#ploughing engine

[daisywithnomakeup]

Steamfest Whistles - Day 1

Steamfest day 1 complete. Only 2 more to go ^.^

I AM STILL NOT OVER THAT HUNTSMAN CRAWLING UP MY NECK 💔💔💔

[daisywithnomakeup]

There's a massive one I drive usually once a month, but she's out-of-action for repairs atm. 1920 Z7 John Fowler ploughing engine No.15500. 1st: Snapped after another volunteer and I brought her into the arena to fill her water tank up. 2nd: Taken from 15500's cab - "George" after bursting a gauge glass. The latter has since been repaired.

Traction engine (wikipedia)

–

We ask your questions anonymously so you don’t have to! Submissions are open on the 1st and 15th of the month.

[b00tyliciousbabe]

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙

oddballs and eggnog

goofybf! x THICC male reader

summary: love me a nerdy man that’s got a lil spice to him. plus a lil xmas lore!

notes: HI BEAUTIFULS! merry xmas to those who celebrate. it’s been a while fr, my bad dawgs uni work has been ploughing my ass so violently im reconsidering if a degree is even for me. but as a masochistic bottom, i had to channel my energy elsewhere; thus, this fic is just me showing the variety of my tastes as the true indecisive femboy that i am. show me a cute guy and i will plan my whole life with him. i need to get a grip.

originally, i canonically wrote this character with ginger hair (y’all know i fold for redheads), but the more i kept writing, the clearer it became to me that dark brown hair/black aligned with my OWN understanding of him. it’s all fiction anyways so feel free to adapt body types as you see fit. enjoy my lovelies 🎀

album rec: flo - access all areas. these girlies have my heart. been following them since about 2022 and they are genuinely my fave artists, cannot wait for flo world domination.

you guys had mutual acquaintances for a couple years, but it wasn’t until the two of you got to university that your friendship really blossomed. the engineering student didn’t have the best luck when it came to relationships; in fact, people would only toy with his emotions when they wanted something from him, so he learnt to put up a wall of cynicism.

these barriers he had fortified for his own protection made him quite a reserved guy. never cruel or nasty. just quiet. sure, he wasn’t a complete loner, he had a few VERY close bros who he’d let in, but it was clear that in this silence, he was safe.

he’s super handsy, whether that means pulling you on his lap, be it at parties or when he’s gaming, or placing his hands in your back pocket when y’all walk to class, he just wants to hold you. probably got something to do with the fact that he needs to make sure you’re real and not the angel he believes you to be. you love your needy bf and his craving for physical touch.

this is kinda juxtaposed by how flustered he gets by your words. the minute you whisper in his ear, he could cum in his jeans on the spot. he gets so red when you compliment him which makes him squeeze you tighter.

he wasn’t a virgin before meeting you, he’d had a few hookups but nothing sexual with someone he genuinely cared about. as a result, it made sense why he was very nervous when it came to your first time together.

to relax him, you decided to give him a blowjob to ease the tension and allow him to cum quick in the first round so he’d last longer during anal. sat back on the edge of his bed, he wore a vest and baggy joggers, awaiting your fingers to unleash his raging boner. you knelt down and flashed a comforting smile to him, which he failed to mirror perfectly.

‘we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready to. I’d never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.’ you said concerned, stroking his abs, clear to you that he was stressing.

‘nah baby, i want this so bad. it’s just gotta be really special because you’re really special to me.’ he said gripping your chin.

‘i love you, y/n. like a lot.’

‘i know that you weirdo, i love you too, you mean so much to me.’

‘now, lemme show you how much.’ you said coyly, to which he was more than happy to oblige.

when i tell you, your man eats so well that his cum is literally like milk. the typa white, thick, pearly cum that you would swallow every drop of, because it truly is just disrespectful not to. the first time he came was a surprise for the two of you. he didn’t realise how much he loved seeing his cum all over your face, decorating your juicy, wet lips. the head you gave him was so good, he napped for 2 hours straight after you drained him. but that deffo changed him for the better.

his hobbies include boxing and gaming. he’s such a nerd he makes his own demo projects, playing with his classmates. you always chastise him for not making his hobby a lucrative endeavour - your boy’s got a talent and he doesn’t seem to know it. equally, he loves his legos and comics just as much as he enjoys coding, making you the prettiest bouquet of lego flowers for your first date. after spending some time walking, he took you back to his place and y’all spent the entire night binging his favourite marvel and dc films.

one time it was his birthday and you thought it be a good idea to make a short graphic novel of the journey of your relationship - ending steamily with you pregnant.

‘baby, i love this so much! who knew how sexy you’d look with a baby bump?’ ‘anything can happen in the multiverse’ you laugh, as he kissed your jaw.

‘I’m gonna fuck you so good tonight.’

as we have established, he’s far from experienced. he holds your hand through missionary always because it makes him feel safe. makes so many jokes during it as a way to deflect. lowkey loves being choked. you took the lead most of the time before, using him as a pole and ride the shit out of him.

but, that night he ploughed you with a sense of purpose, so deep and mercilessly that your insides were moulded into an incubator for any hypothetical foetus he would soon impregnate you with. after, he laid curled up next to you, caressing the belly that he had now filled with

‘i hate biology sometimes,’ he says breathlessly. ’you’d look so good with our lil baby growing inside your belly.’

your boyfriend is the goofiest mf ever; playing practical jokes on all his friends and fulfilling his role as your comedian. definitely one of your favourite characteristics of his.

his sleeper build is INSANE. he might appear tall and lanky, but he is far from it. bench pressing more than 100 kilos with one arm - the brudda is basically superman. he’s what you’d get if clark kent had ginger hair, and was a huge weirdo.

though he cannot dance to save his life. he used to be very awkward and shy, but the minute them clothes are off and you two are in the sheets? stroke game is giving pornstar baby girl lemme tell you! ever since your first time, it’s like you awaken the sexual drive in him that’s been missing all his life. this, paired for his complete adoration for you makes him a lethal weapon in bed - quite literally, your man casually packs an 8 inch pussy destroyer with veins that massage and pummel your gummy walls so well.

after this moment he became the BIGGEST TEASE. slapping his dick all over your face. as you chase his dick like a good puppy, he giggles at how desperate you are. ‘sweet Jesus you feel good’. ‘holy shit’. ‘don’t act like you don’t love it.’ painting hickeys all over your neck . he loves when ppl ask you because of how flustered you get, makes him want to mark you more. he’s no longer shy to the world and he thanks you everyday for that. living to call you princess - in both a mocking and endearing tone, he loved toying with your nipples because you’re his lil doll. in cowgirl he will play with them whilst jerking you off to get you to cum all over his abs. and! he LOVES eating ass - like almost obsessively, as if he’s high of your pussy.

he smells so good. so good. you always act like a bitch in heat whenever he steps out of the shower with a towel skimpily wrapped around his adonis belt.

your bf loves playing with his cum and using his dick as a paintbrush to decorate your belly, butt, and face. ‘my masterpiece’ + ‘my muse’ he professes. somehow managing to entrance you to always stroke his dick during makeout sessions. he brings his hands to play with your hair, knowing that his dick is in extremely good hands with you - literally. always pulling you off of his dick because he is really sensitive and ur mouth is a fucking weapon, but will show you that he’s the boss and could leave you bedridden for a couple days after a good fuck.

things he would say drunk off of eggnog:

‘i would die a happy man beneath those beautiful cheeks of yours’

‘put ur hole on my North Pole.’

‘ay, you Don’t get to call me handsome unless you’re gonna HANDsome of those fat cheeks of yours to my lap.’

‘come on, I’ve been a good boy, Santa says gimme some of that pussy you know I love so much.’

‘that ass of yours, come here lemme unwrap it.’

this man has you written into his destiny. he always dreamed of raising a son and dressing him up in the flyest outfits and with you, that desire became reality. you too truly are a match made in heaven.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙

taglist:

@ghostking4m

@gayaristocrat

@lysanderplume

@acoustickitten

[cheriladycl01]

The Rookie Prodigy - Carlos Sainz x Driver! Reader Part 1

Plot: You are a rookie coming into the 2022 season of Formula one into Alfa Romeo with team member Zhou Guanyu, being in a mid tier team can you help them rise up the ranks. What pressures occur for the only rookie within the 2022 line up!

"We have had some amazing announcements this year. We only have two rookies on the grid this year that have a confirmed seat both in Alfa Romeo. So it should be an interesting season for them!" the first reporter says while walking around the paddock.

"Yes, its very uncommon to see a team take on two rookies in the same season, so it'll be interesting to see if they under perform based on these statistics or not" the other one admits.

Currently you were sat with Zhou your current team mate, he was teaching you a little bit of Chinese at your request.

"Are you nervous for today?" you ask him, you'd both done lots of media over the break so people could get to know you before the season start in Bahrain had begun.

"A little, but we will drive the very best that we can. I know it" he says pulling you into a side hug. You'd gotten very close to your team mate, both being rookies on the same team made you both sort of outcasts on the grid. Today would be your first time talking to the other 18 drivers.

"We'll be fine i promise" he says before walking towards his car in the Alpha Romeo garage, you walk over to your race engineer Paul and go through the different strategies to make sure you know what each one means.

"Okay, its time for your first race, you got this. Remember your starting P11 and Zhou is starting P15. So you just got to make up some pace, and you'll be in points region. Get a good start, and overtake Esteban while defending from Mick, Lando may help you with that but you'll need to then defend from him" he advices and you nod. You take your helmet that your best friend designed for you on place it over your head.

Paul, taps the back of your helmet covered head, before bumping fits with you. You pull yourself into the car under the halo before placing the wheel on.

"Okay, lets go and grab some points" Paul says after he'd checked the radio to make sure you had good connection.

At the start lights you had an impeccable start going wide on the outside of Ocon and Gasly and moving into 9th place. Lando had managed to overtake Mick and was gaining.

"Amazing start Y/N P9 as of now. George ahead, attempt overtake at turn 4. He's 0.4 seconds ahead" you hear your race engineer point out. You can see the Mercedes ahead, and going into turn for you go for the risky move and break later than George. You gave him enough room and he swung wide, not wanting to damage the car giving you a gap to get through.

"What's this Martin! Y/N is storming through this track, starting in P11 and she's already made her way up to P8 taking over drivers who have been in F1 much longer than her. This is some incredible driving we are seeing"

Eventually you had to pit, but it was an exceptionally fast pit-stop that was well timed from your team and had you coming out behind Gasly . You went a few laps, dancing around with him where you both had the pace, but the minute your tires warmed up and his had worn out enough you ploughed on ahead creating a large time gap along the straight.

"You've got Alonso ahead, 1.2 second gap, lets close it on those Sector 2 corners" Paul directs. In no time you make your way up to P6, Magnussen was ahead in P5.

"How many laps left? Can i catch him?" you ask your engineer.

"2 seconds ahead and 10 laps, you can catch him if you speed up Sector 1" he advises. You put you head to it, and managed to overtake.

"This is insane Alfa Romeo are storming this season along with Ferrari, right now, we have Charles Leclerc in P1, Carlos Sainz in P2, Lewis Hamilton in P3 and oh what is this, its NOT, i repeat NOT a double finish for Mercedes, Y/N has overtaken George Russell even on the older tires. And her counter part in Alfa Romeo is in P9 this is an amazing start to the season for the two Ferrari teams"

"AND THAT'S IT CHARLES LECLERC HAS COME FIRST AT BAHRAIN, SAINZ IN SECOND, HAMILTON IN THIRD"

"You've done it Y/N that's P4 we now have 14 points at the starts of the season!" Paul voices. You pull up jumping out your car and hugging everyone.

"I don't think i could have done it if Max and Checo finished, they would have come ahead of me!" you admit, you pull your helmet off balaclava coming off with it. The top bit of your hair was sheened with sweat. You run your hands through it trying to get some more volume through it.

"You'll be in an interview with the TOP 5, from today" Fred says patting your back, he guides you to where the interviews out there.

"Oh Carlos, Charles come say hello to Y/N you haven't met her yet!" Fred offers you up and the two Ferrari boys come over.

"Wow, you are more beautiful in real life than you are in your driver picture!" Carlos says taking your hand and kissing it, a blush coming onto your face.

"You are a fantastic rookie!" Charles compliments pulling you into a hug before offering you up his water. You nod realizing you hadn't picked yours up from the garage.

"Thank you, I'm dying" you joke, and sky from his Ferrari bottle before handing it back to him.

"Omg that's Lewis Hamilton" you whisper looking over at the 7 time world champion that was ahead of you.

"Why didn't we get that reaction mi hermosa?" Carlos asks, and you blush.

"It's Lewis Hamilton!" you say just looking at him in awe.

"Hey great race today Y/L/N. Haven't seen a rookie like you since myself"

"Oh my god" you says in awe. He pulls you into a hug and starts to ask you questions, while Carlos keeps interrupting.

"Well its actually funny because I've been watching you for the last two years in F2" Carlos says as Lewis asks you what prior championships you'd won and how you'd got your seat in Alfa Romeo.

"Oh, you did?" you ask.

"Yeah I actually came to the garage one time, not yours but i was there!"

"That's cool man, I also kept up with her career. I just like to ask so people can gloat about their own achievements, its good for the soul" he smiled a little awkwardly at Carlos and his sudden need to prove that he, knew you better? Is that what that was?

"Come on guys, time for interviews" one of the directors call, George, Lewis and Charles start to walk through but Carlos grabs your hand and holds you back.

"Come out with me tonight, to celebrate?" he asks, however your PR manager comes out and pulls you away from him.

Taglist:

@littlesatanicassholebitch @hockey-racing-fubol @laura-naruto-fan1998 @22yuki @simxican @sinofwriting @lewisroscoelove @cmleitora @stupidandunnecessary @clayra-g @daemyratwst @honey-belden @moonypixel @lauralarsen @vader-is-hot @ironcowboycopnickel @itsjustkhaos @the-untamed-soul @beebo86 @happylittlereader @ziejustme @lou-larcher5 @thewulf @purplephantomwolf @chasing-liberosis @chillyleclerc @chanthereader @annoyingmoonballoon @summissss @evieepepi08 @havaneseoger08 @celesteblack08 @gulphulp @fandom1ruined2me @celebstories @starfusionsworld @jspitwall

[odinsblog]

The site of Palestinian-American journalist Shireen Abu Akleh’s killing in Jenin has been bulldozed and her shrine desecrated, in an unexplained early-morning operation on 26 October.

A surfaced road running between houses has been reduced to huge boulders of broken concrete, and earth dug to over half a meters depth. Vehicles passed up and down the lane. One day after, even walking amid the smashed rocks would be a challenge. The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) has joined its affiliate, the Palestinian Journalists' Syndicate (PJS) in condemning this act of vandalism and recalls on the International Criminal Court (ICC) to investigate the killing of Shireen Abu Akleh.

The road, Balat al-Shuhada’ Street, in the Jabriyat neighbourhood of Jenin is thought to have been ploughed up by heavy civil engineering vehicles at approximately 3 am on 27 October. Locals state that these were operated by members of the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF). Paintings of Abu Akleh, and tributes left on the spot where she was shot have beed destroyed.

Nasser Abu Bakr, PJS president said: “This is a monstrous act of destruction. Shireen’s family and friends have found some solace visiting the place where she was shot down, and placing tributes. This wanton act of vandalism is surely revenge for the report just issued by the UN that states that Israeli forces ‘wilfully or recklessly killed Abu Akleh’. It underlines the need for her case to the investigated by the International Criminal Court ICC, with which the IFJ has already lodged a complaint”.

IFJ General Secretary, Anthony Bellanger said: “I have visited this site myself and know firsthand how important it had become to those who mourn Shireen’s loss. It is hard to see this destruction as anything other than a cruel act of vengeance, of a kind that can only exacerbate tensions in Palestine. The sooner the ICC gives this case the attention it deserves, the better”.

(continue reading)

[bolters-and-rivets]

I am an Iron Warrior, can confirm. that sleadgehammer was glorious

And as any self respecting Iron Warrior I will also take advantage of oportunities to operate old as fuck (endearing) multi-ton machenery when given the chance

Iron warrior fetish content

[stromuprisahat]

Tsar Cotton and Tsaritsa Plums

or How a political union of progressive second Prince and a Living Saint could've turned into an agricultural disaster

While I don't ship it on personal level, I have to admit certain appeal of Nikolina. The idea of a well-meaning, patriotic Prince persuading a rising religious icon to help him save the country isn't half bad.

Today I won't focus on deficiencies of their general personalities or lacking relationship, but a specific hole in both their range of knowledge and its catastrophic impact on Ravka as a country and the land itself from ecological viewpoint.

Nikolai is presented as a genius engineer and a brilliant philanthropist. As soon as the civil war's over, he puts great effort into feeding Ravkan people instead of starving them.

“Faced with steel saw blades,” he whispered, brushing his hand over the new plow as he passed, as if it were a lucky talisman. He wasn’t sure why the blades were better, but when the plow had arrived, those were the words his father had proudly repeated to their neighbors, and Dima liked the strong sound of them. There had been long arguments at the kitchen table about the plow, along with all the king’s agricultural reforms and what trouble or hope they might bring.

King of Scars- Chapter 1

The thing is... his plans don't get overly specific. Even the quote above doesn't tell us more than that the miraculous plough consists of steel parts, and excuse me when I remember my history lessons, but upgrading horse-driven ploughs were a thing around the first half of 19th century. Fjerdans build working tanks. That's about a century of development further.

Ravka is a backwards starving hellhole feeding peasants rye bread with salted herring, when they lack workers for fields of the first, and access to sea for the later. The obvious solution? Potatoes, beetroot and turnips ("The night is dark and full of turnips."), ponds of freshwater fish for protein. Cabbages are good for vitamin C and as sauerkraut easy to store, legumes are also easy to grow, rich in iron and dried can be stored pretty easily for a long time etc. etc.. Just look up European peasant food!

That's how you feed them first.

Nikolai also intends to free the serfs.

By persuading their owners to grow cotton (link to that and some of those preferable crops).

In Ravka, a country of humid continental climate without larger water bodies, famous for snow-heavy winters and somehow also white nights as far as Os Alta...

His focus lies where it isn't merely of no use, but would drain already scarce water sources, devalue soil and produce nothing considerable in return. In addition it wouldn't help feeding the populace, and it sure as hell wouldn't improve their socio-economic situation.

How could his union with Alina make any of this worse you ask?

We're supposed to believe Alina is a peasant, raised in an orphanage, where she was expected to help with its everyday workings. Quite a win for a country such as Ravka you'd think, right?

Nope! She's more likely to pick a correct fork for snails, than a hoe.

Alina is a person, who believes plums in autumn had to come from a hothouse, but figs won't surprise her. I couldn't find a source stating plums truly require frost, but it's one of a few fruit trees normally capable to withstand -26°C (-40°C for some varieties). European plum also doesn't like temperatures above 35°C and too high humidity means fungal issues.

Alina never asks how come inland-bound country has salt-water fish, she just doesn't like to eat it. When she's confronted with possible need to take care of a larger amount of people, she simply orders others to feed them, not once stopping to ask herself how are they supposed to achieve it. She's the Saint. She tells others what to do, and stuff happens...

Now put these two together. One has some vague ideas about how nature works for him, the other is so used to full plate she doesn't even know foodstuff has to come from some place, least of all it might have various requirements.

By the time the mortal one's dead, Ravka is wrung dry in more than one sense. Cold desert wasteland, no Fold needed.

[sojournerstales]

WF1999: Summer Heat ch.2

fem!drifter x eleanor

howdy. here is where I get really into describing how Mesa's regulator pistols feel. Eleanor enjoys the show.

02. Cut Through

I let Eleanor lead the way through Höllvania's streets. She knows the routes better. She rides better than me too. And I'll admit something loud enough in my head that she might hear it: The view isn't half bad.

Eleanor is poised, tucked tight on the back of her atomicycle. Snug against its frame, her hair caught in the wind. I take it in. Engine between her legs, the curve of her back, how low to the ground she swoops when we take the wide corners.

It's enough to glaze over Mesa's threat detection.

"Shit." Then comes a thought that isn't mine, clear as day in my own head. Forewarning to an oncoming crash. Eleanor makes it past the approaching junction unscathed, but I get hit hard by the plough-end of a Scaldra TI-92.

Hard impact into weightlessness into all of Mesa's weight all at once. I learn how it feels to bounce off asphalt and to crumple metal beneath my back. Mesa lands halfway into an abandoned car at the side of the road. Our atomicycle upends, flips, and flies into a nearby store window.

"Drifter!" Eleanor's voice, urgent, "Talk to me!" She has already abandoned her bike, (I think I heard it careen and tip and tumble) Vesper 77 at the ready, firing off rounds in the direction of the Scaldra forces.

"Still alive," I wheeze. It wasn't my back that took the actual force, but I still feel winded from it. I peel Mesa off from the vehicle we had wrecked into and already I feel a familiar itch at the end of her arms.

The Scaldra captain shouts commands. They are all piling off from the armoured transport, half using it for cover against Eleanor, the others moving in a spread out formation to try and surround us.

One of them halts halfway across the road and starts clutching his head, helmet filling with feral screams. Eleanor has him. Her face distorted into a grim sneer. I get a danger sense, Mesa already highlighting the raised sickles of a fast approaching Flayer.

Time to scratch the itch.

Mesa's Regulator barrels click down her wrists and flick up into position.

Finger guns. Bang bang.

Mesa moves faster than the eye can make sense of. Upper body a blur of twitch movement, instantaneous target acquisition and execution. Six Scaldra find themselves downed or disarmed before any can make contact with or fire on Eleanor.

The final shot isn't mine, however. It's Eleanor putting one in the head of the Scaldra she had enthralled. The sound is a sharp zip from her pistol at point blank range.

"That is more mercy than you deserved." Her voice hisses in the back of my mind, even if the barb isn't meant for me. Whatever she had seen in his head must have been bad.

There isn't enough time to pick at it. Aoi comes through over the comm-link, "Their lead squad just went dark, but you have more on the way. Do you want to keep kicking the hornets nest, o-o-or do you want to get back safe?"

I send her a ping to let her know the message is acknowledged, but neither Eleanor or I really needed the warning. She can sense them coming and Mesa can hear and smell them. Gasoline and chemicals detected by the pores in the Warframe's infested flesh.

"They're trying to head us off," Eleanor tells me. Her head angled towards the buildings that flank us, tracking something she can feel but can't see along the roads behind them.

"Detour or cut through?" I ask while bringing Mesa to the wreck of our atomicycle. Aoi won't be happy about it, which means I'll likely get a lecture from Arthur. Retrieval will have to come later.

"I only scratched the paintwork on mine," Eleanor says, picking her tomi back up. She straddles the seat, shuffles forward, then twists to face me. The invite is clear. "But I'll tell them yours wasn't your fault." And she winks.

I insist on the question as I climb aboard, Mesa coming up close behind Eleanor, hands on her hips. "Detour or cut through?"

-

"Heads up, Scaldra have set up a roadblock." Aoi's warning comes in only a couple of seconds before we see it. The road ahead - our path home - swarms with Scaldra forces. Two heavily armoured transports block most of the road, then ground forces numbering in the double digits have taken cover in a variety of positions. Most are on the side of the road behind cars or ducked into side alleys, or crouched behind the blown out windows of abandoned store fronts.

"Something must have really riled them up today. That's an awful lot of heat," Eleanor's voice murmurs in my mind.

"Makes us a hot commodity, right?" I feel the itch again. It grows more pronounced with each new target caught in Mesa's sights. "You push through, I'll lay down covering fire."

"And leave you behind? No thanks. Not a chance. This is an enemy I can fight."

We're close enough for the Scaldra to start firing on us. Machine gun fire from twin mounted turrets ricochets off the road ahead of us. Small arms fire pings off from the chassis of our tomi. I feel the dull nudge of shots reflected from Mesa's shielding.

I place Mesa's hand on Eleanor's shoulder. "Not saying you leave me behind." I push her down, keeping her head low. I get a mild growl from the techrot within as a response. "I'm saying I got this one."

Mesa's body tenses. I tuck her up on the back of the tomi. Muscles ready to uncoil and propel her skywards. We're almost there. Gunfire concentrates on our position. The turret barrage is narrowly avoided.

Eleanor's mind focuses, I feel it. There is a space in the roadblock only just wide enough for the tomi to fly through. She hones in on it, bike pushed hard, but I'm not there to know how close she comes to clipping the TI-92's on either side.

I'm airborne. Twisting up and over the blockade, a bullet-jump from the bike. I turn mid-air to take aim at the Scaldra forces now beneath me. Mesa's Regulators click into position again and thrum with energy. Scaldra's cover means nothing when death comes from above.

The turret operators are taken down within the first .2 seconds, then the Jaeger units in the next .3. Scaldra Flayers that had rushed forward to catch the bike are caught out in the open, one making the attempt to vault the transport vehicle. She is riddled before either of us hit the ground.

Scaldra Flayer lands face first. Mesa lands on her feet. A tremor carrying up through her legs, black marks made in the road as she skids backwards three feet.

Remaining Scaldra try to scramble for better cover, but they are taken out by Regulator fire. Mesa is untouchable and unpredictable like this. Flickering between optimized stances, shifting left and right and back to avoid the return fire. The wide band of range narrows as the enemy forces thin, focusing finally on the harder targets.

Just one active TI-92 remains. The enemy captain controlling its mounted weaponry. He isn't what I have Mesa focus in on. Instead her target systems pinpoint the fuel injector of the vehicle hidden behind layers of reinforced metal.

It's a damage race. Metal is turned molten by concentrated fire, Mesa's stance straightening as her shots ramp up in speed. The distinct pop-pop-pops distorting into a singular beam of noise.

Mesa's shielding is pierced first. TI-92 turret fire tearing through the energy barrier until one shot sinks into Mesa's helminth infested flesh.

Just one.

Then the armoured vehicle explodes. Its fuel injector pierced resulting in an instantaneous cascade of mechanical failure. Extreme, violent combustion.

Mesa doesn't flinch at the following shockwave or wall of heat. She doesn't sweat either, though I do feel the stifling heat of the mid-day summer sun and the flames of the burnt out TI-92 husk. Instead of sweat, Mesa's hip-mounted heat sinks glow white-hot and open their ventilation. The sound is a hiss.

I hold position until I am sure no targets remain and Mesa's energy starts to wane. Then I flick the Regulator barrels back into resting and finally allow myself to feel the sting in Mesa's shoulder. The gash is already knitting back together. In ten seconds it will be like she was never shot at all.

"Well, they did choose violence." Eleanor's voice comes through all charming and playful. It's a tone that betrays the intention I feel underneath it. She's checking in on me. Acting as a come down. She is about thirty meters away past the roadblock, the engine of her tomi idling. "You took a nasty hit, are you okay?"

"I'm good," I say. I've learned that's better than saying, 'I've taken worse.' I turn Mesa to face Eleanor and the whole frame pauses for a half-second while I take the woman in. Eleanor leaning forward on the tomi. Her chin on the back of her hand, her elbow between the handlebars.

Eleanor looks right through Mesa, like she's seeing me and only me completely exposed in this moment. She smirks and pumps her eyebrows, "Yeah, you are." She sounds amused in my head. Eleanor stretches, cat-like, hands on the bike and back arched, "Come along then. Before more of those clown cars show up to meet their dooms."

One smooth movement closes the distance between Mesa and Eleanor. A low crouch into a quick twenty-five meter leap.

Eleanor angles her head towards me, "Not that I mind having an avatar of death and destruction acting as my guardian angel."

I have Mesa climb aboard the tomi. Mesa's hand on Eleanor's hip, my mind brushing up against Eleanor in close proximity. She exhales sharp through her nose.

"Oh. She does run hot, doesn't she?"

part 2 of ??

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[cognitivejustice]

When water buffalo make a home for themselves in abandoned spaces, they can bring with them a rich array of frogs, bats and plant life.

Each autumn, as tadpoles outgrow their tails, the Kizilirmak Delta on Turkey's Black Sea erupts into chaotic commotion with the emergence of marsh frogs. While the fist-sized frogs are at home in the delta's wetlands, dozens can be seen hopping out of the muddy waters to exploit one particularly strange and unusually lively hunting ground.

Climbing up a hillside of thick fur, the frogs encounter terrain that's warm underfoot and an atmosphere that buzzes with flies. But there are risks to foraging here. The surface beneath their webbed feet twitches and shakes, and the entire floor is prone to lurching unpredictably through the air and collapsing into the mud.This moving mountain of brawn and bugs is the muscular back of a massive water buffalo. On each of these giants roaming the delta, as many as 20 frogs or more can be found hitching a ride to their next meal.

In this – the first observed example of amphibians foraging on the body of a large mammal – Turkey's marsh frogs have capitalised on one of the peculiar benefits that these huge animals bring to their wetland environments: their knack for attracting flies. Yet the frogs are just one of countless species worldwide, from bats to bog grasses, finding their surroundings transformed and their fates improved by the presence of buffalo.

Over the course of more than 3,000 years since the water buffalo were first domesticated in Asia, these half-tonne mammals have spread around the world. Today they are estimated to number more than 200 million across 77 countries on five continents. For generations they were prized as powerful plough-pulling draft animals and providers of nutritious milk. In recent years buffalo have begun to earn a reputation among conservationists as handy landscape managers and a crucially important ecosystem engineer.

[sparkarrestor]

Double-Back

Written By: SparkArrester

   

  Gordon the Big Engine was feeling unwell. He was out of breath and his cylinders ached. The Fat Controller met him after the first few days with news.

“You are in need of a general repair”, he said, “Now, it’s nothing serious, and you’ll be back in about a week or two. James shall take you on his goods train later tomorrow.”

“Oh, superb…”, grunted Gordon as James gave him a smug look, “But who will take my express? Sure not little James or Henry, the holiday traffic’s too much for the likes of them…”

“Well…”, said the Fat Controller, “They’re too busy to help out, so I’ve decided to loan an… express diesel from BR.”

Vulgar noises greeted this, accompanied by loud wheeshes of steam, but they quickly subsided after a few stern looks from the Fat Controller. That didn’t mean the engines kept their grievances bottled up. James was the first to speak after the Fat Controller left.

“Honestly!”, he rapped, “Why does the Fat Controller insist on bringing these wretched, good for nothing diesels onto our railway!”

“I have no idea…” muttered BoCo, who was stood next to James.

James tried to recover, but everything he seemed to say made it worse, and eventually he just left it alone. The Scottish Twins continued.

“He’ll probably bring in a diesel from tha' West Coast Mainline”, said Donald, “Me ‘n Douggie met a whole load o’ new express diesels back in yon fifties.”

“Aye.” continued Douglas, “They were some o’ tha rudest diesels we ever met, kept on babbling aboot how easier and simpler they were tae use compared to uz steam engines, and I have no doubt this one will just the same.”

The engines hoped they were wrong.

They weren’t. The diesel arrived just after Gordon went away for his repairs. Her name was Centurion.  She was bigger than Bear and BoCo, big and boxy with 6 wheels on each bogie. She stared at the engines when she was readied for work in the morning.

“Ugh…”, she snorted, “Look at you all. Hours and you’re still not ready. All I need is a key and, like that, I’m off…”

“Yes.” drawled Duck, “That’s the first time we’ve heard a diesel say that. Are all mainland engines this unoriginal?”

“Why you little-”

It was just then that the twins puffed into the yard after snow ploughing. Centurion snorted at the twins.

“And wa’ do ye mean by tha’?” glowered Douglas.

“Oh, I just haven’t seen your kind in a while, let alone moving about! The last few of you were dealt with as my family arrived… I doubt the men missed them, obtuse old things. They never had to fuss around us diesels…”

Centurion then departed for her train. All the engines in the shouted after her, telling her just what they thought of her little display. 

For all her poor social graces, Centurion worked well, keeping to time and treating the coaches well. She even hauled goods trains with little complaints or remarks. That, however, was saved for when she was off duty. The diesels on the Fat Controller’s railway had accepted the fact that they’d have to wait on the steam engines every so often. The mainlanders were right in that they had to have more fuss over them. If you asked Centurion, however, you would think that it would take hours to complete a steam engine's “weird rituals”. She’d complain at having to wait on engines to “get steam up” and how time consuming it was taking on both coal and water, not to mention the soot and ash disposal wagons she’d gag at while passing by. The biggest source of ire for her, however, was the turntable.

“Imagine!”, she said one morning, “Needing a great big thing just to work in two directions!”

“Oi!”, spluttered James, “We need it! It’s unsafe to travel backwards at speed!”

“Aye!”, added Donald, “We’ll gladly tak tha’ extra time if it guarantees the safety of uz and whatever we’re pulling!”

“Us diesels don’t need such silly things!”, she giggled, “We work well forwards and backwards!”

She switched from her “A” end to her “B” end as she said this, and purred off to the morning express.

A few days afterward, Centurion was once again being readied. It would be one of her last runs on Sodor, with Gordon’s repairs being nearly completed. She started rather quickly, and purred forward. Only Duck had pressure, the others still being steamed, and she honked her horn cheekily. They all shot her glares, but she didn’t care. She certainly did care when she stopped suddenly and looked up. Duck was still on the turntable. 

“Awwww, taking a little spin are we, pannier?”, she mocked, “How cute… now get a move on, I’ll not have my last day here messed up. I thought tank engines didn’t even need these stupid turny-things!”

“Turntable. I still have to get out of the sheds you know!”

The turntable seemed to go even slower as Duck slowly turned to face Centurion, a snarky grin on his face. That seemed to be the last straw. As soon as the turntable lined up with Centurion’s road, she shot forwards. But her road wasn’t in line with any of the exit roads, and the turntable kept on moving. Or tried to, at least. Centurion yelped as her front went with the table while her rear stayed put before the table hissed and stopped abruptly. Duck, Centurion, and the mainline engines were now trapped.

The Fat Controller came to inspect the scene and grimaced. No one was hurt, and Centurion wasn’t even damaged (Though she did feel very uncomfortable!).

“I must say, I’m disappointed…”, began the Fat Controller, “Your visit was going so well. Now, almost all of our mainline engines are trapped, and the express will leave late!”

Centurion stammered an apology and looked towards her buffers.

The Fat Controller then looked around.

“Hmmm… where are the twins?”, he asked.

“Donald should be back with the return goods from the mainland”, answered Duck, “But, beg pardon sir, I doubt he’ll be strong enough to pull the express on his own. Err… if you were thinking that, that is.”

“Yes Duck, I was.” chuckled the Fat Controller, “But he and Douglas should manage just fine…”

At that moment Donald bustled in tender-first, which was expected. He halted outside the sheds and gaped as his smokebox was being cleaned out. Another whistle hailed the arrival of Douglas, also tender first.

“Hullo lads!”, he called, “Turntable up at Arlesbrough’s frozen solid and… I see tha’ there’s issues wi’ this one too…”

The Fat Controller thought hard as the twins were being filled in on the situation. He had hoped at least Douglas was facing the right way. But the express hadn’t even had it’s coaches shunted yet and it was to leave soon. This was the only real option. He explained the plan to the twins. 

“Now I trust you two to take it easy.” He said, “The works have a spare engine in case anything happens, so just get the train there.”

“Aye Sirr!”, Chorused the Twins as they made their way to the station.

The passengers were surprised as the twins got their coaches ready and ran around in front, both backwards. Still, they got in as quickly as they could, and the guard blew his whistle.

“Let’s go, Douggie!”, called Donald.

“Aye!”, replied Douglas, and the two set off, still backwards.

They got up to a decent pace, or as decent as their crews allowed, and made light work of the express. They didn’t have much of a good view in front, and their crews got whipped with wind and frost, but it was tolerable. Even backwards, the twins knew the line well, and speed up and slowed down with each straight or curve. Even the hill wasn’t a challenge for them. They made it to the works station in good time and came off the train ready for one of the diesels to take over. However…

“The points and turntable are frozen solid!”, said the yard manager, “It’ll take too long to thaw them out! Can you two continue?”

“Heh, it’s nae problem!”

The twins quickly took on water and coal before running back to the train. They started with a will and got to the other end of the line in fine style. The mainland diesels looked in disbelief at the twins, who only smiled in return. The Fat Controller, who was on the train, congratulated them, and the two went off for a rest.

After a few hours, all was righted. Centurion was recovered and the mainline engines were let out. Gordon came home the next day as well, and gave his thanks to the twins for “Playing Tank Engine”. Centurion quietly went home to the mainland, with a newfound respect for steam engines and their “weird rituals”. All the same, she thought she’d never come back to Sodor. But that proved to be very wrong, indeed.

[slowd1ving]

II. HOW DOES ONE DEFINE A NIGHTMARE? .・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

There are many ways to encapsulate his sleeping hours. 

He doesn’t quite want to delve into all the different synonyms that essentially make up harrowing.  

Nightmare after nightmare plagues him. There’s the echoes from his past incarnation— feeling the terror, the loss, the anguish (yet never actually knowing the context behind this pain). There’s the haunting impression of being alone—a world of nothingness, in which he is bound by chains and fated to an eternity of stagnancy. There’s that pair of beastly eyes—so utterly, undeniably red as the insatiable sword pierces straight through his sternum. 

It’s no surprise when he wakes up with cold sweat plastering his hair to his temples and his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. 

Even on the Astral Express, the torturous sleep continues to chase after him. 

He stumbles out of the archives; cold air hits him as he pads towards the kitchen, while the sweat still glistening against dermis only exacerbates his shivering. That’s why his vision is narrowed to only the door of the dining car and beyond—it’s appalling as a guard, but nothing out of the ordinary for just a man in this tender moment. 

He can barely see, so excuse him for not being aware of his surroundings. 

He doesn’t mean to crash into you. Really, he doesn’t. One minute he’s dragging his sluggish feet just fine against the plush carpeted floors—the next he’s stumbling over seemingly nothing, falling, falling, into what he knows will be a cold metal wall—

Except it’s not. 

He’s just ploughed himself into your side, and you fumble.

It’s a strange experience. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that sort of sensation before—the embarrassing trip and fall—but what’s even stranger is the proximity of the position he’s entangled himself into. 

He’s shoved you against the wall, and is currently wrapped around your shoulders as he attempts to stand up again. Except he can’t; either he’s lost it completely, or he’s still recovering from that nightmare. Either are equally plausible. 

“Ow,” you comment, far too late. 

He wants to bury himself in space rubble. 

“You make all your journeys to the kitchen this way?” you add, and it’s a lethal hit. 

“I’m so sorry,” he manages to choke out, partly in panic, partly in apology, and partly in pure and utter mortification. He somehow pulls himself together enough to push himself off you and into leaning against the wall, but his eyes have been blown wide and his cheeks flushed in such embarrassment he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this. 

Gone is his stoic image. If he showed his face on the Luofu in this state, he thinks he might get away with it since he’s so revoltingly unrecognisable at this moment.

“All good, man.” It’s delivered with such casual finality he can’t help but stare. Certainly, this has helped him forget the horrors of just minutes prior, but at what cost?

“You had a nightmare?”

This question is also delivered in the same, offhand tone that offers him the choice of simply remaining silent. But it’s not like he wants to do that—this, after all, is only one part of the already-too-few interactions he has with you. 

“You could say that.” It’s not enough. The words don’t come out the way he wants: all shaky and so unlike his normal, composed cadence that he almost lets out one of his dry, sardonic laughs. 

He’s not following you as you slip into the dining car. 

When you glance back, he’s still against the wall: still thinking, still gaining his sense of self back. 

“You, uh, need a hand to get to the kitchen?” 

Now, you’re awkward. Had he not made himself into a fool, he mightn’t have witnessed this particular layer beneath the sculpture. 

“That would be appreciated,” he lets out; the words stumble over themselves in one big mess. He agrees to your suggestion, totally for the support, totally for the additional stability, definitely not to be closer to you for once—

Look. 

You offered in the first place, so why wouldn’t he take this hand of help?

Except, he would’ve most vehemently denied it had it been anyone else. If this was the IPC, they’d doubtlessly expect something back in return; but it’s not like he’d show them this sort of vulnerability in the first place. 

You’re different. You don’t expect anything. Though your methods of interaction are crude at best and flat-out disturbing at worst, you aren’t cruel.

Himeko was wrong when she tried to make you more palatable to him. He’s a sweet— he’s not a bad person. 

She’s wrong, in the sense that he’s still waiting for the bitter taste to taint his tongue around you: washing down his throat like the most pungent of coffees. You should be bitter, most definitely, but the way you’re wrapping his arm around your neck and holding it as though he— he, of all people—might break; the way you’ve got your other arm gripping the black fabric of the shirt resting against his ribcage like he might slip away again; the way you keep glancing to him then back to the walls, both checking in on him yet making sure it’s not too awkward—this isn’t bitter, this is anything but. 

She was wrong when she corrected herself, or maybe she didn’t expect Dan Heng to realise your true nature by himself. 

Even if it were Himeko or Mr. Yang, or even Pom-Pom, he would’ve also declined their hand. Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel like a burden, or maybe he doesn’t want to let them down, or maybe he’s just scared of disappointing and being disappointed—but the apathetic neutrality you held him to from the very beginning doesn’t seem so easily swayed. 

As above, so below. There’s a certain beauty in this ‘equilibrium’. 

But he discards those musings for a time where he can actually appreciate them, and focuses on the material rather than abstract. 

You still carry the scent of motor oil; faint alkanes taint the gallery. Beneath it is harsh steel and iron: not unlike blood, but decidedly more pleasant. It mingles with the aromas coating your dermis: acerbic energy drinks, and more perplexingly, the sweet smell of mandarins he’s come across in his travels. At the very end of the long path of fragrance, there’s that decidedly human aspect: sweat, and hazy soap that clings to skin. 

He decides he doesn’t mind the odd medley of scents (in fact, it’s very soothing—especially after the stench  of blood in his nightmares—and he’s definitely not getting sleepy). 

You’re warm. A pulse beats from where his skin exerts pressure on yours—steadfast, so utterly resolute he wonders if you’re ever affected by proximity. Are you picturing a Dan Heng pressed up against you, or is it a machine you’re lugging to repair? It would be amusing to think about if he wasn’t still shivering. 

“You cold?” 

You usher him into a stool by the counter, barely letting him process the question before you’re sliding a glass out of the cabinet, a pitcher out of the fridge, and a can of something from the cardboard pack stashed in a drawer. 

He wants to deny it, he really does, but you’ve already seen him embarrass himself—if he answers you with his teeth chattering, he doesn’t know if his ego will even remain intact. 

Scratch that. It’s already in tatters. 

“A bit,” he admits. 

When you turn back around, you’ve got a glass of icy water in one hand— for him, you slide the beverage—whereas you crack open the can of what he can only assume to be another caffeinated drink. Perplexingly, you’re shrugging off the loose hoodie draped haphazardly against your shoulders and—oh. 

It’s warm against his bare arms, and smells so much like you that he thinks you’ve cloned yourself. If you performed mitosis right now, he wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve behaved stranger. 

This, however, is something completely new. 

“Thanks.” It’s quiet. Can you see the small smile he fights down while he takes a long swill of the crystalline liquid? 

“No problem, man.” He can almost taste the artificial fruit extracts dance through the air as you take hurried sips of your own drink. 

He’s forced awake at odd hours. 

You’re working at odd hours. 

It’s starting to become a bit of a problem. Each time he makes his way for a cold glass of water into the kitchen, you’re there replenishing your energy to take a break from whatever you’re working on. 

It’s becoming routine. Nothing as embarrassing as that first night in the gallery, but something still so awkward he can’t help but feel antsy every time he alights from the futon in the archives. 

It’s also becoming routine that he starts sleeping wrapped in your clothes, breathing in the scent of motors and mandarins and that hazy soap. He’s forgetful when he’s panicking, stumbling towards the kitchen where he knows you’ll be to distract him with whatever you’re talking about. Whether it’s interstellar politics, complaints about the ‘shitty’ manufacturers and other organisations of their ilk, or maybe some more idle things like card games—you welcome the break in this lonely hour, and he welcomes the reprieve. 

One morning, it’s not the enthusiastic slam of his door from Pom-Pom that awakes him, but the methodical knocks from Himeko before she enters the archives. 

“Wow,” she comments as he sits up at her entry. “You’re getting close with my dear apprentice, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about until he finally looks down and it registers. There’s another of your sweaters—this one graphically decorated with bleached robots who are puzzlingly sunbathing (“They’re recharging their solar cells,” he can almost hear you say, serious intonation and all). Before he knows it, his head’s already buried in his hands and he can feel the flushed skin pressed in the grooves of his palms. 

He helps me sleep better— but the words die in his throat as he realises how that sounds, no matter how true they are. Feeling the warmth of another person—thick fabric, recognisable scent—helps him feel more secure when he inevitably settles in for the peaceful interlude in the next dreams. 

Though, despite his refusal to acknowledge it, he has a feeling Himeko knows exactly the idle leisure that transpires past 3 system hours. 

“Thanks.”

He pauses in his trance-like thoughts.

“I’ve known him for quite some time.”

She hesitates, and it’s the first time he’s heard her voice thicken like that.

“I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you.”

Friends. The word catches at his own throat, and he doesn’t quite know why. 

Himeko leaves, but the syllables linger in their own sort of way. 

I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

The word when occurrences transpire more than thrice is habit, or more accurately, pattern. 

It’s a pattern that his feet seek you out; pattern that you pour him a glass of icy water; pattern that you sit at the bar stool opposite from him and swing your legs idly.

For that half-hour, his thoughts are tranquil. Only for that half-hour. Before the system ever brushes past four hours, you’ve retreated back to your room and he can find not hair nor hide of you until the next nightly rendezvous. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget that this is meant to be a temporary journey. Once one forms social bonds, it is that much harder to break them again—especially one as hard-won as yours. 

Friendship is something Dan Feng knows well; those warmer feelings have been passed down to this current reincarnation. They are two separate beings, but the tenderness transcends mind and body. 

Though he feels a foreign warmth at these systemic hours, he supposes he can’t call this friendship. 

He doesn’t have an iota of knowledge about your past, nor you of his. There’s a mutual understanding to not pry, to not ask questions—to go any deeper than a superficial level. If this were a biology lesson, you’d be stopping at skin level and delving no further. 

It’s so superficial, in fact, that it’s almost a comfort. You distract him from his nightmares and he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable when you examine the why; he distracts you from the gruelling work you dive into daily, and he doesn’t question the why either. There’s an element of unhealthiness to it all, but the two of you are both at least a little sick in the head—perhaps that’s why the two of you stave it off a bit like this. 

But you don’t acknowledge him outside that prescribed timeslot. You rarely ever leave your room, and when you do, that game of chess last played two months ago seems worlds away. There isn’t a word spared for him—you’re talking to Himeko, to Mr. Yang, and Pom-Pom. But not him. 

It’s as though at night, a layer of yourself has been ground down by the day. You’ve softened enough to let him through that hard marble shell, just a little. As tough as the steel you craft. Maybe you’ve crafted your exoskeleton from it too—he wouldn’t doubt your capabilities that way. 

He and you are not quite friends, it’s something far lesser.

And he’s left wondering where the line is. 

Tonight especially.

It’s easy to slip into slumber—Trailblazing has a way of making him feel like it’s the Express crashing into him. After logging the important details of his mission into the Data Bank, he’s out like a light immediately. 

The dream starts off mundane. It’s the regular—a nonsensical storyline, fragments of faces he’s seen weaving inconsistently through the dreamscape, some he’s never seen before and can only assume belong to the convoluted past of Dan Feng. 

It’s nonsensical, but it stops being cheery when crimson starts seeping into its corners. 

The nightmare, at this point, should also be mundane but is still anything but. The red-eyed man still chases him, he’s still getting pierced through by an insatiable sword, he’s still dying excruciating deaths as punishment for his sins. 

Except, there’s an unexpected variable this time: you.

You’re getting slain in his stead, glassy eyes staring up at him—as if to remind him of the impression he first got when he saw you, like some cruel fucking joke. 

You’re bleeding out continuously, and the smell of metal on you is no longer from the machines you adore, but from the iron inside you. 

You’re dying, over and over, while he’s begging you to stay— don’t leave me. Like all the others in the ‘past’, don’t leave me too. 

He wakes up panting—there’s a frigid atmosphere from the sweat drenching him to the very bone. 

Dan Heng almost runs to the kitchen: stumbling through the luxurious gallery like that occasion all those weeks ago.

When he flings open the door, he crashes into you as you’re at the counter— breathing you in, taking in all the warmth so bitterly robbed from you. 

“You…” you trail off, your words a mumble as his arms weakly support himself on the counter. He’s still leaning into you—your hands are pressed steady against his shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of your calloused palms on his bare arms. “You’re freezing.”

It’s unspoken. Almost robotically, you pull your sweater off yourself and he pulls it on. 

Though, this time, you don’t hand him the icy water as is your modus operandi. 

Rather, you’re rummaging through the cupboards, and you pull out a small cardboard box labelled with a script he doesn’t recognise. 

“Camomile, lavender, and peppermint,” you translate, offering no explanation as you steep the tea in a mug with a wobbly cat drawn with wobbly lines with a wobbly handle. He gets it, he really does. “Sleep-aiders from a planet I knew.”

You don’t have your usual can either, instead choosing to brew yourself another mug as well. 

That’s another surprise, but then again, you’re not the most consistent person. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. He wants to look down at his hands, but he’s transfixed on your expression as you lose yourself in your thoughts. 

You pass him the steaming mug, and he thinks the brush of your fingers against his scalds him more than the tea ever could. 

“Worse, this time huh?” It’s not probing. You already know it was worse. 

Yes. More than you could ever know. Your eyes, glinting in the soft light, did not look like this in his endless night. 

He gives a noncommittal noise in response. It could be a hum, it could be a soft mumbled yeah. He doesn’t know. 

You mull over something as you take a sip of your tea. Some of his is beginning to waft steadily upwards, drowning him in a gentle fragrance that somehow suits your presence when you’re like this. At this hour, when you can spare him more than a cursory glance, more than silence. 

“Do you…” you pause, and he can feel his stomach tense in anticipation. “Do you want to stay in my room for a bit while I work?”

He didn’t expect that. 

He almost drops the mug. 

“Ah, you don’t have to or anything,” you explain hurriedly. “But Pom-Pom always says they get sleepy when they watch me map out new projects so if you’d like—”

“Yes,” he interrupts breathlessly. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t sacrifice his dignity to basically beg you to numb his mind a bit more. 

“I’d like that.”

And when you take his hand in yours—warm fingers clasped roughly around a clammy palm—he thinks that maybe he should stay on the Express a bit longer. Maybe a friendship won’t be impossible with you. 

In your sweater, drinking your tea, he doesn’t feel as much of a stranger as he might have otherwise when he’s standing in your room.

It’s cluttered, as cluttered as he saw all those weeks ago—but that was just a small piece of it, nothing like the sprawled chaos that surrounds him now. 

There’s a warm amber light shining over all the various machines decorating each corner, too many to count. They obscure the sprawling workbench tucked away near your wardrobe—it’s covered in various blueprint rolls and small bits of machinery that lay scattered between tiny screwdrivers and one comically large spanner placed bang in the middle. 

You make the chaos work. Gauzy fabric flutters against the ceiling and windows—linking delicate trinkets, colourful lamps and various machines that shouldn’t belong where you sleep. If he’s honest, it looks like some opulent laboratory he only saw glimpses of in the Luofu—though he much prefers yours. 

There’s no bed. When he asks, you inform him that you don’t sleep. 

That is a joke. 

When your deadpan expression finally gives way, you admit that the bed self-disassembles and assembles when the need for sleep surfaces. 

He takes small swallows of the fragrant drink, watching as you quietly fit the parts together without screws. There’s no music, so the only sound present is the clink of metal pressing against metal, the sound of your careful breathing, and the pulse of his heart. 

Unlike the kitchen, you don’t sit opposite him when you work. You’re sitting right next to him on the workbench. Each time you inhale, your torso expands ever so slightly and your arm presses against his in a way he definitely takes notice of. 

He fights down the strange embarrassment that tightens his chest, and keeps sipping his drink. 

It’s only when you’ve finally disassembled it and reassembled it with the screws that he finally begins feeling the soothing effects of the tea. 

You’ve started sketching—a rough idea for a building, he notes—lines confident and bold despite your use of a ballpoint pen rather than pencil. 

By now, he’s on his last morsel of the liquid ambrosia you’ve fed him. 

And he’s getting sleepy. 

There’s that constant scritch-scritch of pen as it moves against a thick sketchbook—easing into the paper with such languidness he feels it reflected in his own body. 

His eyelids are fighting to stay up, and he knows that he should be polite and excuse himself so he can curl back into bed with flowers still on his breath. 

He can’t bring himself to leave. 

There’s just something about the warm lights and the lethargy that hits him with the force of the Express. He’s loathe to leave it; it’s easy, so easy to let his head drop, before it finally hits—

Not the desk, but your palm as you protect it from the collision. 

“Wow,” you remark. “The tea really did do the trick.”

You don’t chase him away. When you ask if he’d like to stay a little bit longer, you don’t argue with the incoherent hum that exits his voice box. Before he can think about what he just did, your palm is cradling his head onto your shoulder. 

He’s soft, Dan Heng notes; he’s already sleepily inhaling the clean scent of your fabric softener—face smushed into the folds of your shirt. 

This isn’t his proudest moment. In fact, this is in his top three embarrassing ones. 

However, that’s a conversation to be held in the morning. 

He’s certainly not about to move from this position. 

Dan Heng isn’t awoken by the hurried knocking of Pom-Pom—no, this sound is much more familiar, much more dangerous. 

It’s the sound of a camera shutter clicking.

His eyes snap open, and he’s met with the sight of your folded torso and a flash of red in his peripherals. There’s something inexplicably soft pressing against his cheek, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the sleep that overtook him somehow landed his head in your thighs while you slumber over your desk. 

He sits up—careful to bang his head on neither the desk nor your chin—and looks in horror at Himeko, who’s smiling serenely as though that sound he heard was nothing. 

 “Himeko.” It’s the first time since he met the woman that his voice holds that note of utter caution. “What did you—”

“Shh.” She gesticulates to you, then mimes her finger on top of her lips. “He’s still sleeping.”

He refuses to look at you.

“Delete that,” he mouths.

 He thinks it’s the first time he’s been so stubborn with the older Trailblazer. And it’s only after he secures an agreement from her that he finally leaves your room—flinching from the door closing behind him as though it scalded him. 

He never ends up talking to you about what happened that night. He’s not sure he wants to bring it up, but it never does happen again. Dan Heng’s nightmares have lessened considerably, after all—yet his body still urges him to wake at three and fall into restless sleep at four system hours, so the nightly meetings continue. 

There’s a kind of mutual agreement between the two of you. Move on. The past remains unexamined, unexplained, and unapologetic. 

He thinks he prefers it that way. 

But in this situation, he really doesn’t know what to think. 

He’s been here for over two months, or more accurately, 1480 system hours by now. Every time he makes a stop at another planet, he wonders. 

Will this be the one? Would his journey start anew? Would he leave?

Each time, the answer is no. 

It’s a lot to mull over. He’s running his fingers over the uniform rows of CDs and cassettes and physical drives in the cabinets of the archives: a calming, rhythmic pattern— over and over and over.

Why can’t he leave?

Dan Heng pulls one out at random and stops short in disbelief. In all his years, he doesn’t think he’s been so astounded at someone’s audaciousness. 

It’s that damned photo, the one Himeko swore up and down was deleted—and clearly it wasn’t. He quickly adds aggravating to his mental list of her adjectives. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there—anywhere from a few hours to a week or so. 

He’s looking at you, slouched over your desk with a spanner intimately connected to the side of your cheek. It’s not a flattering picture whatsoever, but he finds himself entranced by this side of you— yet another, undocumented crack in marble. There’s a faint glimmer of drool on your lips— slightly parted— but the expression you wear isn’t tainted by anger nor exhaustion. It’s all washed away. You’re relaxed.

You’re relaxed, and his head is firmly marooned on your legs. The position makes him flush—while his face is thankfully forward, his ears are pressed to both your thighs and your chest as you snooze on the table. He’s not just confused, he’s flabbergasted. How did he get there? Was it really that bad—sure, he remembers waking up against your legs, but nothing as compromising as this!

He stares at the image a moment longer, then buries his face into his palm with an exhausted sigh. 

Dan Heng knows he should throw it out—use his spear to hack away at the picture until all that remains is artificial snow for good measure for both his dignity and yours—but he can’t, for some stupid reason. 

With lips pressed together, he slides the photo back into the cassette holder and quietly copies the data into a blank one. When it’s replaced back on the shelf, it looks identical to the one he’s still holding. 

It’s shoved into his bag: yet another secret to keep under the layer of superficiality. 

And when his mind finally clears, he’s already forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the first place. 

All that lingers is one thought: I don’t mind this friendship.

This thought is quite bittersweet. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[daisywithnomakeup]

Unsure if I've posted this before, but here's a collection of photos I've taken plus a video of me (in the orange) controlling the speed of 1920 Z7 John Fowler ploughing engine No.15500 (that's a mouthful 😭🙏)

[joezworld]

They re-laid the ballast and sleepers on Sunday, and by mid-day Monday, the last of the temporary rails were bolted together. It was, to quote a workman, a “hack job”, but it could be replaced after the busy winter hols. 

Douglas pulled an inspection train across the newly repaired section shortly after supper, and it was with great jubilation that the Fat Controller deemed the line “fit to re-open.” 

That night, Duck was the first to come back, running the last (and only) train of the day. He was ecstatic to be back in his own shed, and there was much merriment and joy as he shunted Alice and Mirabel into the empty carriage sheds. He whistled gaily to the engines on the small railway, who yelled at him to keep the noise down, didn’t he have any idea how late it was.

Then he turned to the yard, and his gaiety died down significantly. “Wha-what?” He stuttered, staring in confusion and slight horror. “What have you done?”

Bear rolled his eyes, having endured quite enough of Duck’s personality in the last ten minutes. “I needed trucks for the track work.”

“Yes I see that. Did you fetch them with your eyes shut?”

Bear growled. The yard was only a mess if you had been indoctrinated into the Great Western Shunting System - which, in fairness, he had been - but he’d been told that the first train would arrive in the morning, not tonight. “No, the work just finished early, is all. I’m fine, by the way.”

“That’s no excuse!” Duck ploughed on, getting into a proper strop. “You should’ve been cleaning as you went! Single Workings 3:7 clearly states-”

“I know what it says, and I don’t care.” Bear snapped. “If we’re going to get into this, what about Emergencies 12:5, hmmm? Shouting chapter and verse at me isn’t going to make the yard cleaner.”

Duck tripped over his own tongue while Bear smiled spitefully. “Now, I was going to offer to help you clean the yard while my driver is still on shift, but instead I think I’ll let you fix things to your exacting specifications.”

Bear’s driver, who had been performing an inspection on his engine, looked at Bear in surprise, Duck in shock, and decided to reverse Bear into the shed to end the confrontation. In a few minutes, snoring could be heard through the closed doors. 

“Well..!” Duck said, thoroughly surprised. “What got into him?”

“The fact that you haven’t figured it out is, quite frankly, appalling.” boomed a voice from across the goods yard. Duck glared, but the glare quickly turned to surprised suspicion when the trucks didn’t start laughing. They always laughed after someone got a one-liner in. 

Instead, a sea of surly faces stared back at him. “What are you looking at?” he asked, suddenly off-kilter. 

“That wasn’t very nice.” A flatbed scowled, backed up by a wave of agreeing murmurs.

Duck didn’t know whether to scowl or be frightened at the show of unity, and shunted the worryingly quiet trucks until the end of his driver’s shift. 

When he was backed in next to Bear, he thought about saying something, to see if the diesel was still awake, but in the end he went uneasily to sleep. 

-

The next morning, Bear woke up much later than he usually would. Duck was gone, the yard was organized, Oliver was receding into the distance, and there was a long line of trucks sitting by the goods shed. 

His driver came over, train orders in his hand. “Right-o, first we’ve got these to take, then we’ve got passenger trains with Truro for the rest of the day. Excited?” He wasn’t one of Bear’s usual drivers, and he completely missed the smile that hid a scowl. 

The trucks didn’t miss it. As he rolled past the train, the brake van - the SR Queen Mary, finally on his way back to whence he came - eyed him with sympathy. “Keep your guard up, once you’re with him.”

“Back to reality…” the low loader rumbled. 

The Fish Van didn’t say anything, but gave him a look of sombre understanding. 

A long line of hoppers, full of tunnel debris, were somewhat more cheerful. “You’ve got us, remember.” their leader whispered. 

Bear felt somewhat uplifted by this, but, as he waited for his driver to perform a brake test, his spirit began to wane. There was a crowd of passengers on the platform, already waiting for the next train. A large group of them were wearing shirts with the Great Western Railway logo stitched into them. They had cameras, of course, and were taking pictures every which way, except his. 

One pointed a lens his way, and was promptly shoved by several friends. “Don’t waste your film,” they said, “on that box on wheels.”

By the time the signal dropped, Bear felt deeply morose. He set off, leaving the station behind, each turn of his wheels bringing him closer to the big station, and City of Truro. 

-

The train halted at Haultraugh station. The inbound train was Duck’s, and as more passengers flowed in and out of the train, someone made a comment, loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle, that “this was straight out of the sixties.”

As the last passengers boarded, someone else replied, “yeah, the 18-60s.”

Bear stared at the GWR branding covering the station. There’s no place for me here.

Next to them, Duck was off in his own world. One of the porters had asked him how Truro was doing, and this had led to a lengthy and animated description of how bored and disrespected Truro felt in the yard at the big station. Gordon was the apparent ringleader, finding great fun in pushing Truro’s buttons. Bear’s engine note took on a notably staccato beat, and the trucks began grumbling to each other. The porter paid this no mind, but Duck began looking quizzically across the platform, trying to figure out what, if anything, was the matter. 

Meanwhile, Bear’s driver was looking up and down the platform. “What’s the holdup? Where’s the signal?” He scoffed, climbing out of the cab and knocking on the door of the signal box. 

Inside he found the signalman, looking quite aggrieved and holding a pair of flags. “Signal lever’s jammed. Points are good. Go out and I’ll wave you through.” He kicked the lever for good measure, a resounding clang emanating from the lever frame. “Piece of junk…”

 Bear’s driver exited the box, noting for the first time that anything seemed to be amiss with his engine. “You alright?” 

“Are we going?” Bear’s short, clipped tones could be mistaken for anticipation if you weren’t that bright. 

“Yeah! Yeah, hold your horses.” The driver jumped back into the cab, and set off the instant the annoyed looking signalman waved the green flag. 

Bear set off sluggishly. He didn’t care if he got there, or how long it took.

Behind him, the brake van could sense the disappointment and despair radiating down the brake line, all the way at the end of the train. Slowly, steadily, and stealthily enough to not alert the guard, he began slipping on his own brakes. 

The other trucks in the train felt this, and realized what was happening. Slowly but surely, the train began to get heavier and heavier as Bear kept going. 

-

The train made it halfway up the tunnel before grinding to a halt on the grade. There was no radio reception in the tunnel, and with Bear’s engine belching out more diesel exhaust every second, the driver made a quick determination to back down to Bulgy’s Bridge and try again. 

Slowly, with the brakes mostly released, the train rolled back into the clear air, slowly click-clacking over the new jointed rails as it rolled back towards Bulgy’s Bridge. The tunnel mouth was now a jagged hole in the side of the rock, scarred and pitted in spots where the decorative portal had been chiselled away.   

“So,” Bear addressed the train, taking care to not be heard by his driver. “Does anyone want to explain why we stalled out in the tunnel? Something that hasn’t happened with stone trains that are twice as heavy?”

There was a moment of guilty silence on the brake line, then: 

“We can’t let you go without a fight.”

“You shouldn’t go back to that.”

“We like you too much to subject you to the snake.”

Bear was struck absolutely dumb by that, and felt a warm and fuzzy sensation in his fuel tanks. As his driver brought the train to a halt by the bridge, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly… honored? Was that the correct word? Liked? He pondered on this for some time, and was finally brought back to reality by his driver banging on the control desk in the cab. “Wakey wakey! Time to do some work!” 

Bear chose not to dignify that with a response and instead allowed his engine to rev up to full power, to get the train moving up the hill and through the tunnel at a sufficient speed.

Then, nothing happened. 

Or rather, nothing seemed to happen. Bear was pulling against the train with quite a lot of force, but it just didn’t move. His engine revved, his wheels slipped, and the train went nowhere. 

It did not take a brain surgeon to figure out what was wrong: the trucks were quite serious about not letting Bear go back to Truro, and were doing everything in their power to stop him. 

“We’re not joking…” came a low voice up the brake line. 

Bear didn’t think they were, and was quite willing to sit out here for some time. It was a nice day compared to most of last week - the sun was out, and it was a few degrees above freezing - and if the railway had to send another engine to help him up the hill, then so be it. 

“Ah, for the love of pete!” Unfortunately, Bear’s driver was a dedicated sort, someone who had a lot of interest in doing his job to the best of his ability, and someone who had no interest in being labelled as “the one who stalled in the tunnel”. He was going to get this train to Tidmouth come hell or high water, and so he didn’t let off the throttle, much to Bear’s annoyance. 

“We’re not going anywhere like this. Call for a banker.”

“Absolutely not!” was the retort. What happened instead was that the train was put into reverse, and backed up even more to let the slack in. Bear knew what he was doing, and also knew that it wasn’t going to work. The trucks did too, and there was a bit of light laughter from most of the train. They even let him move the train a bit, rolling well beyond Bulgy’s Bridge without a fight.

The exception was the lead truck, who was looking at the coupling chain with worry. “That’s starting to stretch a little…”

Then, as has happened many times before, there was trouble. 

Bear’s driver released the brakes, set the reverser to “forward”, and then jammed the throttle as far forward as it would go. 

Bear set off with a great cloud of smoke and clag, his engine roaring like a wounded animal. The first five trucks on the train, realizing that something very bad could happen to them if they kept the brakes on, had let up. The slack went out of the train with a quintuple bang! as those trucks were yanked into motion. Then, the coupling to the rest of the train, who were not going to move under any circumstances, was pulled on. 

They did not move, and the train screeched to a halt, Bear’s wheels spun furiously, sparking on the rails. 

Then the coupling chain snapped. 

Bear shot forward, suddenly free of the rest of the train. Fortunately, the vacuum brake hose also separating meant that his brakes came on automatically, and he came to a shuddering and screeching stop less than a hundred feet away, atop Bulgy’s Bridge. 

“Now look at what’s happened!” He barked at his driver. “I told you to stop hammering on the throttle like a neanderthal!”

Then, things got worse.

When the rails had been re-laid after the derailment, the workers had done everything properly… except on Bulgy’s Bridge. The bridge, which still bore its scars from when Bulgy had gotten stuck underneath it almost twenty years ago, was known to be a fragile structure, and couldn’t withstand heavy or sustained vibrations. 

“Heavy or sustained vibrations” is exactly what would happen when a ballast tamper machine was brought over the line. It “tamped” ballast by extending vibrating rods into the gravel and shaking them until the ballast had become smooth and level. This wasn’t possible on Bulgy’s Bridge, and so the workers had smoothed everything down as well as they could by hand before re-opening the line to traffic. And, for the trains that had gone over it so far, it had been fine - mostly because it had been light engines like Duck and Oliver, who moved over it quickly. 

Bear, on the other hand, weighed as much as Duck and Oliver combined, and had just come to an abrupt stop directly on top of the mostly un-leveled ballast.

As Bear began to berate his driver for the problems that he had most certainly caused, the gravel underneath the sleepers began to shudder and shake.

Suddenly, and with distressingly little noise, the gravel on the right side of the line subsided, the sleepers and rails sagged as one, and Bear found himself tilted at an extremely worrying angle on top of Bulgy’s Bridge. 

His driver closed his eyes in horror, and didn’t open them again until everything in the cab had stopped moving. 

Bear, meanwhile, was so utterly overwhelmed with what was happening that he couldn’t even muster up a bit of shock. “Driver, this is your fault.”

-

Having already dealt with a calamitous derailment on the Little Western once this week, the railway was extremely quick in responding to the accident, and both a crane and the Fat Controller were there before lunch. 

“Bear,” he said seriously. “I mean this in as non-insulting a manner as possible, but the fact that this was not your fault astounds me.”

“Don’t worry sir, the others will find a way to blame me for it anyways.”

“I-” The Fat Controller didn’t know how to respond to that, and had to choose his next words carefully. “I see.” He paused again. “I would actually like to mention something, now that you’ve brought that up.”

“Sir?”

“Yes.” Again, he had to choose his words carefully. “Due to… recent circumstances, British Rail has agreed to let us trial City of Truro on his own merits.”

“Sir? Does that mean that I don’t have to run trains with him anymore?” Bear’s tone was suddenly ecstatic, which the Fat Controller unfortunately didn’t understand the full connotations of. 

“Indeed.” he said, eyes twinkling slightly. “Apparently his ability to be “more reliable than a diesel” was quite a point in his favor.” A pause. “Not that it is a mark against you in any way.” 

“Of course sir, thank you sir!” Bear looked like Christmas came early, which did not mesh well with the fact that he was perilously close to falling off of a bridge. 

“I’m glad you understand.” Charles Hatt smiled warmly. “And one more thing - I have been informed by the foreman that… removing you from this situation will involve damaging your paintwork in some way. Obviously, that cannot stand, and so I will have you sent to the works tomorrow or the day after for a temporary touch up. Once the holidays are over, you will receive a new coat of paint in any color you like. You’ve earned it.”

Bear’s smile was the biggest it had been in almost a month, and it stayed there throughout the cleanup process, even as the lifting chains gouged long silvery stripes all over his paintwork. 

-

It took until well past dinnertime for the tracks to be put right again, and once Bear was checked over by works staff (again), he was immediately put to work with the permanent way gang, who worked throughout the night. Finally, at one in the morning, the work was declared “done!”, to much celebration, and the workers went home to bed. 

Bear still had a job to do, though, and it wasn’t until two-thirty that he arrived at Tidmouth station with his now very contrite goods train, who didn’t say a word as he shunted them into the goods yard. 

The diesel shed was empty, and Bear was asleep before his driver could fully set the brakes. 

-

The next morning was cold but sunny, with still, crisp air soaking up the sun’s weak rays. 

Bear, who had been woken up at seven in the morning after less than five hours of sleep, quite frankly could not bring himself to care about that, and grumbled all the way to the fuel depot, the station, the goods yard, and then most of the way to Haultraugh. He only stopped grumbling once he was awake enough to remember, as he burst into the sunlight at the end of the tunnel, that he was finally free of this wretched branch line and could go to the works soon!

This massively improved his mood, and he almost forgot how tired he was, as he rolled across the temporary speed restriction at Bulgy’s bridge, and through Haultraugh station. As he rolled into Arlesburgh, he was almost smiling. 

“Well well well,” A stern voice immediately quelled any chances of enjoying the morning. “Look who shows his face around here!” Duck, a distinctly upset expression on his face, puffed into view. “You break my branch line, leave me stranded here all day - let’s not even get into what the passengers had to endure - and then just waltz off to the big station without so much as a by-your-leave? What sort of Western work ethic is that?” 

He was really getting into full flow now. “And this is after you leave my yard a complete and utter disaster for more than a week! Whatever do you have to say for yourself?”

Bear was a patient engine, he really was. He could understand Duck’s position, he really could. He was even willing to hear him out, and talk with him like an adult. After all, they were both what people would call “grown-ups”. For goodness’ sake, he was twenty years old - far older and more mature than most of the diesels on the mainland!

But then… he looked behind Duck. 

There, in the shed, was City of fucking Truro’s smug fucking face. He looked thrilled at what was happening. 

And something in Bear went snap.

“Duck.” He said firmly, cutting the steam engine off mid-word. “You can take your Great Western work ethic and you can shove it down your boiler tubes. I do not care any more.”

Duck’s face moved like he was trying to say something, but he seemed unable to process what was happening. 

“Furthermore,” Bear continued. “I didn’t break anything.” He glared daggers at Truro, who blinked in surprise. “The great green disaster over there is responsible for all of that. Unless you think that I shattered my gearbox out of a sense of whimsy.”

“I… I… I…” Duck couldn’t seem to put syllables together. 

“In a similar fashion, I didn’t derail the Siphon wagons - if we’re really going to hand out blame like Christmas presents, it was Donald’s fault for not checking anything before he set off down the line with a bunch of plain-bearing equipped vans like it was the 1930s. Although, to go even further back, it was that one’s fault for moving the Siphons across the yard for no clear reason other than that he felt like it!”

Truro could hear everything, and blinked like he was offended. Good. 

Duck looked like someone had smacked him across the face. 

“Of course, let’s just blame it on me, why don’t we?” Bear could feel the indignation coursing through his systems, and let it flow. “As I can do nothing right, and only bring about confusion and delay! Yes, of course I wanted to almost fall off of Bulgy’s Bridge yesterday; it was part of my larger plan to learn to drive on the roads like an automobile, leaving the rails to wither and die on the vine like Doctor Beeching!” 

“Bear, I-”

“Oh no! Don’t you “Bear” me! For all you know, that’s true! You’ve not taken your eyes off of Truro for a month now! “Truro” this and “Truro” that! If you like him so much, why don’t you give him the branch line and spend the rest of your life licking his buffers like the obsequious toady you seem intent on becoming! I thought you were my friend, but you can’t even notice something going on right in front of you!”

Truro was now glaring. The signalman had left his box, the trucks were silent, and Duck was so confused he was almost in tears. On the platform, the passengers started looking in their direction. 

“Bear-”

“No, no.” He snapped, fire blooming in his eyes. “Use my goddamned number. You don’t have the right to use my name!”

Duck looked horrified. Good.  

Bear pressed on, a month’s worth of frustration and aggravation spilling out uncontrollably. “So you know what, Montague? I’ve had it. That’s what this is. If you and Truro and Oliver want to play pretend in some fantasy recreation of a time that died a long time ago, be my guest! But I will have no part in it.”

The stationmaster appeared out of the station building and began making a beeline across the tracks. 

“You can take your Great Western Railway, and all its idiotic traditions, and you can shove it someplace unpleasant!” He roared, engine growling menacingly. “But I’m done!” “And before I go…” The stationmaster was getting closer, and Bear could tell that he was going to be silenced one way or the other. He tried to think if there was anything else he wanted to say, but all he could see was Truro, looking so unjustly offended on Duck’s behalf. “Oi, you! Domeless wonder! I wish that they’d kept Great Bear, and scrapped you!”

[diazsdimples]

Several Sentence Sunday

Let's pretend this is WIP I've introduced and didn't start yesterday, okay? Okay.

Tagged for Inspiration Saturday by @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @tizniz and @fortheloveofbuddie (count this as your Sunday tag chaps).

Eddie shifts the truck into park, and turns to face Buck, noticing the way his husband doesn’t meet his eye when he looks at him. Buck’s twisting his fingers, methodically rubbing his thumbs over the pads of each finger in sequence, a strategy Eddie knows he uses to ground himself. “Buck,” Eddie says, hooking a finger under his chin so they’re looking into each other’s eyes. “What’s your safeword?” “W-what?” Buck stammers, his eyebrows knitting together. Usually, before they scene, Eddie checks his colour, makes sure Buck is okay with everything that’s about to happen, and that’s enough. But today, Eddie can tell Buck isn’t in the right headspace to just plough on through. He needs to be taken care of. “You safeword, amor,” Eddie repeats, stroking his thumb over the apple of Buck’s cheek. Buck swallows, his throat clicking audibly, and he leans into Eddie’s hand. “Red,” he replies, his voice soft, as though he’s already slipping a little into that quiet, soft space where he goes when he feels safe. “And if you can’t talk?” Eddie asks. He doesn’t want to let anything to chance, not today when he can tell Buck needs this so badly. Badly enough that he’s been acting like a little shit since he left Bobby’s office. “One tap for good, two taps for pause, three taps to stop completely,” Buck recites diligently. “But why – I mean – Bobby already –“ “Bobby dealt with you his way. Now it’s my turn to discipline you my way. The way you need.” He eyes Buck thoughtfully, a little worried about how in his head Buck already seems to be. “What’s your colour, sweetheart?” “G-green, sir,” Buck replies without hesitation, and Eddie smiles, scratching Buck’s head with his blunt nails. “Good boy, thank you for telling me.” Eddie shuts off the engine and climbs out of the truck, circling around to open Buck’s door for him when he notices the blond still sitting there, his expression tight, as though he’s in pain. “Come on, out of the car,” he instructs, noting with satisfaction that Buck instantly does as he’s told, sliding off the seat and hitting the gravel of the driveway with a crunch. “Now, go wait for me in the lounge. I want you on your knees. I’m going to go grab something first and then I’ll meet you in there, okay?” Buck obediently follows Eddie into the house, listing heavily against Eddie’s form as he unlocks the door. Eddie takes Buck’s hand and leads him into the lounge, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple as he pulls away. “I’ll be back in a second. On your knees.” Eddie turns before he gives Buck the chance to obey and strides down the hallway to their bedroom, where he rummages through the closet until he finds the old, unsuspecting cardboard box at the back. He carefully extracts the long, black riding crop, and passes it through his hands, admiring the sleek handle and the small, black leather tongue at the end, with the red trimming that always looks so beautiful against Buck’s skin. Yeah, that’ll do nicely, he thinks.

No pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @puppyboybuckley @bucksbackwardcap @aroeddiediaz @pirrusstuff @housewifebuck @daffi-990 @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @wikiangela @buckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon @cal-daisies-and-briars @wildlife4life @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @evanbegins @nmcggg @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @rainbow-nerdss @kitteneddiediaz @elvensorceress @epicbuddieficrecs @smilingbuckley @thekristen999 @princehattric

[esperfruit]

More short TTTE Human AU refs

Victor de Cèspedes

Age: 42

Height: 183 cm

Victor is a mechanic and engineer from Cuba. He came to Sodor after he was recruited by Sir Topham Hatt, who heard about his famous skills after the company Victor worked for went bankrupt. He had a lot of trouble shortly after his arrival because he couldn't speak English at first. The first English word he learned was "red" when he chose his new uniform. His primary job is the repairs of machines, there is almost nothing he can't fix.

Despite being busy and strict, he has a charming and accomodating personality and wants to create a good work atmosphere for everyone. He earned many sympathy points with people after he told off Spencer and embarassed him. In an accident, he feel down a cliff but miraculously survived. After he went missing for a while, he cleared up the misunderstanding that Luke might have killed him. Victor has a clumsy assistant named Kevin, who tests his patience on a daily basis but Victor knows he's a good guy.

Charlie Wardle

Age: 20

Height: 177 cm

A young man from the city, who just entered the work life. Before that, Charlie was partying all the time and was very popular. He has an easy-going and fun-loving personality and loves making others laugh. Unfortunately he has the bad habits of being careless, easily distracted and often doesn't treat things serious enough. The younger ones like Thomas, Percy, Rebecca and Paxton see in him a good friend and fun to hang out with while on the other hand most older adults like Gordon, Henry and Cranky find him, annoying, unfunny and view him as a general nuiscence.

After Charlie got into a lot of trouble due to his carelessness, Edward took him in as his apprentice because he saw how Charlie felt genuine regret for what he did. Charlie feels a lot of gratitude towards him and started endearlingly calling him "Eddie".

Trevor Foster

Age: 63

Height: 171 cm

The principal of the school Thomas, Percy, Rosie and Philip attend. He his very good-hearted and likes children, he wants nothing but the best for them. Trevor is usually polite and peaceful but he will take any measures to make sure everyone, who hurts a child will be punished.

Outside of school, he helps out at the local church by taking care of its orchard. He owns a steam tractor in which he often gives rides with. Trevor is also good friends with Terence and Bertie. The three organized a big party once to earn enough money so children could go to the beach during summer vacation. He also became a close friend of Edward after the latter brought him to the hospital when he collaped once. Even since then Trevor looks after Thomas in school for Edward.

Terence Crawler

Age: 33

Height: 190 cm

A local farmer, who owns a caterpiller tractor. He usually uses it for ploughing but on request he can fulfill other jobs. Similar to Bertie with his bus, Terence has a strong atattchment to his tractor as he was willing to do anything to save it from falling into a lake when ice under it cracked. He is assertive, helpful and always eager to do a job. He has the saying: "You have to be sensible if you want to stay safe." and he easily forgives other for getting cheeky with him. Despite being very friendly and good-natured, a few people such as James find him quite unsetteling because he always has"that smile"...

Kenji Shima

Age: 17

Height: 169 cm

A high school student from Japan, who took in an internship with an inventor during summer vacation. He accompanied his superior to a science fair on Sodor and was helping out with presentations. When members of a smuggling ring failed to steal secret and valuable blueprints, they held Kenji hostage to get away but he was saved by Sonny, who betrayed the ring.

Kenji is from a family of scientists and his parents have high expectations for him to become their sucessor but there is one severe problem: Kenji struggles with technology. Regardless, he studies hard to learn and adapt skills and knowledge. Kenji is determined, organized and clever but also a bit anxious as he hates being alone and he fears dissapointing his family if he doesn't become scenentist like them.

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 9 - Old Iron

One Old Iron Meets Another:

Edward the Blue Engine is one of the oldest engines on the Fat Controller’s railway, and is well known for his various exploits throughout the years, including pushing Gordon over his hill, chasing James down the mainline and bringing home a heavy train of enthusiasts after snapping his coupling rod. He’s also sometimes referred to as ‘Old Iron’; while it had once been an insult made up by James to try and put Edward down for his age, Edward had embraced the moniker and sometimes even used it jokingly to poke fun at James.

One morning, Edward arrived at Brendam, puffing into the harbour to find the place abuzz with excitement. “What’s going on?” asked Edward. “There’s a famous United States Navy Ship coming to the docks next week,” BoCo said excitedly. “Apparently, he’s on a world tour right now to celebrate one hundred years since the end of the War of 1812.” “Edward would know all about that war!” teased Bill, puffing in with some trucks. “He probably lived through it!” added Ben. Edward rolled his eyes, and set about shunting away his trucks.

Not every engine was as excited as BoCo.

“Stuff and nonsense!” sniffed James. “The Americans lost that war, why are they celebrating it?” “No, no, little James,” huffed Gordon proudly. “The War of 1812 was when Napoleon lost in Russia and the Duke of Wellington won the Battle of Salamance. The Americans were helping the… uh… Sicilians I think?”   “No – this is the War in America that happened at the same time,” BoCo said for the third time to the engines at the Big Station. The poor diesel had begun to realise that for the most part, the steam engines thought of the American War of 1812 as just a sideshow in comparison to the Napoleonic Wars happening in Europe. James was the closest, but even he had no clue why the US would have ships touring around the world to celebrate it’s conclusion.

“It helped Canada maintain its independence,” BoCo declared eventually. That was better received. “Oh! Wasn’t that when they burnt down the US Capitol?” quizzed Gordon. “Marvelous stuff – those Canadians know how to win a war!” “They… didn’t win though,” BoCo tried, but he was drowned out by the Big Engines all excitedly chatting about their own experiences with Canadian soldiers.

The chatter spread all up and down the island. BoCo was secretly thankful that the US ship was only visiting Brendam – he feared just what some of the engines would say otherwise!

Finally, the day came, and the ship came sailing in. Much to Bill and Ben’s astonishment, it was a proper sailing ship with great fabric sails that stretched up on their masts. Edward was the first to speak to the ship.

“Hullo!” he called. “I’m Edward, welcome to Brendam!” “Hey there little steamer,” the ship called back. “I’m the USS Constitution, but you can call me ‘Old Ironsides’ if that suits you better.” Bill and Ben glared – the ship had insulted Edward! “I’m called Old Iron too!” chuckled Edward, ploughing straight over any words the ship might’ve had for the USS Constitution. The ship paused, then looked down at Edward again. “You? What did you do?” Edward was about to reply when BoCo jumped in.

“He chased a runaway engine down the mainline and caught him, all while in desperate need of repair!” The ship stared, then paused again, his eyes widening. “This is Sodor!” he spluttered. “Uh… sorry about my manner; I’ve been preparing to deal with a bunch of spiteful English who sent nasty emails to my captain all trip.” BoCo and Edward shared a look and decided not to mention what the other engines had said.

“That’s alright,” said Edward kindly. “How about we start over? My name is Edward, this is BoCo and those two are Bill and Ben. What’s your name?” “I’m the USS Constitution, but they also call me ‘Old Ironsides’ – I guess we have that in common!” Edward grinned, and soon the five were talking like old friends. ‘Old Ironsides’ had some incredible stories of his time in the Barbary Wars, and the engines had plenty of stories of their own to share too.

“You set the shed on fire?” spluttered Old Ironsides. “How did you not burn down?!” “Sheer dumb luck,” muttered Edward grumpily, remembering returning to the yard to find a sheepish BoCo surrounded by burnt ashes. He’d liked that shed! “I have no idea,” added BoCo with a smile. “Though it was certainly scary at the time.”

By the end of the USS Constitution’s visit, Edward and BoCo had managed to get an email address to keep in contact with their new friend, and whistled goodbye as the old sailing ship set back out to sea.

“Um… where’s Ben?” asked BoCo all of a sudden. “On Old Ironsides,” replied Bill sweetly. Edward groaned, and started backing out of the yard. The USS Constitution had mentioned he was dropping anchor in Liverpool next; the Old Iron would have to chase down another engine once again.

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