@trafficteamsupportexchange is a gift exchange hosted on AO3, using Tumblr and Discord for communication/advertisement purposes.
What is TTSE?
TTSE is an exchange that focuses on canon life series groups and their team dynamics, though the dynamics themselves don't have to be strictly canon nor does the gift have to stay in a canon compliant/divergent universe. Those specifications should be mentioned by your giftee when they sign up. TTSE intends to be strictly Non RPF, so anything created through this exchange should be about the characters and not the CCs. [Tagset]
Current Activity: TTSE 2025 has been completed! Look at the reblogged posts or the gifts posted in the TTSE collection, kudos, comment, and otherwise give them love! See you next year :D
Assignments are out and we are in our creation period! Feel free to join the discord as a beta reader or pinch hitter, if you would like. [Timeline]
What do I need to know if I want to join?
Fanfics have a 1.5k word minimum, and fanart (digital and 2D analogue uploaded under guidelines) must be fully finished to whatever your standards are. I am going to trust that each of you are making your gifts in good faith. [Gift Guidelines]
By default, assume that the wanted dynamics between everyone in the group is platonic teammates. It is up to you/the giftee to clarify your/their wants and dislikes when you/they sign-up, including but not limited to the following: your/their pov preferences, dynamic desires, what the characters mean to each other (romantically involved, siblings/family, best friends, etc), what you/they don't want included, and more. I suggest requesting more than one team or potential dynamic to help limit things going to pinch hitters.
Posting on AO3 is required (meaning you must have an AO3 account with gift receiving on to participate) and posting on Tumblr is optional. If you do post on Tumblr, make sure to link the ao3 work, use the hashtag #trafficteamsupportexchange and #trafficteamsupportexchange2025, and @ this blog so I can reblog your post here. [How to sign up on AO3]
Joining the Discord Server is mandatory, considering that is how most of the communication and information sharing will occur. The discord is also where the sign-up link and other details will be shared. Many common questions/FAQs are answered in #exchange-info. Even if you don't plan to sign-up officially, you can still join the server as a Beta Reader (can include helping with art) or a Pinch Hitter.
Links
Discord Invite: https://discord.gg/3YC3V8BfCY
AO3 Collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/ttse2025
Exchange Timeline: https://www.tumblr.com/trafficteamsupportexchange/765868968966815744/ttse-25-timeline
Gift Guidelines: https://www.tumblr.com/trafficteamsupportexchange/765814026162864128/ttse-gift-guidelines
How to Sign-Up on AO3: https://www.tumblr.com/trafficteamsupportexchange/768862959945613312/how-to-sign-up-for-ttse-through-ao3
How to Embed Images/Art on AO3: https://www.tumblr.com/deityoftherain/773134727392739328/how-to-embed-images-and-links-on-ao3
How to Post a Work on AO3: https://www.tumblr.com/deityoftherain/776056846976958464/how-to-post-a-work-on-ao3-a-thorough-step-by-step
Tagset Used: https://archiveofourown.org/tag_sets/21529 | https://www.tumblr.com/trafficteamsupportexchange/769275539676643328/traffic-life-series-team-ao3-tagset
Original Post/Interest Form: https://www.tumblr.com/deityoftherain/765712726599303168/question-i-write-a-lot-during-november-and-other | https://forms.gle/FbAC8x8V4vt1yx2N7 [<- Closed; ask questions through the ask box or on the discord]
Profile Art Credit: @isjasz
Blog Owner/Exchange Runner: @deityoftherain on Tumblr/AO3/Discord
https://archiveofourown.org/collections/ttse2025
Blog-Specific Tags
#trafficteamsupportexchange
#ttse answers
#ttse update
#trafficteamsupportexchange2025
#ttse fanfic
#ttse fanart
If you have any questions, feel free to visit the ask box or enter the questions channel on the TTSE Server!
Thank you all so much for participating and creating with us! Please check out the fanart and fanfics in the collection above, and give them all the love you can muster in form of kudos, comments, and etc :D
“Are you—you’re doing okay? With the play, with our storyline?” Scott asks, something achingly earnest in his voice.
Pearl blinks. That… was not what she was expecting. Still, she supposes it makes sense. In real life, Scott is the best QPP Pearl could ask for, and she can’t imagine anyone she’s closer to, or anyone she’d rather give such a role in her life. In the play, though… well, in the play, Pearl and Scott hate each other, to put it bluntly.
fic written for @an-ace-phoenix as part of the @trafficteamsupportexchange !!
For his whole life, Scott has wanted to find his soulmate. Scott remembers learning about the ink that would appear on his body when he turned eighteen, forming a picture that would gain color when he met his soulmate. Scott had been so giddy at the thought, then—the idea that somewhere out there was a person the universe had deemed perfect for him. That didn’t change as he grew older—Scott has always thrilled at the idea of soulmates, especially his own. So why, now that he’s met his soulmate, does he feel so much dread?
Or, Scott has always wanted a soulmate. He isn’t convinced that he deserves one.
fic written for @holymolyguacomole as part of the @trafficteamsupportexchange !!
My gift for @oshawottarchive for the @trafficteamsupportexchange!! I hope you like it <3
Mounders <33
Some info/lore under cut
First off, Pearl def forced them to do this postcard.
To start at the left: Joel. He's a donkey hybrid, because Shrek. (imo it suits him) look at him in his comfy hoodie
Bdubs! He's a little bunny! Chaos causer and like they live in holes and stuff. Also they are tiny :D
Mumbo K Jumbo. He's just an awkward little moth guys. i totally didn't forget his moustache at first
Pearlie!!! My cutie. She is a little bat. I first drew her without wings, and then made the connection in my head. because like she's aussie so upside down
gift for @plushtive as part of @trafficteamsupportexchange! hope you like it!
Fandom: 3rd Life
Words: 3,401
Rating: General
Warnings: No Warnings
Characters: Scott/Martyn, Scott & Cleo
Additional Tags: Dreams vs Reality, Character Death In Dream, Dancing, Implied Fantasy Setting
Summary: After a recurring dream, Scott goes to find Cleo.
[fic under cut]
Candle-lit halls, flickering lights and dancing shadows, the sweet melodies of a live-band swirling with fancy gowns and floral scents—Scott places his hand atop of his companion’s, a gentle touch of skin on skin. He peers through his domino mask, the sharp edges suddenly loud against his skin despite their flushness to his face, his eyes landing on the stranger in front of him. Handsome face and charming smile, piercing blue eyes and lengthy blond hair tied back—their clothes different, foreign with embroidery and frills and threads new to his knowing eyes, more than a stranger to his mind but a stranger to the state, perhaps to the country itself.
They speak, softly under the notes of the violin, scarily close to a dream; “You look like you’re thinking.”
Scott blinks, from studious eyes to teasing ones, softer around the edges with a smile that meets their eyes. He returns the smile, cheekier as he steps his right foot forward, messing up their dance. The stranger smiles, a glint in their eyes like sunlight caught under the waves, pulling him along in a big twirl, opening them up to take space on the dance floor. Brushing against other pairs, stepping into the notes and following, lows and highs drawing a smile, a couple laughs bubbling like champagne in new glasses. Like whirlpools, gentler, intentional and chasing.
And it makes Scott stop thinking, floating on polished floors, hand in hand with a stranger, as content as he has never been. If he stops, he knows, the thoughts will come flooding back—if he stops, all of this will stop, he knows.
When they come together, stepping into each other’s spaces, hands tight on each other—their hand falls easily on Scott’s side, pulling him closer until their chests are mere inches from touching. Even then, without it, Scott would have crossed the distance—if for nothing, then to fluster them with wicked smiles and mischievous eyes, for now, though, he is content to follow in the steps of another. Like a shadow, a devotee.
Scott thinks, briefly, that he would put his life forth for this stranger.
And the thought makes him squirm.
His expression betrays him, the knit on his brow or the down-quirk of his lips, the stranger points it out with worry—much too nice, too lovely, Scott nearly trips over himself to explain and let the words flow out of him—quiet words for him only; “Something is troubling you—is it something I have done?”
Scott’s lips part with a quiet ‘no’, but he presses them close, choosing instead to shake his head. A ringing in his ears follows, echoes of a pounding in his head as his vision blurs—he winces, must have, because the stranger’s brow downturns with worry, holding him tighter as their free-flowing dance slows, studier than before. Stiff, closed off, they hold him up but they stay, right there, in the middle of the crowd where every dance step rakes down his ears. Echoes and ghosts, thundering heavy like a drumming on his head.
They spin, over and over, his head spins twice as fast. The people around them stare, judgement in their eyes, Scott wants to stop, his legs want to give out from under him. They spin and spin and spin, the faces mere silhouettes and shadows, blurring together, melting together into eyes, so many eyes. He tries to close his eyes—he can see them looking at him from the shadows of his mind, haunting and mocking and attentive, watching, watching, watching—
Scott scrunches up the fabric of their shoulder in his hand, breathing heavy.
“I’m sorry,” the words come out in a foggy state, water in his ears. Scott’s vision blurs, topples over them, unsure if the words grazed his lips or if they bounced on his cheek. But they linger in the air, sticking and halting the music. The notes are too sharp, the melody unsynchronized, choruses start and end at arbitrarily—Scott’s head pounds more, tries to breathe into his collapsing lungs.
But they hold him tight, closely—warm, so warm.
“Are you alright?”
Although his lips fall open with the word ‘no’ on his tongue, a deafening silence follows as he heaves—candle-lit halls, flickering lights and dancing shadows, the jarring melodies of a live-band he has yet to see swirling fancy gowns and melting guests.
“I’m sorry,” the words fall on Scott like a bucket of cold water, like diving head-first into the icy water of the poles. It shocks him, makes him shiver, all the warmth gone—from his companion too, replaced with the coldness of loneliness, of the void and—
Scott’s eyes go wide when something plunges into his back, piercing through the fabrics and his skin, the warm escaping from his back onto the hand of his attacker. His fingers twitch, grasped tightly on foreign fabrics, tearing the frills and threads on his fingertips. His vision unfocuses on the chest of his companion, the buttons of their shirt suddenly multiplying, bouncing back and forth until he looks up, confused, scared, met only with the indifference of a stranger. He looks for guilt, for an explanation in those blue eyes like summer waves now ranging ones.
Their lips move but no sound comes out, Scott’s vision blackness at the edges, dimming in the confusion of the situation. He pleads without sound, and finally plummets into the darkness when he reads the words on their lips—I’m sorry.
His fall stops on his bed, shaking his body awake and disoriented—eyes suddenly open, dark room, his uneven breathing and his thundering heart. He closes his eyes, breathing heavy into his lap, glimpse of his dream—or nightmare?—flashing before his eyes. The memories persist, the touch of someone else, the base of their hold, the warmth of their embrace; it messes with his head, leaving him in a limbo of dream and reality, caught between two worlds where he knows and does not. His hand reaches into the darkness, gliding across the mess of his sheets, and finds no one to hold his hand.
Pain trickles down his back, gentle and almost lulling, phantom pain of the past or future—hard to tell, when his head spins trying to remember a blurry face; golden hairs and striking blue eyes, warm smile and…
Time ticks by and the room lights up in cool tones, a blue wash from the light through the curtains. Despite the turmoil and his daze, Scott throws the blankets off him, throwing his leg off the bed onto the cold floors. He stands on shaky legs and makes his way around his routine, muscle memory as his mind lags behind.
Soon rather than later, he finds himself sitting across Lady Cleo, neither talking over warm cups of tea. There is a book in their hand, and there is his cup in his. Untouched, unlike hers. The shadow of the parasol falls over them gently, with an even gentler breeze touching their faces. He stares at the small, occasional ripples on the surface of his tea, the sweet aroma tickling his nose—and he finally takes a sip, finding a pair of green eyes looking at him looking at him curiously. Not pushing, but knowing, and he sighs as he puts his cup down, the thoughts pooled on his mind enough to finally let them go.
“It happened again,” he starts simply, staring at his disrupted drink. The smooth surface of his cup is kind on his shaky hands, an overwhelming sense of dread washing over him, pulling and tugging on life stuck on land. “The dream,” he reiterates, though they both already know the tale, “it happened again. I saw them again, we danced again, they…”
“Betrayed you again?” She asks, carefully sliding the flattened weave between the pages before closing, undivided attention on their companion. Scotts nods, then sighs, and Cleo can see the resignation on his face. They are countless, the time they have discussed this, though they are never any closer to solving the dilemma. Still, regardless, she reaches a hand across the table, her palm facing up—and Scott always meets her halfway, through his turmoil his hand lands on theirs, something sturdy to hold him together in the time being. “You know this place,” their words come out serene, squeezing his fingers reassuringly, “it messes with you.”
“And yet we come back.”
Cleo smiles, ‘caught’, “And yet we come back.”
Scott sighs again, shakes his head as he sits up, straightening his shoulders. Though not as radiant as his usual smile, Cleo is witness to the light of her dearest friend, him the waves to her shore—her lighthouse to his storm. He smiles, weak and tired, but flowers bloom on their own, at some point, on their own time. He reaches further and squeezes their hand, warmth between them.
“It’s only been four years,” Cleo says with a smirk.
Scott returns one in kind, “How awful—how many more to go?”
Cleo shakes their head, the twin strands framing their face swaying playfully. The answer falls between them, the unknown going unspoken—not that there is an answer, they are both aware. Still, her gaze falls outside of their shade, to the open field where other tables are set-up like theirs, other pairs and groups lounge, all bright and lively. The suggestion barely appears on their tongue before Scott, all knowing, smiles and tugs their hand.
“Care to go for a walk?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Their possessions lay in wait, tea abandoned on the table as they push their chairs back, standing on steady feet.
Scott in his light-blue, regal suit, the tail of his coat hugging his hips loosely and dragging behind him like a tail. Purple, lilac, yellow and cyan scale-like stains with blues adorning his coat, and the waves weaved on top; its vibrant colors also stained into the threads that catch the light; foam-like frills on the cuffs of his sleeves. A simple white button-up, tucked under the pearlescent white vest, shimmering greens and yellows; framed under the yellow to pastel orange gradient open lapel. A lilac sash belt that drapes down his tight thigh; black pants that twinkles like the universe, a wave of purple and white stars from his hips raining down the outside of his thighs; and open shaft latex boots of uneven heights—his right cut off at his calf, the blue collar cut like coral encasing this thigh while the left is red, cutting off some inches above his knee. The colorful diamond-shaped necklaces dangling on his neck, glittery lines on his neck like gills, the encrusted jewels atop his head like a halo of stars with its shadow replicating the shape of corals. Like his shirt, his hair is kept simple, long blue strands loosely gathered in a braid, tied at the end with a rich red ribbon.
A couple days ago, the attire made him feel untouchable, walking on auroras—now, however, it only makes him feel like a performer in a show. Suffocating, everything. He feels unsteady on his feet, head spinning a little.
Cleo offers their arm, which Scott takes easily, his loud whirlpool of colors hand-in-hand to their calmer, sturdier match. Cleo folds her arm a little, his hand graceful on their arm, his other hand on top. And Cleo’s suit matches well, though he has yet to give it a proper look. For another time, he thinks as he breathes in, exhaling carefully until his mind clears. He shifts his focus on their walk, on relying on Cleo as they always do—when things go wrong, they always find each other.
A lesson, maybe deja vu—the right term is not important.
“The ball is happening soon,” Scott says, trying to sound nonchalant like the whistle of the wind above them. Shaking the canopies, startling the birds off their rest. The main event, the reason they are here in the first place. “Have you had a chance to meet them yet?”
“The parents? Or their son?”
He smiles, lightly resting his head on her shoulder, “Either.”
Though his eyes do not see it, he feels them shaking a little—a head-shake, he presumes—then the words follow, “I’ve not, no. I don’t believe anyone has, despite promises that we will meet them before tomorrow.”
Then Scott chuckles, shaking his head in his own amusement. “Our parents, probably.”
Cleo replies, quieter, “Probably.”
It takes a couple minutes, but Scott exhales, the thoughts melting in his head. He opens his mouth to speak, finally breaking the silence between them.
“Something new happened,” he starts, calmly though the memory makes him shiver. He tries to shake his shoulders, shakes his head, “In the dream, I mean. Something new happened in the dream—it has been a while since something new plays out.”
She hums, a soft encouragement to continue.
“They apologized…” he mutters, replaying the words on his head—watching their lips whisper those words like the last thing he will ever hear. The words die on his tongue, but he pushes through. “After they… stabbed me, say, they apologized. A couple of times, in fact. Before I fell, and before I woke up.”
“Do you think it means anything?”
“That, I cannot answer.”
“One day,” they mutter, bringing their other hand to pat the back of his. And her touch is warm, a touch of cool but overpoweringly warm, reassuring and safe. “For now, let’s not worry about it, alright? We will worry about it after the ball, when we go back home.”
Scott sighs, nothing else to be done for now but agree with her.
Their walk under the canopies and branches is pleasant, aimless and carefree. Slowly, it washes the prickling fear, the incessant paranoia, yet he is to know what of. The thought of tomorrow raises worry, though not enough to make him back down. He thinks of his parents, of the possible conversation and the inevitable disappointment that is to follow—he swallows his feelings, distracted by the salty air that touches his lips, eyes flickering up to an open garden. Unlike the other places, this one is lonelier, tucked away far from the main house.
And in the middle of the bushes, someone stands, their profile to them.
Blond hairs and pale skin—something drops inside of Scott.
“You’re shaking,” Cleo whispers, stopping at the edge of the garden. Their eyes do not need to land on Scott to know, he does not try to hide his emotions or his actions—the breeze touches his cheek, reassuring as her touch. “We don’t have to.”
Still, he shakes his head, an odd sense of confidence washing over him. Curiosity and confidence, one masked as the other, hand-in-hand, he doubts himself as much as he trusts his instinct. The other, stranger to them, turns without acknowledging them—their back to them, Scott squeezes Cleo’s arm, fixated on the blond hair loosely tied near the base with a red ribbon. A vivid memory flashes before him, of that very morning, him in front of his vanity, braiding his hair, blue strands between his fingers, a rich red ribbon on his own hair.
He wonders if it could be cut from the same spool.
“Something wrong?”
Cleo asks—Scott shakes his head.
“I will see you later?”
Scott asks—Cleo nods.
They part easily, with confidence and security, knowing that their paths will cross again by their own hands—dig a new path if they have to. Still, as Cleo takes her leave, Scott already feels unsteady on his feet, despite the foundation he is own his own. He stands as tall as he can, relaxing into his skin, taking the short steps into the garden under the sun. Warm on his head, bright on his body.
Scott walks the rows of bushes, eyes tracing the flowers and the buds, the leaves and the stems, wondering what kind of flowers they could be. What season falls on the state, where exactly they could be in the world. Regardless, he makes his way to the middle of the garden, looking back at the maze of bushes and shrubs before focusing on the small fountain in the center.
By then, his presence is known, casually watched by his companion.
Scott looks at the water, the ripples caused by the running water, then lightly traces the edge of the fountain with his fingertips—rounding as the stranger walks on the outer side, following the impromptu clockwise dance.
“This place is quite hidden,” he says to no one in particular, letting the words be carried by the wind. One foot in front of the other, around and around slowly. “You have to go out of your way to find it, hm.”
Despite his lack of expectations, Scott receives a response, a voice too familiar; “I was told—about this place. Pointed to it, in fact.”
Scott hums, smiles to the water, “That so? Pleasant hideaway. You don’t mind if we share?”
This time, Scott asks for direct acknowledgement, thrown into the air with no commitment. Though he looks for it, he could do without, with no hurry for any particular outcome. His chest tightens with anticipation, dressed as dread, a touch of paranoia—the water is red at the edge of his vision, so he looks away to the world in front of him, of greenery. Around and around, merrily.
“I… cannot stop you, even if I wanted.”
He stops on his track, a half step behind him. Closer than before. Curiosity tickles his fingertips as he drags it away from the concrete, back to his side. He looks at the fountain, then firmly in front of him as he slowly spins on his heels, finally face to face with the stranger.
The first thing he notices; the striking blue eyes. The second; the lack of warmth on their face.
Something twists inside of Scott as he looks for that kind stranger, chasing any bit of warmth from his memory. Maybe he expects too much of someone unrelated, but he knows, with certainty, that this is his person. Standing before him, watching him with intent, something cold yet alive—Scott tries to remember if he has ever seen that in his dreams.
More real, right in front of him.
If he reaches out, he could touch them—could finally know what his dream self feels, touches, lives.
“You look familiar,” they say, carefully, with intention.
Scott smiles, tilts his head as he crosses his arms over his chest. “In another life, perhaps.”
They squint, then relax, taking a big exhale. “Perhaps.”
They stand in place for a moment, and suddenly, they extend out their hand, palm to the sky and between their bodies. Scott’s eyes go wide momentarily, a familiar scene playing before him—though the hall is replaced with trees and blues, natural and real. His breathing halts, his ears ring—could this be happening?
“If you don’t mind,” they say, their body barely moving as they speak.
And Scott opens his arms slowly, hesitancy he has never felt before. His eyes focus and unfocus on the offered hand, staring as his own shaky hand is placed atop their—cold, he notices first; real, he notices second. Then he steps closer, one foot in front of the other, until he is invading their space, close enough to be called trust. He puts a smile on but his companion keeps the lines of their lips tight, and he finds himself not caring much.
At ease, finally.
So they dance, slowly, not like in his dreams but something better. Clumsy without practice, easy without worry. Not under candle-light, but with a constant light and only their shadows, no real music around them—Scott holds their hand tightly, fearing losing it all if he lets go, despite the tremble of what could happen next. At least, he thinks with a smile, he will lose his life outside where the sun cradles him softly and the breeze soothes him.
Scott chuckles, content as their shoes drag across the grass, lacking the polish of the floors inside. His companion looks at him with a raised brow, expression relaxed as they twirl.
“I guess,” he says playfully, to their amusement, “this will be our secret date.”
happy @trafficteamsupportexchange day! lol this took me a bit but i hope you like it, @onebearo! also, this was betaed by @that-fall-guy :D
Jimmy blinked at the sun beaming into his eyes, throwing an arm over his face to shield them from the light. It must have just struck dawn, as the sun was just barely peeking through the curtains. The man rolled over to find Tango missing from his side of the bed. What was he up to?
He groaned as he sat up and let the blanket fall into his lap. This was a little late for him to be waking up, but he let it slide before beating himself up about it. They were in the middle of a death game, they can all have some moments to sleep in and be lazy.
Jimmy finally slunk out of their bed’s warm embrace to go look for Tango, not bothering to make the bed before padding over to the ladder leading downstairs. Luckily, his treasure wasn’t too far.
Tango stood at the furnace, cooking something based on the smell and the sizzling sounds. As soon as the man heard Jimmy approaching, he was quick to turn and greet him. “Hey, sleepyhead! What’s got you up so late?” He asked with a beam, sharp teeth all on display and tail swishing back and forth lazily, the fiery end sparking slightly.
Jimmy frowned, quirking an eyebrow up. “Did you even go to sleep last night?” He scanned the dark bags beneath Tango’s eyes, concern building in his chest.
Tango giggled highly, refusing to meet Jimmy’s gaze. He quickly turned back to his task of agitating whatever was in the pan with his wooden spoon. “Nooooo, never! Why would I ever do that?”
“Cause you wanted to make breakfast for me?” Jimmy sighed, leaning forward to wrap his arms around Tango’s waist and rest his chin on his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do this, not if it meant you sacrificing your wellbeing for it.”
The blazeborn shrugged. “Eh, I was wired awake all night anyway. Wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if I wanted to. Besides! I wanted to do something nice for you,” he cooed, nuzzling his face into Jimmy’s cheek.
Jimmy couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’re too sweet,” he teased, poking a finger into Tango’s side to hear him yelp.
They squabbled lightheartedly for a bit, Jimmy helping with the pancakes while Tango took over the eggs. Jimmy had a good baseline knowledge of cooking, while Tango insisted that he’d burn water if left unsupervised for too long. The beef bacon he’d started on before Jimmy woke up was already a little on the dark side, but the avian didn’t mind. He was sure it would taste just as good, especially with the pancakes and eggs fried in the bacon fat.
Breakfast was served not too long after, each taking a healthy serving with the milk Jimmy had gotten from the cows the day before. They ate in mostly comfortable silence, only breaking it to ask how the other had slept, or what they wanted to do for the day, and anything in between.
Dishes were a bit harder than cooking. Tango couldn’t exactly touch the water, given his blazeborn heritage, so he was shooed off to go start his tasks for the day. They’d decided to split the work of the ranch up between the two of them, Tango getting the chickens, and Jimmy getting the cows. That way, they could meet that evening to tend to the goats together.
Jimmy cleared the table, putting away their leftovers in the icebox and wrapping the rest up to give to another team. Maybe Scott and Cleo? They’d been the nicest so far, though that bar wasn’t high, and allies were always a dwindling resource. He decided on waiting for Tango for judgement, setting the plate aside for later.
Checking in on the cows had been a surefire way to cheer Jimmy up, and with his already good mood, it only got a boost. Daisy was always happy to see him as he clambered into the pen, nuzzling up against his arm as he spread out fresh wheat for them to graze on. He wouldn’t admit it to the others, but Daisy was definitely his favorite.
Next up on his chores list were the crops. Their wheat field wasn’t very big, but it did its job. It gave them enough of a harvest for bread and cow food, but not much else. It didn’t help to have Scar trampling them for his own petty reasons. Jimmy scowled at the memory, elbow deep in the soil as he replanted. Luckily they still had Scar’s horse for leverage.
Jimmy stood up straight, wiping the sweat from his brow and for sure leaving a dirt streak across his face. He placed his hands on his hips, glancing around the empty ranch. Tango would definitely be done with the chickens by now, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jimmy dusted off some of the caked on dirt from his pants, deciding to fill his time with working on the wall while he waited for Tango to get back from wherever he’d wandered off to.
It didn’t take long for Tango to show up again, arms filled with wheat and a bright smile adorning his face. He caught Jimmy in the midst of laying more stones for the wall, explaining how he’d convinced Ren and BigB to trade with him for some extra crops and seeds to expand their farm with. The seeds were left in the field to be planted another day, while the wheat was taken to the goat pen.
Jimmy collapsed on the pen’s floor, his fall cushioned by the wheat-covered ground, and let out a heavy sigh. Tango giggled next to him. “Long day, big guy?” he asked, scratching one of the babies between its ears when it butted up against his side.
The avian huffed out a laugh, shifting his wings to get into a more comfortable position. “Tell me about it. I’m exhausted,” he whined, closing his eyes and leaning back against a hay bale.
A shift next to him said that Tango was joining him on the floor, which was soon confirmed by a head resting against his shoulder. They sat in silence, only the soft sounds of the goats disturbing the peace of dusk. And as they lay there, sweaty, smelly, and bone-tired, Jimmy thought that he couldn’t be happier.
I drew these 2 pics for the @trafficteamsupportexchange thing!!! On the left we have post session 1 Family Therapy, and on the right we have Ren pledging proper allegiance to the Shadow Queen!!!
Behold! A pinch hit for @trafficteamsupportexchange's Inkyforg, featuring Ranchers, Team TIES, and platonically married Imp and Skizz in a coffee shop AU!
The Bad Boys stop at a convenience store during their motorcycle road trip, and they encounter a bit of trouble. Full alt text and notes on ao3.
Art for Panch_owo for Traffic Team Support Exchange 2025 @trafficteamsupportexchange
Oh, I forgot to make a post here, but TTSE posting period has opened a little early! Look at the collection on AO3, kudos, and comment to give the works love! You can also like and reblog the posts reblogged here for those who choose to also share on tumblr.
