Fluffy Red Oktoberfest for you all! 100% spoiler free from today’s new comic release.
“What is this?”
The box, wrapped in plain brown paper and a twine bow, sat squarely in the middle of a rather important requisition request justification that had taken him the better half of the evening to make any headway through. Medic looked up at Heavy, who stood in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest and with an expectant look in his eye.
“That much is evident.” Medic poked the side of the box with his pencil, listening for any tell tale clues, ticking clocks, hissing vipers, spring loaded gas devices, and the like. A quick glance up at Heavy didn’t help either. The giant was simply watching with an amused look across his face as Medic approached even this simple thing with the same mix of methodical care and callous disregard as he approached his surgeries.
A present. But for what? Medic racked his brain. Smissmass long since past, and neither of them ever discussed birthdays with each other. It had simply never come up. Spy could have been persuaded to part with the information, since he had no doubt already discovered it, but they were nowhere near that date either. There had been no arguments that either would need to apologize for, and even if they had, this wasn’t Heavy’s preferred method of apology. And in any rate, he was usually not the one doing the apologizing either.
There were no upcoming missions that would require additional prep. There were no upcoming unpleasant assignments that Heavy would want to avoid. The look on Heavy’s face was not the one he wore when telling him that he would be traveling back to Russia.
Medic was utterly baffled.
“I give up,” he finally replied, “Why?”
A sly smile crept onto Heavy’s face. “Does Heavy need reason?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Then open, dorogoy.”
Medit set his pencil down and pulled the package back into his lap,. His fingers played at the bow on top, the rough twine hissing over the paper as he pulled it away and let his drop to the floor with the paper following shortly after. Inside the paper was a box. A proper box of sturdy stock that was emblazoned with a stamp that he didn’t recognize but that was undoubtedly Russian. He felt Heavy’s eyes on him as he pulled off the lid to find red tissue paper beneath. As he pulled it back, his fingers brushed across something soft, furry, and absolutely lacking in a heartbeat.
Heavy nodded. “Is ushanka. Special for Doktor.”
He pulled it out and turned it in his hands. An ushanka it was, indeed. Dark brown, and almost identical to the one he’d admired on Heavy many times before, but on its front was a gold cross, his own class symbol, that made it his own. He let his fingers run through the furred lining, feeling its warmth and softness, and knowing that it would be more than a match for their inevitable reassignment to Coldfort.
“What kind of fur is this?”
“Bear. Killed with Heavy’s own hands.”
He almost choked up at that. It was hard to find a good man who would kill a bear for you with his own hands and that kind of enthusiasm. Without waiting another moment, he pulled it on and dropped the flaps to let the fur tickle his ears. It fit perfectly. How, he had no idea. He almost never wore hats, and the ones that he did keep around were of the helmet variety. But the ushanka fit like a glove. Of course it did. It was from Heavy, who knew him better than anyone.
“Danke, Misha. It is wonderful.”
The Medi-gun could have been powered for days off of the wattage that came from Heavy’s smile.
“But if you do not mind me pressing,” Medic got up from his desk and made his way around to Heavy and laying his hands on those impossibly broad shoulders, “what is the occasion? If I have missed something important…”
“Nyet.” Heavy shook his head as he pulled Medic close. “Is because we go together, Doktor.”
Medic shook his head as Heavy chuckled a little at his own little joke. Matching hats for men who were a match. It was silly and juvenile, the sort of thing infatuated teenagers would do.
He loved it.
The room was warm, and his head was already getting hot, but he wouldn’t take it off. Not just yet. Not while Heavy was smiling so brightly down at him. Instead, he leaned up just enough to plant a light kiss to the tip of the big man’s nose.
Christo (b. 1935), Whitney Museum of American Art Packed (Project for Whitney Museum New York), 1968. Pencil, printed paper, raw linen, twine, transparent polythylene, thread and staple collage on paper, 27 7/8 x 22 in.
Word Count: 36,000+ Rating: Mature Summary: It’s been ten years since Daryl Dixon held the lifeless body of Beth Greene in his arms. The world has changed, but humanity has survived, and Daryl Dixon has survived too. He is alive; still breathing, still walking, still pushing himself to keep going year after year… until one day, everything changes again. And it all starts when he sees a name on a list of survivors. Two words. Two syllables. Ten letters. Beth Greene.
“Think you might be interested, this time around,” the woman remarked as she reached into the bag and pulled out a long roll of paper, bound with twine. “Got a few new lists. Keep finding new communities the further south we go, and west. Got one from Kansas, another from Florida, and one from Georgia…”
Georgia. If there was a glimmer of interest in Daryl’s eyes, Lucy didn’t react other than to slowly unroll the stack of papers and begin to flick through them, handing the new lists to him one at a time. “Let’s see, here’s the Kansas one… there’s Georgia… and hm, where is the other one?” She rummaged through the papers, rambling on in her melodious voice as she searched, “You know the town we stopped at in North Carolina? They just added to their list. A baby girl. Got a glimpse of her the first day were were there. Pretty little thing with these big brown eyes…”
But her words didn’t register on Daryl as he stood there, staring down at the sheet of paper in his hands. It was written on what looked like it had once been notebook paper, the blue lines faded. The handwriting was neat but loopy, stereotypically feminine though you could never be sure. It wasn’t the handwriting that had him frozen though, nor the number of people on the list… it was the names. Or rather one name, written neatly on the very last line, capping off the list so casually:
Valentine’s Day AU - Bellamy and Clarke both work at the grocery store
“Okay, do you want the paper sleeve or cellophane?” Clarke asked.
“Uhh,” the man stared down at the bouquet. “Which one’s cellophane again?”
“The clear one,” Clarke tugged a cellophane sheet out from the counter behind her.
“Sure, that one,” the man said. “Do you have any ribbon?”
Clarke looked at the mess of tissue paper, twine, and cellophane that had accumulated in the checkout lane behind her.
“Yeah, I can make something work.”
She did make it work, in a manner of speaking. The bouquet was technically wrapped by most operational definitions but it wasn’t particularly aesthetically pleasing. The red tissue paper was crinkled and fastened together with three strips of tape, the cellophane was cut jaggedly, and the twine was tied in a limp bow with shredded ends. Clarke never had gotten the knack of using the scissors to make curly cues. She passed the bouquet over to the man and stuffed a handful of coupons into his bag.
“Sorry about that,” she said as he turned to leave. “Have a good day!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be an art student?” Bellamy asked as he walked by.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Clarke sniped back.
I’m sorry it took me so long to get these done, but as some of you know I’ve been busy with life. Anyways. Here are the holiday ornaments I made. I’ve made three sets; one for each Mumford & Sons album. The rules are simple, and unlike last time, I will be shipping internationally!
The ornaments are made from cardboard, paper, leftover calendar scraps, wrapping paper, twine, ribbon, and handmade paper beats. Each measures approximately 3" inches in diameter and 5" in height. The ornaments are meant for medium to big trees, or decorate the banisters, or hang them up in your room. There are 14 in each set. 12 titles (front) and lyric excerpts (back) and 2 Mumford & Sons album art and emblems appropriate for each album.
It was truly a labor of love and I’d love to see these go to someone who’s been following me.
AND NOW TO THE RULES:
1. There will be 3 (THREE) winners.
2. YOU MUST BE FOLLOWING ME!!! This is a follower give away, and I know most of my followers by now. I will check if you’re following.
3a. YOU MUST REBLOG THIS POST TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY. 1 (one) entry per person. Please only reblog once per day as to not spam the dash. More reblogs DO NOT mean more entries.
3b. When reblogging, YOU MUST INDICATE THE COLOR OR SET YOU WOULD LIKE TO WIN.
Brown/gold = Sigh No More
Red/beige = Babel
Black/blue = Wilder Mind
4. NO GIVE-AWAY BLOGS. I have invested a lot of time in making these! I want these to go to people who are followers and love Mumford music.
5a. You must be willing to send me your mailing address via email. I will not share, store, or sell your address, and it will only be used for this give away.
5b. IF YOU’RE UNDER 18 YOU MUST HAVE PERMISSION to provide a mailing address.
6. I will ship nationally and internationally. International winners will receive ornaments in a large envelope. National (U.S.) winners will receive ornaments in a flat rate box. Arrival prior to the December 25th IS NOT guaranteed. Custom charges are the responsibility of the winners!
7. This give-away will run until Saturday, November 28, 2015, with all 3 (three) winners being announced Sunday, November 29, 2015.
8. Winners’ names (urls) will be drawn at random from a bag!
9. I will notify the winners via message, fan-mail, and text post. You have 48 (forty-eight) hour to respond. If you don’t respond within 48 hours I will pick someone else instead.
2.6K. In which she discovers no matter how complicated, Harry has pretty much loved her all along.
They sat there in the inexorable heat with the windows down, a soft blue paper origami crane she had made him hanging from his rear view fluttering erratically between the two of them, conversation subdued. Even at night, the way the city smoldered from the humidity made her shorts cling to her thighs in a light
layer of sweat. She hated it so much, she told him at least times already. Studying
the crisp folds of the bird, she watched it dance and spin from its paper-twine
cord attach to the mirror.
so many ways, she felt, that crane described them; flittering every direction,
dancing unsurely in the breeze, hesitant, daring, and fragile. She looked back
over at him. His wide eyes were lost on the road. It was instances like these
where she provoked herself to form words, educated sentences for intelligent
everything she wanted to discuss, everything she found brooding and exciting
was still many levels below where his intellect revolved. Or at least, that was
the way she felt. How many things could she talk about in her mundane life as a
baker that would entertain his mind, stimulated by world travel and his rock
star status? It was a wonder why he even still went on these night drives with
her anymore. She saw herself as so plain and boring next to him. He was her
embodiment of those overplayed Brand New lyrics, about how he was the flame
that burned the entire spectrum of colors while she was a sickly, simple,
yellow flare that didn’t take much to extinguish. He was The Harry Styles, and
she was just her.
This is for fivewivesweek and is here on ao3. implied capable/angharad (and by implied i mean. they are lowkey married but that is not part of this story). i have drawn a little picture of angharad too i might put that up later it is very small.