathing life into weapons that looked beyond saving. He made a note to bring her something nice back from wherever the hell he was headed if he could.

“All set?” Knight Kaid asked when she spotted him heading up the ship’s ramp with his weapons and pack. He paused halfway up to see her walking his way, a backpack and cloak slung over her shoulder, and a pink and blue astromech droid following after her.

“Yes, sir. Ready to go when you are.” He said, still studying the droid. It was of the same type as Skywalker’s R2-D2 though he doubted Knight Kaid’s was near as modified. The little droid’s casing was mainly white and pink with blue detailing. As the droid and her mistress walked up the ramp, the droid beeped at him in a distinctly disapproving manner. Knight Kaid laughed.

“Captain Toby, this is R6-D4. R6, this is Captain Toby. He’s a vital part of this mission, young lady, so be on your best behavior. Captain, if you don’t mind raising the ramp? I’ll get us into hyperspace while you’re getting settled in your quarters, and then we’ll try and puzzle out what the kriff we can do.” She called from within the ship, and Toby was halfway through following her orders before the rest of her sentence fully registered in his conscious mind.

“Skywalker, what the hell have you gotten me into?” He murmured as he watched the ramp close and felt the rumble of the engines warming. The ship shuddered slightly as it became airborne, lifting up and away from the Resolute. Toby put his hand against the hull and closed his eyes, breathed slowly and deep to attune himself to the hum of this ship and these engines, breathed out again when he felt the gentle lurch once they made the jump to hyperspace. Only then did he find the empty room that was his and dump his helmet and pack. Toby would have to be careful. More careful than he usually was. There was something…

He hovered just inside the doorway of the cockpit. His steps were light and near-silent, but Kaid still spun around in the slow, measured way of someone who’d sensed his presence a long way off. Her expression was not as animated as it had been on the ramp or even in medbay. Still, he thought it was softer and more genuine now, the tilt of the faint smile on her lips more real than even the playfulness she and Skywalker had openly displayed with one another. He rested his weight against the frame, at a more relaxed position of parade rest, and the faint smile widened.

“Our objective is a world called Cassios-7. The scans are centuries old, the latest intel just as ancient. There are Temple ruins there, and you and I have been asked to recover the important artifact that has been minding its own business all these long years. Sounds delightful.” She said dryly, and he didn’t know what to do with the odd desire he had to laugh at her tone. Rather than heed it, he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. The beautiful Jetii’s lips quirked curiously at him before she continued.

“Luckily for us, Anakin wasn’t too terribly far off from Cassios-7 to begin with. We should be there within five hours. A few days, a week at most, and I’ll have you back with your brothers and all the comforts of civilization, Captain.”

“I can’t wait.” He said in much the same tone she had just used. She smiled widely and motioned for him to sit in the copilot’s chair. Toby moved to obey, masking his surprise. None of the other Jetiise he’d had the displeasure of working with since leaving the Guard had ever offered him a seat. As he gingerly eased into the chair next to her, he realized he’d relegated all Jetiise barring Skywalker and Kenobi as being on the same moral level as the snobby senators. They treated him and his brothers as little more than well-trained animals.

“I love your enthusiasm, Captain,” she quipped, her gaze casual but somehow probing even as she threw her legs over the arm of her seat, careless of the way the edges of her kama splayed around it to display the bare skin of her legs from mid-thigh to the tops of those sturdy boots.

“It’s one of my better traits, sir.” He said, proud of how evenly the words left him and glad for his helmet and the way it hid the direction of his eyes. It would have been harder not to look at the dark brown of her legs when they were in such close quarters. The only way to avoid it would be not to look at her at all, which would be rude. And obvious. Behavior like that would land him in the stasis tank, and he was so tired of that, so tired of being put in storage when he wasn’t in use, like a rifle that didn’t have an owner.

It was just that she was so pretty. It was just that when she used his name, it felt like she meant it. And that must be a trick, right? Some Jetiise power he was only just encountering: this ability she had to make him feel important just by looking at him and saying his name.

In his lap, his hands flexed as he tried to dispel the unwelcome tension in them. Just a few days. You can handle that, can’t you?

Their first view of Cassios-7 was as they dropped out of hyperspace and settled into lazy orbit around it to complete a few scans to update their intel. The planet was a sapphire jewel flecked with shards of amethyst and emerald, whispers of white clouds swirling at its poles and trailing like wedding veils behind the sparsely located but dense and steaming jungle island chains that were the main landmasses. The purple was floating remnants of destroyed Temples, this planet having, as Jotopa theorized with a furrowed brow and an exhilarated light in her eyes, been part of some ancient war and then lost to obscurity.

“I can only imagine that it’s all this fighting that’s awakened the artifact inside the remaining Temple structure,” she said pensively.

“So, we’ve been called here to retrieve it before the Separatists do and possibly weaponize it against us, sir?” Toby asked as he watched her hands move over the controls. She had slender, elegant fingers. Her movements were competent, the fingernails blunt and bitten down, though this did not negate his preceding opinion one bit. She had hands that looked like they knew their way around a blaster. He jerked his eyes up to her face, flushed to see her smiling at him with seeming pleasure at his comment.

“I believe so, Captain. You and I may be able to save a lot of lives by securing this artifact.” She answered, and he didn’t think he was wrong in identifying a note of melancholy in her voice. He filed the observation away, shifted his focus toward the glittering shards of Temple ruins sedately hovering on one of the floating rock isles. Jotopa locked in a course towards it and stood up to stretch.

“Alright, then! We’ve got a few minutes until we land, so I’m going-”

There was a strange jolt; that’s what the both of them would later recall. A jolt and a winding down sound and then the s i c k e n i n g lurching of the stomach as it rammed up past the heart and made a home next to the brain stem.

Falling, free falling.

Heaving breathing. The sound of his blood pounding in his ears drowning out everything for a terrifying moment before everything snapped into laser focus.

Knight Kaid’s hands grappling with the controls. Her eyes, fierce, determined, focused.

Silence loud with the sound of turbulence and rushing wind.

Green, so much fucking green, rich with brown and purple and the azure blue of the sky, and Maker’s tears, they were going to die, they were going to die, they were going to -

[the-headbop-wraith]

3_40 Dream Scape

There was a road.  It went on for miles and miles, endless road among a forest of bare trees tangled against a half moon.  The wind strummed its lacy fingers through parched branches, what little grass mingled beside the road, sighed as it bowed low.  Stars dazzled the distant cosmos, as far beyond his reach as the end of the road he courted.  It was a territory he was out of practice with, roads he recalled well but he could not ponder on the specifics of his relationship with a road.  He set foot on the this subdued path and it replayed like a loop, no stone or shrub was ever the same, but the night always limped onward relentlessly.  An eternal night that kept him shackled to a land in the perpetual twilight; teased him with promises of a reprieve within a daybreak that always rose and melted back into dusk.  Half risen suns drowned in an inverted dawn.

By his impression roads were not meant to be this way. A new purgatory, fresh kindling to tend his carefully guarded heat, something about the air stirred him, made him slink deeper into the nuance of wandering.  There was danger in testing boundaries; around him deep within the woods there remained zones he was not welcomed.  But the road was modern and it had cut deep through the earth decades prior, a mile more.  He could always turn back, that was a choice preference.

In the shrouded distance something awaited.  It wasn’t there but it was, he knew it just had to be there ahead somewhere and the sense of it needled at him.  Abruptly the sensation abandoned him altogether but by then it didn’t matter, he knew something tangible was there though he could not see it clearly, but he would arrive on it in due time.  There was no hurry, how long had he been waiting?  It was there and it would not leave, if he wouldn’t allow it.

Even when the sharp slit of light hit the amber edge, he couldn’t hasten his pace.  He could scarcely believe what it was that he had come upon, and the sight of it briefly stumped him.  There. THERE!  

He did not go toward it immediately, but kept his guarded distance on the road and studied the slate of color, the self-proclaimed title that read out on its side MYSTERY SKULLS, bright colors exploding in his mind as if a maelstrom of colorful spectrums had never before been witnessed by his eyes. It was here, a van.  THE Van.

The acuity of ownership, of belonging failed to taint him as he moved closer to the inert vehicle.  It was a place, a mobile station that he had once shared in, yet it was a separate entity from himself.  Another identity.  Nevertheless, he reached his hand out as he neared, but faltered.

__

The rest stop was fifty miles out away from the nearest city, in the midst of jagged rocks speckled by sparse trees and stiff grass stalks.  Several groupings of rocks blocked visual of the main road that bypassed the stop, the road itself was practically deserted but for the stray car that happened by.  

Its late morning and the rising sun moves to hover behind a cluster of impacted rock that rests at the base of a high hill.  A figure picks its way toward the utmost point of the mammoth boulders; its rich pelt is silhouetted by the bold yellow orb trembling behind it, a glossy red sheen coats the ends of its fur.  It turns its head and focuses on the figures far below, seated upon a brick wall that chaperon’s visitors toward the interior of the large, gray stone building.  Red eyes narrow and sharp teeth poke through the sides of the muzzle, the figure draws back its head and unleashes a loud yawn.

Cool wind prickled the ridge of fur that lined his shoulders. Mystery finished his yawn, as he stretched all the way down until his toes reached the edge of his perch and his chest was nearly touching the cool rock under him.  He sat down and put one back leg to work, going to town on the bent and frazzled fur that had tucked into the edge of his ear.  That felt too good, and he nearly couldn’t stop himself. Somehow, he managed.  And picked himself right up and shook out his coat, his collar rattled in that amusing way it did that let everyone know he was just a dog.  Plain and simple.

He adjusted his spectacles with a wrist and once again turned his attention, onto the surviving members of his pack.  If he wanted to he could listen and be aware of what they were saying, but the topic was nothing crucial, remedial chitchat. They could do without his company for a while longer.  He snapped his ears high and raised his snout into the breeze and sniffed.  Leaves, roots, elk, some kind of feline – nothing to fret over.  In these areas a case of abandoned beer or some other rubbish dumped by disrespectful guests, was the vilest threat that could be conjured.  A shame that good people were far in-between and few, if any.

Mystery let his eyes linger a little longer on the two on the wall, talking.  Satisfied, he began to pick his way down the backside of the boulders and crept back into a clutter of trees.  No one was calling for him.  They’d be fine for a few more minutes.

“We’re def. safe, since he only takes victims at night,” Vivi was saying.  The computer was working again.  Nearly fifty-two hours on the road, both batteries gave it up ages ago.  Now was a good time to stop and charge them up. Except…  “I’ve never heard of attendants with sleeping quarters.”

Arthur sat on the same wall several meters away from Vivi in the direct sunlight, and doodled in his ‘company’ notebook.  “It’s his job,” Arthur grumbled back.  Vivi was on the case, and her enthusiasm was becoming a national emergency as far as schedules were concerned.  “We’re miles away from the nearest town, it’s the system around these parts.”  Arthur directed his pen Vivi’s way, and slapped his hand down when his sketch pad began sliding off his lap.  “He’s a government employee.  That’s all.”

“No one looks that pale, ever,” Vivi said, hardly focused on the editing of the document.  A half eaten ‘Texas sized’ cinnamon bun sat on its gooey wrapper, all of this perched on the side her knee; the snacks only companion was a bottle of iced coffee and a bag of popcorn (a ‘light’ snack).  Vivi was ravenous when it came to her excessive sugar intake. “Unless he was some kind of vampire, but he’s out in the sunlight.  Can’t be that, nope.”  The rest stop attendant had given them a wave as he wheeled his beaten metal mop bucket away on the sidewalk outside.  What little hair was upon his gray scalp was scraggly, his arms were boney and his clothing hung over his knobby shoulders; he sort of… slithered on his gelatinous brown work boots.  “How long do you think cadavers can keep for?  You know, people bodies?  You know that stuff?”

Arthur gave Vivi a lopsided grin that revealed the teeth along his cheek.  He coughed and tugged his vest a little more around his chest; no matter what Vivi said, it did keep him warm.  “That’s not a thing I keep track of.  I know how long a person can retain if they’ve drowned in icy water, but not post living stuffs.”  He heaved over and snatched his notebook before it hit the cement below.  With a smooth rocking motion, Arthur reseated himself firmly on the wall and flipped the page of the notebook over with his thumb.

The rest stop had a few external sockets under the roofs eave, near the glass doors that led into a visitors lobby where the bathrooms and concession stands were.  The laptop was hooked up to one outlet, and a separate charger for the laptops additional battery was hooked up to the next outlet, while Vivi had the phones hooked USB hooked to the laptop.  They’d save time, and Vivi swore she could finish the reports with this last charge.

“You’re working too fast.  You use ‘down’ instead of ‘done’ a couple times,” Vivi mentioned, while pointing to the screen (as if Arthur could see from where he was).  “Do you make these errors on purpose?”

“I’m an engineer,” Arthur muttered, with a shrug. “A little gratitude, thank you.”

“Excuse me Mr. inspiration only hits at four fucking in the morning,” Vivi taunted.  For a few minutes she worked in silence, ticking at the keyboard on her lap.  She sighed, and shifted the position of her legs dangling along the side of the walls edge.  “If only,” she whined.  She set the cinnabon onto the keypad where she typed.  “If only this place had wifi, I could check if there have been disappearances along the road here.”

The pen Arthur had been using just leapt from his hand and rolled across the ground.  “Geez, Viv.”  Arthur tossed his notepad aside and hurried to reclaim the pen, before it rolled down the ramp.  “I think I’ve had enough with disappearances for a while.  Getting in too deep like that.  I guess I shouldn’t… talk like that.”  He examined the pen as he returned to his perch, a little closer to Vivi now.  For a short while Arthur sketched in his note pad, a lot of his work was in pen and the bitter odor of the ink hovered around his head.  Vivi was quiet for too long, and this caught Arthur, he stilled his hand from marking the page.

“I never really thought about this,” Vivi murmured. Her hands rest on the keyboard, her thumb picks at one of the keys.  “Misplaced souls, lingering.  That sort of thing.  Maybe it’s just something spirits are compelled to do?  I might be thinking this the wrong way.”  She met Arthur’s eyes and frowned.  “Did he… wander like this before?”

Arthur ducks his head from Vivi’s gaze and puts some meager lines into the side of one diagram and traces it, making the line thick. He shakes his head.  “He didn’t… there wasn’t a reason for him to.”

Vivi resumes typing, laboriously slow now.  “Makes me anxious,” she mumbles.  “Like one day he’ll just keep walking.  Won’t stop, doesn’t think—” Her voice caught, and Vivi swallowed a bit.  She took a swig of her coffee drink and took a deep breath.  “Kind of gets lost.  What would we do?  What?” It takes a second or two for the silence to get to Arthur.  He sets his pen aside.

“Sometimes, y’know.”  Arthur reaches up and touched the back of his neck, and nearly bites his tongue.  “Sometimes, he gets overwhelmed.  It happens. People do that all the time… it’s practically natural!”  Vivi wraps her arms around her middle and frowns.  “Look, hey.  He won’t get himself lost.”  Arthur scoots closer and sets his hand on Vivi’s shoulder.  She doesn’t move but her eyes follow him, and she smirks at the edges of her mouth.  “He won’t do that to you again.  Even if…” This time Arthur is the one to choke, and he has to lean back and look away.  “Even if you have to hunt him down or something.”

That wasn’t what he meant to say, but Arthur didn’t want to tempt… unsavory ideas.  He drew his hand back and gripped at the edges of his empty sleeve with his fingertips.

__

There was so much scenery to see, always different, never the same.  It made the hours on the road tolerable, it was part of what made the travel exciting.

Vivi had her camera with her, she rolled down the passenger window to take some shots of the hill valley below.  The sky on their side was clear, but miles away low cloud cover and a thick fog had trampled the fields in the distance below, highlights of sunbeams accented bellowing flurries and vapor.  Cold air rushed through the open window, despite it whistling through uninvited the interior of the cab retained a comfortable, warm temperature.

The radio bubbled with music, mostly it picked up static this far out from reliable towers.  Around every hour Lewis would flick his hand towards the radio and shift the channel to a weather station, listen to the broadcaster drone out a forecast, then flipped the channel back to the former station.  Whenever the backlash of static buzzed across the radio, Vivi would pause from sightseeing to shoot Lewis a curious glance.  Lewis would smile her way, and Vivi would return the warm gesture, and go back to her comfortable little spot by the window watching the thunderhead pass.  

It was cozy this way, being sealed up in their dry little shell.  Miles away sleet swirled across the roads, the air would be mercilessly cold and brutal. The roads they kept on remained free of water or hazard; the pavement wound around bends and across metal bridges, and cut through a small town built into the hillside.  They stopped for overpriced gasoline, restocked on some supplies, used the facilities, and off they were again.

In this segment of the endless road Mystery took occupation of the cooler back, while his companions stayed crammed in the front seat.  Arthur needed a change of environment and sat in the passenger seat, with Vivi crammed between him and Lewis.  Arthur updated a separate report and Vivi invested as much time as she deemed tolerable, in editing and assembling the joint document portion.  She took frequent breaks to lie back on the seat and just stare at the stars.  It eventually got to the point where she was nodding forward, and Lewis was trying to keep her head up with one hand, least he condemn her face to smash onto the keyboard and do unredeemable damage.  Arthur saved the document before Vivi could break the laptop, once this was all done Vivi retreated into the back with Mystery.  There was bumping and a groggy whimper, before Vivi had nestled down herself. Lewis lowered the radios volume, and drummed silently on the dashboard as he scrolled through the stations for something instrumental.  He could perhaps coax a station from somewhere distant, that should be possible for him?

The hours remained tranquil while the craggy road whirred on and on, its extent inexhaustible.  White pools dotted the landscape around them, the high beams of the van would occasionally glitter over frost on trees that hovered beside the road; the world was different in the headlamps of the van.  Different in the lights of this vehicle, the van.  

Traffic picked up or trickled out as they arrived, and abandoned the larger towns in turn.  On the open road fellow travelers became scarce, and the beauty of the night could be witnessed.  The stars receded to the vibrant colors of dawn, runny maroon light crept over patches of thick woods, a pale fog rippled among the bare segments of meadows and open farm fields.

Lewis glanced over the headrest and checked the back. Vivi was curled up in a sleeping bag, with Mystery tangled up in the same blanket and Vivi’s arms.  It didn’t look like Mystery minded.  “When was the last time you slept?”  

Arthur twitched somewhat to the sudden, even faint voice, when it alit on the close quarters of the cab.  He relaxed after a moment but said nothing.  He pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around his shoulders and shifted his legs.  Lewis hardly moved at all, except to accommodate some sort of body posture or to make room for Vivi.  It kind of unnerved Arthur.  “Before we stopped, yesterday,” Arthur mumbled.  “I sleep when I’m ready.”

“You’re not tired?”  Lewis reached up to the overhead visor and flipped it down.  “Not good for you,” his voice echoed, warning.

“I feel all right.”  Truthfully, Arthur hadn’t slept the previous day either.  “It’s beautiful, the colors.”

“Yeah.”  Lewis picked at the sunglasses in the cup holder.  He didn’t want to push Arthur a whole lot.  “I really messed up, huh?”

Arthur thudded his brow on the cold window and watched his breath fog over the glass.  The lights of some town they bypassed, sparkled in the distance with paling colors.  “Lew, when I… not that.  Um.” He reached up with the blanket, and began wiping little sections out of the fading haze in the window.  “I’ve had a lot on my mind, lately.”

Lewis’ voice hitched, like it popped into the radio and out. “Hm.  Since when don’t you?”

“Heh.”  Arthur’s medicine was in his bag in the back.  It didn’t help a lot with his throat, but he liked to think it kept him awake.  A series of low whimpers came from the behind them, it was probably Mystery.  It was hard for Arthur not to feel sorry for the hound.  A random thought trickled into Arthur’s head, and he snorted with the chuckle.  Lewis looked his way, maybe startled but he didn’t inquire. “Sorry,” Arthur snickered.  “I was thinking of something.  Do you remember that one case, the one where I was begging Vivi:  “Please, please.  Save the villains?’”  Arthur gagged a bit as he sniggered, his nose stuffy.

SAVE the villains?  Lewis couldn’t picture any of them actively making an effort to save those kind of people, if he was rolling on recounted experience.  He shook his head.  Nothing specific came to mind.

“It was the one in the state park that was closed to visitors, and the archeologists… lemme think.  I know… villains, it sounds really hokey, but I panicked,” Arthur mumbled. He rubbed his thumb on the edge of his blanket.  “It was kind of a neat job.  Sacred artifacts disappearing from a just as sacred temple, no solid evidence to who the culprit was, no suspects; I think the lore went that the local god – this bear demon thing – was showing up to punish trespassers.  That thing was terrifying, actually.  It showed up and scared the students, none of them could figure out how or where it would vanish off to.  None of this ringing any bells?”  

Lewis cocked his brow at Arthur.  “I don’t see how that would make you laugh.  Though, there must’ve been something that happened…?” He waited for Arthur to continue.  For a while Arthur sat staring out the window, collected, watching the sun tease gold tendrils through a low hanging haze.

“Something about rival archeologist camp, stealing artifacts to sell off to highest bidders,” Arthur said.  “It took us a while to make progress… those guys.  They figured a way of using the ancient aqueducts to get around, but they were like a maze and people had… gotten lost in them, a lot didn’t make it out.” Arthur went silent when Lewis picked up the sunglasses and put them on his face, effectively blotting out the bright gleam of his ember eyes.  Arthur folded down a little more in his seat, fingers tugging on the pinned sleeve of his shirt.  The thing that always shocked him about that case was the nightmares.  Arthur didn’t dream a whole lot about the demon bear, but he had a lot of those wandering dreams.  The ones where he stumbled into the underground water tunnels, and got lost forever in the dark, the cold.  He shuddered.

“Did Vivi… well, Vivi always does the Vivi yes thing,” Lewis replied.  Once she got an idea in her head, there was no telling what would happen.

Arthur nodded.  “Y-yeah.”  That’s how it went.  Vivi did the one thing the group was not supposed to do, and ran off on her own without a word to anyone.  Inspiration struck, and she was going to slap it back or something.  Thankfully she had not disappeared into the aqueducts beneath the temples, Mystery found her scent easily enough and it led deep into the pine forest.  “There was this little hidden road way out there,” Arthur continued.  “Almost washed out and tricky to hike.  We sort of ‘commandeered’ one of those little off terrain golf carts they had for the tourists.  I can’t believe we did that.”  Arthur maneuvered his arm a bit under the blanket.  He wasn’t cold, but it helped him to have something covering his shoulders.

“Are you sure you didn’t catch this on TV or something?” Lewis said.  “I think I’d remember dealing with a demon bear and artifact smugglers.”

“This was one of our cases,” Arthur insisted, through a half yawn.  He quieted when Vivi murmured something in the back, probably shifted.  It didn’t make sense that Lewis would be the one unable to recall the case, he was the one that was gung-ho about scouring the woods until they found Vivi.   Not that Arthur wasn’t impartial to turning the entire forest upside down to find their lost teammate (and leader), in fact he was more afraid of losing her than the possibility of running into the demon bear out there.  It was a crisis.

“It was hard keeping up with Mystery,” Arthur went on, softly.  “We did find their camp though.”  The smugglers operation was well organized, and they had old military jeeps that they were loading up with acquired artifacts.  That wasn’t the problem though, the problem was that they did find Vivi was there but she was unconscious.  “And you… lost it.  It was spectacular.”

“¿Es de verdad?  Not making this up?” Lewis inquired, once more.  “I can see Vivi charging off on her own and getting into trouble, maybe. Usually though, you’re the one that gets nabbed.”  Lewis raised a hand up to his plush hair, presumably to smooth the pompadour back but stopped.  Briefly Lewis glimpsed his palm before he set his hand back onto the steering wheel.  “You stop to look at something shiny, or it has moving parts.  You— but you, well, you don’t pay attention a whole lot when you should.  De la solapada.”  It wasn’t a challenge to get them all separated, especially if something big and disputably hazardous was chasing them.  Lewis had never really given that consistency any sort of consideration, until now of course.  Huh.

“There was no intriguing machinations to tickle my fancy way out in the boonies.  This time, I stayed with the group,” Arthur grumbled.  “One of the times I don’t get kidnapped and you conveniently forget. It used to be one of our favorite cases too.  We took a lot of pict— Mmm, there was a lot of folklore and exploration.  Vivi got caught up in it, I guess that’s why she took off like that.”  Arthur also didn’t want to mention he was kind of taking it easy after having stitches put in from another incident.  He felt like a burden on this case.  “She loves that stuff.  Anyway, you saw her there, so you bombed the heart of operations and went after those guys… some of them even had guns.  I was terrified.  You - Fucking berserker mode:  Unlocked.”

The corner of Arthur’s mouth pulled back in a grin, and he elevated his hand like a sort of table.  “I was under a jeep, and when I looked up at the commotion I see you with a camp fire at your back.  You grabbed this big cast iron skillet, the really big thick ones that weigh fifty pounds. You went all Star Wars on them – except it was a skillet and not a light saber – and grabbed part of this tent in your other hand.”  Another little giggle burbled out of Arthur as he interchanged hands, between pantomiming Lewis elected weapons.  “Skillet, tent, and when you started taking down those guys, they started to panic and most were trying to book it.  Mystery, he snagged some sort of sacred urn thing – it was kind of important later, but they thought he was gonna eat it I guess, a bunch of them were chasing him all over the camp.  Utter chaos. This was going down, and I caught up with Vivi and was trying to wake her up.  I kept saying… “‘Vi.  Vi. You gotta wake up now, sweety, the villains need saving.’  I didn’t know what else to call them, kooks?”

The music cuts off as the radio buzzes with static; it makes Arthur twitch in his seat.  “Oh wait,” Lewis said.  “I think… weren’t they trying to get the bear demon out there too, when all of that was happening.  They wanted it to – I dunno – mortal combat with me, so some of them could splint with the artifacts they could.”  He direct a finger at Arthur, and smirked.  “Usted. Puedes echar poco, you sabotaged the engines, didn’t you?”

Arthur made a gesture with his hand and tugged the blanket back up over his shoulder.  “Anyone could do that.  I just did it without getting caught… for once.  The movies make it look simple.”  He pulled himself up to look in the back and check on Vivi, still sleeping.  “It was either you or me, but I wasn’t about to trust you sneaking around.  They’d be like, ‘Oh, an eclipse!  The end is neigh, we should have never finagled with the sacred burial site.  Wait-wait, no.  What is that?’  Then I’d be the one with the skillet light saber and a tent flag.  Was that your plan?  Or did you just improvise?”

“My story was gonna be, ‘I’m the new guy for the bear suit.’”  Lewis turned the volume down when the station chewed the static.  He was sure he wasn’t responsible for that.  “Admit it, it could’ve worked.  If it worked and they put me in that suit, I would’ve been unstoppable.  ‘Dangit. Another guy didn’t read the instruction manual.’  I would‘ve warned them I needed extensive practice beforehand, but they could film me and it’d get Vine famous.”

Arthur sniggered in his throat.  “Vine famous?  Oh, you hit your head there pretty hard, huh?”

Lewis reached a hand up and brushed aside some of his bangs and touched his forehead.  “Jeez, you nearly fainted.  I told you it wasn’t bad, head wounds just have a nasty habit of over bleeding.”  He swept that hand across his chest and straightened out his ascot.  “Ruined my favorite shirt though.”

“Dude.  Dude. Spoiler.”  Arthur held out his hand and paused.  Lewis looked Arthur’s way and waited for him to continue.  “It was identical to all the other shirts you own.”

“It was new, that’s the key difference.”  Lewis stiffens a bit, and kind of tilts his head when he looks at Arthur again.  He fidgeted, slipping his hands up to the top of the steering wheel and tightened his grip, the plastic crinkles in his fists.  Lewis checked the back, then returned his eyes to the road.  The asphalt glistened with tones of cinnamon, transparent purples and deep blues ripple as the light singed the darker tints.  A thin mist hung over the tarmac and coiled through the shrubbery nesting beside the road.

“You could have done part time for the Fred Fazbear’s,” Arthur mentioned.  A chuckle lingers in his throat, Arthur winds up wheezing into the fold of his blanket. “Traumatize the little kids.”  A little shiver coils up Arthur’s spine.  He turns to a quiet Lewis.  “Um… that demon bear suit was infinitely less terrifying than those animatronics.  Safer too. They would’ve adored you. Especially your sisters, they always love it when you bring home a souvenir.”  Arthur snapped his mouth shut, his teeth made an audible click.  Lewis was absolutely silent and somehow, it was more unsettling than a disinterested Lewis.

Arthur sank down into his little ball and rested his cheek on his knee.  He pretended to sleep, even if he didn’t want to.  There was no way getting around it.  There were many things that even a skilled mechanic couldn’t fix.

__

The candles lit at his passing, the flame twinkles briefly before the crisp draft of the hall snuffs the light out completely.  A deep, impenetrable black fog hovers in the depths of the corridor, but at his approach it coils back, receding further back through the seclusion that he cannot reach.  This arrangement seems to benefit them both, but he is careful not to hasten his pace.  There is little to see at all, only a hall and a hall, continuous.  It felt like he had traveled it for years, though he knew that was impossible.

There came a corner and around its side was a staircase. His hand slid across the polished banister as he moved by, gaze focused up into the dank shadows above and their secrets.  Roots slithered down from the upper steps; the barest shimmer of candlelight gave an eerie sheen of red to the barks thin veins.  It was difficult to make out but he was almost certain there were branches too, bent and curved down from the ceiling.  That didn’t make sense, they did have trunks.

A black rock coated the floor, smoothed and polished by centuries of rolling water droplets.  The room he was within felt confined, a small table stood beside him with a small candle atop; there was nothing else.  The light the candle offered did little but provide a small parachute of illumination, there were still walls but no more corridors leading nowhere.  It was just a room, a large suffocating room filled with dark.  Someone had traveled the world over twice, collected up all the unsettling shadows that they could wrangle, and stuffed them into this room.  It was oppressive.

From the coarse murk surfaced a wall, an unremarkable wood wall.  At its base rolled up a corroded metal rail track that disappeared beneath the wall. There was nothing else of interest in these odd features, he knew he had seen it before somewhere and that’s why it was here.  The candelabra on the wall flashed with instant radiance, and faded in the same breath as he kept on his way without pause.  He should’ve felt something for the brief snuff of light, but he was numb to it. His whole sense of self felt drawn back, displaced.  It was that same sensation as slipping into sleep, but without losing awareness.  He swayed.

A door slipped in under the sudden pulse of another candle.  The flame steadied and the door stayed where it was, in the wall, watching him.  It felt like the door was watching him, waiting for some kind of action.  Its surface was chipped and tinted red, a black etch was burned into the upper half. From it came a kind of foreboding regret, the sensation of it was so strong he had to pull back from the edge of the candles dome of light.  It was something almost physical, almost visible.  He waited listening to the distant hum, his own heartbeat, on the stale air.  The door awaited his decision as patiently as any regular door would.  

Without further hesitation, he reached for the tarnished handle, it didn’t need to turn, the door opened smoothly and he crept forward. Another room, smaller, he couldn’t tell. The door hissed shut against his palm and he chanced a look back.  A candle sparked beside his shoulder, its light illuminated the glossy surface of a black pool at his feet.

“You fell,” said a voice.  “You fell, and I pushed you.”  

When he spun back, there was no one.  Across from him was a corridor, a lone candle blazed atop the desk by the wall.  He rushed in its direction, and towards the light.