#A Flock of Docs

[stardestroyer81]

Nearly four years ago, long before you could find them just about anywhere, I found a post praising the plague doctor Squishmallow, jokingly calling it 'bingus'. Jokingly— and as a byproduct of being in my plague doctor phase at the time— I quipped that if I ever wound up finding one, I would name it Dr. B. Ingus.

Fast forward to 2024, and not only does the real Dr. B. Ingus now reside on my bed, I've also finally concocted an original design for the brilliant plague doctor turned plushie, largely in part of being invited to a plague doctor community on tumblr! 💜🖤💜

(If you would like to read a brief explanation on how Quincy T. Page's mentor now assumes a plush form, check underneath the cut for a bit of lore!)

Dr. Brenius Hildegard Ingus, better known as 'Doctor B. Ingus' or even simply 'Dr. B.' was once a standard plague doctor... for lack of a better term. Ever since his youth, he knew he wished to pursue a career in tending to patients, and he would make good on this dream once our nation found itself plagued with a contagion most potent... the Everdark Plague.

Brenius spent every waking moment of his corporeal life formulating a cure, though as the years went on, he feared that old age would put an end to his research, effectively doing away with everything he had done to rid of the Everdark Plague. However, Brenius— ever steadfast— made a vow that not even death could stop his heroic efforts.

Somehow, a deal is made, and Brenius' soul is set free from his mortal vessel, allowing him all the time in the world to continue his studies... at the hefty cost of immortality. Ever selfless, he hires a local toy maker to create a new vessel to store his restless soul in; a charming plush toy designed in his likeness. While it takes a while to get used to his new form, Brenius resumes his studies in secrecy as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, now vowing to only speak to plague doctors he trusts with his studies.

Personality-wise, Dr. Brenius is a very well-spoken, considerable and sophisticated man in spite of his now-smaller stature. In his past life, he was quite the fashion aficionado, and collected headgear of all kinds to top off his outfit, his current hat he immortalized himself with being his favorite.

[triptychofvoids]

can i pet one of your birbs please? pretty please?

*looks at you with big wet eyes*

those big wet eyes of yours will have no effect on me anon. that being said, i suppose i dont see a problem with it if you can actually convince one of them to approach you, they are quite friendly and do enjoy being pet from time to time!

[babysizedfics]

what if i told you i'm now obsessed with little etho... and am of course already 5000 words deep in a headcanon/fic ideas doc

(and little gem is kinda growing on me even tho i have been stubborn about it all these months - literally just as a side effect of but etho and gem are so cute together how can i leave her out of this)

BUT MAINLY: Little Etho my beloved shy child who's convinced he is an independent teenage regressor when oh sweet baby you are so cute for thinking so :')

[roe-and-memory]

if adding facts about the real racer that a character in cars 3 is inspired by was a job i would be absolutely rolling in the dough

[leftminnow]

Gosh they're such chickens aren't they. About 4 month old light Brahma chickens, my partner things Burr (redder and bigger comb is a rooster) but I don't think so. Our bantam rooster has been crowing since mid April (same age) and easter egger men started crowing mid May (2 weeks younger) Burr is very calm and sweet, one of my easter eggers went after them, and they havent crowed yet, so I'm just thinking dominant hen.

[longlivetheweedsyet]

a timeline of events for the Flock!

[clockwayswrites]

What is a nest without a flock? part 39

masterpost (pls no editing <3)

Over his years in Gotham, Danny had worked hard to make it a home. After years of constantly moving from community college to undergrad to his masters to doctorate to post doc to jobs he had just wanted to be settled. He’d chosen his apartment carefully. He had splurged too much of his first few paychecks on real, ‘adult’ furniture, and had worked hard and making sure his plants thrived. He had even considered a pet. He had filled his place with books and photos and trinkets and made it a home.

Stepping into his place again after his time with the Wanyes, the place just felt hallow.

Danny didn’t much care for the feeling. He hoped that it temporary and caused by the oddness of everything else. Maybe it would pass quickly, he told himself as he put away the clothing that Alfred had adjusted for him. Maybe it was just the quiet, he told himself, turning the tv as he watered his plants and refilled the automated system that the boys had turned on for him. Maybe he was just lonely, he admitted as he quietly ate dinner on his couch.

He tried not to think about it.

Work made things a little bit easier, though Lucius refused to let Danny work full time. Danny almost got angry about that until Lucius’ face softened in a way that said friend, and not boss.

“You’re going through monumental physical changes,” Lucius said, eyes darting to Danny’s wings. “Ignoring the emotional and mental toll, your body is expending energy in ways that we cannot account for. Energy your body may not have. I will not have you risking yourself to put in full days of work.”

“But…”

“But nothing. You’re one of my best, Danny, and have put in more than your share of work over the years. Do some tinkering, dream up some ideas, hell, make some puzzles to torment the new batch of interns so we can see what they’re really made of,” Lucius said, “but take care of yourself first.”

Danny sighed, but nodded. “You make an annoying amount of sense.”

“I’m good at that,” Lucius said with a too pleasant smile. “And Danny?”

“Yeah, Lucius?”

“If you need anything, and I do mean any damn thing, you let me know, alright?” Lucius asked pointedly. “Beyond being one of my best, I’d like to think that you’re also a friend.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fox,” Danny said with a grin.

Lucius rolled his eyes as he ended the video call.

Danny slumped back into his seat. He’d tied a pillow to it in an effort to make it more comfortable to sit with his wings, but it was a short term solution at best. Well, if he was going to to some tinkering, he might as well start with the practical. He’d done is best to not keep work at home, what with his childhood history of that, but it meant things would need to be gathered from work or ordered. About two thirds of the list went of to ‘his’ intern, and some of the more esoteric things he ordered himself for delivery. He also ordered some clothing from the tailor Bruce had gotten the name of as well as groceries to fill his fridge. At least he wonders of the modern world meant he didn’t have to leave his house with the wings, not yet at least.

[ryescapades-archived]

*ੈ‧₊༺ “ALL HIS GUNS WERE BLAZING,”

characters: narumi gen (kn8) x gn!reader contents: sfw, jealous!narumi, hint of ex!narumi, open ending wc ~ 600

a/n: CHAT I KNOW THIS SETUP IS REPETITIVE but i just couldn't help it ... anw, short break before i continue (and try) working on my 1k event ^_^ this was supposed to be the intro piece to the anon req about nrm and lana’s serene queen but i kinda stopped halfway ..

Narumi absolutely hates feeling like this.

It’s curling in the depth of his guts, writhing and squirming like parasites feeding on its host. His chest feels tight, as if there’s an iron fist controlling the way it beats, oppressive and ruthless and cruel. It’s green, it’s mucky, it’s repulsive.

He tries his damnedest to tear his eyes away, but the sight in front of him makes it impossible to do so. It burns. His heart burns. An emissary of his own tribulation, his focus continues to fix on the ravenous gazes feasting on you, trying to steal away all your attention that was meant only for him.

It used to be, at least.

The lights reflect from the crystals on the chandelier hanging above, highlighting all the glorious velvets and diamonds in the decorated ballroom. You stand in the small crowd of tattling officers and superiors alike, an expression of ease and cordiality stuck on your stunning face.

Playing nice during formal events such as this has never been his forte. Scandalmongers and… ass kissers (as he’d like to put it) hide behind sugary smiles and honeyed praises, seeking attention only to gain benefits of their own.

They get to the very end of his nerves, and the fact that he’s more or less required to attend these events make them even worse to be at. Not to mention the various threats from Hasegawa about throwing away his games if he doesn’t at least show his face here.

Forget about the kaijus, humanity itself is in another league of monstrosity.

As one of the strongest officers around, Narumi is subjected to being the center of all the gossip and envious stares. Men and women wish they were him, some even flocking themselves around him in hopes they’d eventually get the chance to be one of those in his orbit.

He couldn’t care less about those people though.

However, when it comes to you…

Narumi’s eye twitches again when the man you’re talking to steps just a tad bit closer, thinking you won’t notice such a subtle action. The audacity of that man? And it’s not just him, either. He’s all too aware of the vultures lurking around in the hall, hushedly whispering and eyeing you like you’re a piece of meat. He gets it. He really does.

You’re gorgeous, talented, ridiculously strong in all manners of combat, and you’re his, you’re his, you’re hi—

A sudden touch on his arm stops him short, a hand running itself down his bicep like it had any business doing so. He’s then reminded of the female officer from another division that has been on his ass for the past ten minutes, looking all too friendly as she continues to prattle on about her achievements in the Defense Force; a pathetic attempt at convincing him once again to vouch for her promotion to her own captain.

He wanted to push her away, wanted to rush off to the exit of this goddamn place to go back to the comfort of his office and spend time in the virtual world, but when his sensitive irises catch the telltale sign of discomfort on your face from the foreign and filthy hand trying to snake its way around your waist, he thinks his mind had blacked out from how unconsciously his next set of actions feels.

It’s like there’s a different entity taking over him, leading him to march towards where you are. The conversation you were having with the obnoxious man is halted, and you can barely get a word out before the captain pushes the officer off you, grabbing your hand in his before he drags you away into the night...

been sitting in my wip doc for like ,, idk Months

©🅁🅈🄴🅂🄲🄰🄿🄰🄳🄴🅂. do not steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else !

[bloodytittiez]

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey guys [*gets shot*] I know I've never posted any of my writings before, even though I write fanfiction, but this has been collecting dust in my google docs page for nearly two years and it was too good to not share it with you my little kinky freaks/lh/aff (at least I think so)! I hope you enjoy this little smut fic - English isn't my first language so excuse some possible spelling and grammar errors, please... also, KEEP IN MIND THIS WAS A DRAFT! There's a lot of time skips and I doubt I'll ever finish it.

CONTENT WARNING: AFAB reader, vaginal sex, oral sex, teasing, heavy dirty talking, sex without condom, consensual non-consensual, phone sex, masturbation, public sex, porn with plot.

———

Red and blue lights flickering outside, tree branches tapping against the snowy windows of the sorority house. The soft, slow tunes and delicious scents of cinnamon and ginger cookies flowing in the air...

Christmas, such a family centered holiday where there's only place for laughs and sweet surprises, was completely ruined yet another year by him.

It was the fourth time in the night the moaner called. You could see your roommates gag at the blasphemies and curses the stranger yelled at the phone to each one of them– while you seemed to enjoy them in secret.

《Nasty… F-Filthy piggy. Bi-Billy has a big juicy fat cock he k-knows you’d love to suck on… I-It’s dripping wet and it f-fits in your mouth.》

You crossed your legs as ‘‘Billy’’ —you had no idea if that even was his actual name— spat nonsensical words for the sake of feeling some friction against your womanhood. His descriptions were so detailed that you could picture them perfectly in your head.

《Billy w-will kill each one of you… Tonight.》He breathed out in a way that felt almost a threat, his sentence getting distorted when it reached the other side of the line. Everyone could tell he was all tensed up for the way he gripped the phone.

《I can’t stand you anymore, you fucking pig!》

《Pig… P-piggy! Naughty piggy…》 The moaner repeated, mocking a very stressed out Jess Bradford.

《Jess.》 You interrupted the leader of your group with a serene expression, finally standing up from your seat when you felt her anxiety grow. 《Let me take care of the situation.》 You suggested while you took the device out of her hands before she would say anything, and covering the speaker you added something;

《Why don’t you guys go to bed? It’s way too late already.》

《But we can’t leave you alone with that creep!》 Jess exclaimed.

《Don’t worry about it. Someone has to confront him already and that’s going to be me.》 You answered, already building up enough courage to complete the task. 《Please.》 You looked up at the concerned eyes of every girl occupying the room while you could hear Billy talking to himself on the other side of the line. 《You girls need some rest. It’s been a long day.》

Jess and the rest stood there in silence, trusting your words. She gave you a small nod and parted her lips to articulate a silent ‘‘thank you’’ before leaving the room with relief. You knew she didn’t have enough energy to argue, and so did the rest.

You smiled when you returned to the call, grabbing the phone with distinguished elegance in your movements. A soft smile formed in your face and felt a sudden flock of butterflies inside of your stomach. It definitely wasn’t a good idea to play along with who you knew was a creep, but a part of you loved the thrill and danger in doing that. You could hear your sweet mother’s voice in your head begging to stop what you were doing as you answered Billy. To hell with her warnings of not picking up the phone to strangers!

Tonight was going to be different. May this be your very own Christmas gift…

《Hello, Billy.》 You tried not to come off as rude at first.

《Yes, yes… Hello there, my darling… It's so nice to hear your voice. You sound like an angelic creature.》

《Do you know who I am?》 You asked.

《 Yes... Yes, I know you. The quietest slut of the bunch. Billy loves to see your pretty ass swaying around when you walk. Yes… You filthy, nasty whore love to tease Billy’s cock. I know that well. Billy saw this naughty piggy touch herself… S-saw you cry out for Billy in the intimacy of your room.》

You couldn’t help but fluster at his obscene rambling and switched the phone to your other hand. You were the kind of person that would move around constantly when you felt nervous about something. In this case, a stranger that saw you masturbate plenty of times before. Poor you… How many times exactly did Billy hear you pronounce his name under muffled moans? You could feel your heart rate at the top of your throat, flooded in embarrassment as he playfully mocked you.

But; back to his confession though, you definitely couldn’t deny something that was completely true and after spending some seconds in silence you finally spoke up, a cigarette being held in between two of your shaky fingers so you could calm yourself down.

《Would you like me to do it now? Touch myself for you?》

《Yes. Yes. YES!》 He demanded in an almost feral manner.

You nodded in response to his pleas as the flame of your lighter lit the cigarette and kept paying attention to his delicious blasphemies. You were enjoying the moment more than you would like to admit. 《Touch yourself f-for B-Billy...》 He insisted, despair breaking in his voice. 《I want to hear your sweet moans like when you finger yourself alone.》

You held the phone between your ear and your shoulder, letting one of your hands completely free and trailing down to your skirt as the mysterious man dictated. 《Roll your skirt up… Billy wants to see your juicy ass aswell.》

Your pussy soon got filled with two of your fingers, exploring every inch of your insides.

You were so warm…

So wet…

It was hard to believe how turned on you could get by the phone calls of a creep. Being manipulated in such ways by a man that you'd never seen before.

《I'm doing it, Billy…》 You sighed, moaning his name under your soft breath. 《I'm touching myself.》

The mysterious man groaned and panted on the other side of the line, incapable of forming coherent words. 《Move the phone down to your pretty slick… Billy wants to hear the sound of your wet cunt.》

His voice sent chills down your spine while you placed the speaker close to your pussy, fingering it with oh, such passion in every one of your circular motions. Obviously, you made sure that the sound of the friction of your digits was audible enough for Billy.

《Fuck…》 He groaned once more. 《I want to taste your pretty pink cunt… Oh Y...Yes… I will. I bet it tastes as sweet as you do. B-Billy wants to lick your tits and your round juicy ass.》 The man chuckled with a childish tone as you could hear him stroking his length while getting indulged in his fantasies. 《Suck on your nipples too… Squeeze those tits ‘till they turn red like two christmas ornaments…》

His words made you shove your fingers even deeper in you. You were getting too carried away right when you heard the mysterious man hang up the phone.

You grabbed it close to your ear, wondering what happened.

《Hello? Billy? Are you still there?》

Only the empty beeping of the phone answered you, leaving you completely disappointed and wet.

You took a deep puff of your cigarette and hung up the phone in return when you got tired of listening to the dull melody of the lost connection, then mumbled something and decided to go to your room for some rest too. Maybe Jess and Barb were right after all, there was no point on wasting your time on that fucking moaner guy you all couldn’t stand.

You turned off the lights outside, blew the candles in the living room and grabbed a little candy cane from the coffee table. You thought the night was over and your only comfort now was a little sugary treat.

But, when you suddenly walked into a dark corner of the stairs, a pair of big hands pinned you on the wall. An audible yelp escaped your lips as you heard a man's voice speaking in an attempt to reassure you. It was the same one you'd always hear on the phone.

《Shh… S...Shhh… It's okay… It's me, Billy.》

The man caressed your cheeks in a sloppy manner and covered your mouth. 《Pretty piggy… Where do you think you are going? Billy isn't finished with you yet… There are so many nasty things Billy wants to do to you…》

You tried to pick small bits of his face in the darkness when he slowly released you from his grasp. It felt rather strange to see him in person.

A tall figure partially hidden in the shadows, green eyes that would stare directly into your soul and long, curly hair caressing the sides of his forehead. Billy's description didn't fit his personality at all. He had the looks of a gentleman but the mouth of the devil. Although; you had to be honest about something. You still wanted to fuck Billy despite of his looks. They didn't matter much to you when his low and menacing tone is what drove you absolutely crazy for him at first.

His hot breath hitting against your neck soon turned you on again.

《Billy… I thought you weren't interested in me anymore. Why did you hang up on me?》You pouted, wanting to tease him as an act of revenge.

The way you said those words, with such a sweet yet innocent tone made the man react in ways you exactly wanted him to.

《N...No. Billy came a-all the way here to see you. Billy craves your body.》

You dragged his fingers across the line of your lips as an excuse to turn him on as well. You liked the way he sounded, so nervous. He could break down at any moment and you liked that.

The warmth of his digits along the surface of your puffy lips, bringing goosebumps across your whole body. You parted your lips and spoke again.

《How much do you crave my body?》 You attempted to lick his index finger to which got you a slight moan in response.

《S-So much...》

《Show me then, Billy. I’ve been wanting to do this for the longest time…》

You finally confessed while you rolled your tongue out of your mouth and placed his finger on top. You sucked on it gently from the base to the tip.

———

Billy yanked your hair with such strength, dragging your puffy velvet lips to his dripping cock. His tip forced them open and soon his shaft filled your mouth hole.

Strands of hair tangled up around his fingers, both of you now locked together for god knows how long. You made the man shiver with anticipation as his tip brushed the back of your throat, leaving it hot and irritated.

You couldn't help but gag and drool repeatedly for he didn't give you a single break. But you didn't mind. You finally had what you craved.

‘‘Billy's juicy fat cock…’’

His words showed up in your brain, accompanied by a clear image of the cock that was stuffing your mouth in that very moment. Your horny mind couldn't help but recap every single quote that made you fall madly in love with him. Blame it on your degrading kink as a result of many failed relationships.

Billy bent you over with the same strength as before, ripping a yelp out of your throat while you grabbed the handrails so you wouldn't fall down the stairs and cause a scene.

Your ass now completely exposed was facing him, rubbing against his wet cock.

The man leaned over you and hands crawled around your stomach to hold you firmly as he would start rocking his hips at a slow pace. His left hand roamed free around your belly and later your clit, while his right one stayed busy pinching and twisting your nipples ever so slightly.

Billy could make you scream at any given time.

He could definitely break you. Turn you into his pretty little fucktoy, but having sex in a set of stairs definitely required some precaution.

《Billy. We should move somewhere else…》You gasped as soon as you could catch some air and already felt your whole body sore from standing up there. 《What if someone wakes up and sees us here?》

《If someone sees us…》 He repeated. 《I…It won't matter. I want them to see YOU moaning f-for Billy. Want them t…to see just how good you can take a cock.》

He purred into your ear as he covered your mouth to force your jaw open widely for him. Holding your breasts better around his hands he rubbed them together and squeezed them. You felt his wet cock pressing against your folds, desperately trying to make its way inside of you. God it felt so good to finally experience how all of his sinful threats came true one by one. Little whines came out of your mouth when you tried to accommodate to his size but he didn't let you. He was more than aware of his power and chuckled playfully.

《Billy's cock feels so good inside of your wet cunt. You are taking it so well. So tremendously well. Don't stop squealing, my little dirty piggy.》

You obeyed and let out a bunch of more moans caused by the pain of quick and deep thrusts. It was embarrassing to echo your satisfaction to an empty living room... And definitely hoped the girls closed their doors upstairs.

———

Billy noticed the red and white swirled candy that you were holding in your hands and took it from you while he turned your body around so that you could face him now.

Still holding your waist, he licked the candy cane until it would remain a little damped. You were staring at his eyes in a mix of excitement and curiosity the whole time and snickered.

He spreaded your folds and shoved the candy inside.

《Billy's gonna make this wet cunt even tastier.》

———

The chorus of early birds singing outside and gentle sunrays kissing your face woke you up the next morning. You stretched your arms, your legs and then… A pinch on your sore waist fully woke you up. You remembered what happened last night soon after that and smiled.

You sat up in bed and noticed a candy cane wrapped its plastic with a small green bow and a note. You had no idea when and how it got there, perhaps Claude; the sorority cat stole it from the silver platter downstairs and left it in your bed as a mere coincidence. You elongated your arm to pick it up and brushed strands of hair behind your ears to read it better.

It said ''Merry Christmas. With love, Billy'' in a surprisingly tidy calligraphy.

His name made your heart flutter and cheeks aroused when you remembered more details about last night.

You unwrapped the candy cane and tasted it, its sweet flavor melting in your tongue.

Maybe Christmas wasn't completely ruined this year.

[joezworld]

Express Engines

Jobey pre-read this, and when I got the first email from google docs saying there were new comments, it was just screaming. I call that a positive review!

A few weeks later - Crovan’s Gate Works

Gordon was in what seemed like a thousand pieces, but he still had the energy to have poke fun at her. “Aren’t you all dressed up,” he said weakly. “One could be mistaken for thinking that there was royalty coming ‘round.”

Caerphilly snorted, careful not to disturb the workmen clambering all over her with pots of touch-up paint and cans of polish. “Well, the Little Western has made the effort to keep up the old stylings, so it feels only fair that I do the same.” 

She paused as a workman applied a mascara-coated brush to her eyebrows. “And for your information, I was royalty on the Western. It would be inappropriate for me to look anything else for my first visit.”

Gordon raised a weary eyebrow. “And here I thought that polite society had put the Great Western Way behind it…”

“Like many other institutions, we have been led astray by our previous leaders,” she said, tone almost curt, as the men applied elegant pinstripes to her frame. “If I must don my vestments and lead the flock back into the light, then so be it.”

There was a long pause, long enough for Caerphilly to wonder if she’d accidentally offended Gordon’s eastern sensibilities. 

“You and Duck are to become the greatest of allies, or the worst of enemies,” Gordon said at last. “I do hope it’s the former.”

“I am… well aware of his positions on the matter,” Caerphilly murmured. 

“You two know each other?” Gordon’s laugh sounded more like a wheeze. “Goodness, what a sight that must have been. Did he grovel at your wheels or was this a more recent development? I wish I could have seen that.”

“He and I have a past, one that is behind us… for better or for worse.”

“A past you say..?” Gordon tried to get more information out of Caerphilly, but she steadfastly ignored him until the paint had dried, and she was allowed to leave the shed. 

-

She steamed outside in a regal cloud of steam, looking every bit the Western Queen she once had been. 

“Well,” there was a wolf whistle from somewhere inside the cloud, and the steam dissipated to reveal a very bemused looking Bear. “Don’t you look like sex on wheels. Who’s the lucky fellow? Or lady?”

“That is the most vulgar thing I think I’ve ever heard you say.” Caerphilly glared at him. Inside the cab, her crew bit back laughter. 

“What can I say? Green engines wearing mascara are a particular weakness of mine.” His eyebrows bounced up and down in an ungentlemanly fashion. “And on that note, there is only one Railcar on this island who wears mascara for fun, and the Queen of the Castle is not it.”

His eyes traced up and down her paintwork with a critic's eye. “And even Daisy would think that this much filigree isn’t worth the effort.”

“I must look the part-” Caerphilly’s voice cracked and she squeaked a little. “It’s an official visit-”

“The last time there was an “official visit” to the Western, a certain engine caused over thirty thousand pounds worth of damage just to me, killed five vans, and made an attempt on Oliver’s life,” Bear deadpanned. “I think everyone would prefer you not leaning into the pageantry.” 

Caerphilly’s mouth dropped open, and Bear continued before she could muster up a counter to his logic. “And furthermore, your “official visit” is to cover for Oliver while he gets his firebox re-lined. There’s six other engines on the island whose job that is, and you aren’t one of them. In fact, your cover duty is sitting inside like a broken Meccano set, so I’ll ask again: who’s the lucky engine?”

Caerphilly blew steam at him, and once her crew had finished laughing themselves sick, set off in a huff. “You have completely misread the situation. Good day to you!” 

“I haven’t misread shit” came a voice from inside the cloud. “But I’ll wish you luck on your “state visit” regardless. Have a good time! Say hello to, oh I don’t know… Donald, perhaps? for me!” 

Caerphilly did her best not to scream as she collected a line of freshly painted coaches and set off down the line towards Arlesburgh. 

----

1932 - Old Oak Commons Depot, London

The Queen’s Quarters were located in a private shed, tucked in between the communal roads for engines visiting from other terminals, and the “Factory” - the great repair shop that worked day in, day out. 

Banquo steamed in, a picture of hushed professionalism. Behind him trailed a larger, younger engine, fresh faced but not dewy-eyed. There was a sense of determined skill behind the engine’s gaze. 

The Queen regarded the pair. “Ah yes, Banquo, my faithful valet. Is this your chosen successor?” 

The 2721-class puffed up with repressed pride. “Yes ma’am. May I present to you 5741, better known among us as Montague. He has performed well above the norm in every duty we have given him. He is truly worthy of this position.” 

Montague seemed to snap to attention when his name was recited. “Ma’am. It will be a pleasure serving you.” 

Yes, she imagined it would be. The tank engines held her in such reverence that she often doubted they had the capacity to feel anything negative at all. “Very well. You shall begin immediately, Montague.”

This was something she’d learned at the Empire Exhibition, from Flying Scotsman; those who are unworthy - the glory seekers and the idle fops - will chafe at the lack of ceremony. Those who aspire to the duty will not. 

Bemusingly, Montague was almost relieved. Most interesting. 

-------- 

1933 

“Montague, a word.” She stopped him as he was readying her coaches for the outbound Cheltenham Flyer. 

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“Why do the other engines insist on making bird noises as you go by them?” 

The tank engine stopped, and for a brief moment his composure broke. Embarrassment spread across his face, and he turned a deep red. “Ah- well, you see Ma’am, the others… they, um, they have decided that I…” 

“Yes?” she said, keeping a regal demeanour no matter how much she wanted to burst out laughing. 

“Well Ma’am, you see… it appears that I waddle from side to side,” he said at last, thoroughly red in the face. 

“You’re a pannier tank,” she said, raising a single eyebrow. “It is a known occurrence.” 

“Yes, well, you see, I don’t know why, but they have decided that I do so more than the rest, and so they have - well to answer your question they make bird calls because they have given me the nickname of 'Duck,' Ma’am.” It was a garbled mess of a sentence, but the last words hit her like an express train. 

“Ah. Yes. I see. Schoolyard name-calling. I apologize for asking.” Her sentences were short, clipped, trying desperately to keep the laughter inside.

“Oh, no no no, Ma’am!” He almost fell over himself trying to apologize. She must. Not. Laugh. “It’s fine! It’s fine! We all have these nicknames - it’s just that�� well I don’t know why they’re doing this to me but it must be something innocent.” 

“I see,” she said with short syllables. “Thank you, Montague.” 

“Of course Ma’am. Um, if you wish, you can call me Duck too.” He looked relieved that the conversation was ending. 

“I will not.” 

“Of course Ma’am.”

She managed to hold it in for almost twenty minutes, until the Flyer was well out of Paddington and streaking towards Swindon. Then, she let the laughter out in one continuous cackling howl that lasted a full mile. 

Duck. What a silly name. 

-------

1935 

“Duck?”

“Yes Ma’am?” 

“If I may ask, is there a specific reason why you sleep amongst your fellows, and not in the quarters you have been provided here?” 

The Queen’s Quarters had a second road specifically for the Valet, directly underneath a reproduction of her official portrait, enlarged to be thrice its original size. Banquo had used it frequently, as had Lear before him. Both found the picture comforting, a reminder of their service. Duck had slept here for the first few months, but had stopped at some point before the year’s end. Caerphilly wondered if he found the portrait as unsettling as she did - a cold, emotionless version of herself staring down from the wall at almost life size.

Duck didn’t even pause to think about it, and to her surprise the portrait never came up. “The other engines found it unfair that I get special treatment, Ma’am. I’m inclined to agree - if I hadn’t been selected, I’d be out there with them, and that’s not fair at all.” 

It actually was quite fair in her mind - he had a special job with special skills, and was awarded as such; but knowing the mind of the rank and file was something she always struggled with, and mayhaps they had a point. 

She dismissed him to shunt her next train, thoughts swirling in her smokebox. 

--

The next night, some of Duck’s fellows were chortling around the back of the coaling stage. Capulet, Mercutio, Tybalt - all 5700s, were laughing with each other at some great joke. Ignored on one side was a larger engine, a dirty 3000-Class 2-8-0 dating to the Great War. The filth clung to him like a cloak, covering his green paint and brass nameplates. A rag laid carelessly over the one facing outwards, and the engine’s name of “Celestine I” was completely obscured. He listened closely, making excellent mental notes of not only their words but their responses to those of others. After a short while, 5741 himself pulled up to the stage, heralded by a chorus of quacks and other bird calls. While appearing friendly, the big engine made a note of their facial expressions; none were jocular, and they all had unkind glints in their eyes. 

This went on for a while, until Benvolio arrived. Whistling gaily, he put himself between his brother and the rest of the engines and proceeded to make a spectacle of himself so ridiculous that the others could not help but turn their mockery on him. 

The 2-8-0 decided to take his leave at this time. He had other sources of information to find. 

--

The meeting occurred late the next morning, near the same coaling stage. The engine was cleaner, and looked far more respectable than he had last night. His paint had been polished and his nameplates shone. Tybalt, Mercutio, and the others chuffed right past him without a second look. 

“Well?” the Queen said simply. 

“It’s jealousy and idolatry,” said her spymaster. “There is such a separation between the nobles and the commoners that they view you as untouchable. Anyone granted entry to your private chambers is ipso facto better than the rest. To sleep in such quarters…?” He trailed off. “He would be barred from his life by his friends and his family. You recall Lear and Banquo? How they devoted their lives to you? It might have been by choice, but only at first. Tall poppies are the first to be cut down.”

“I had no idea…” The queen’s eye trembled, the mask slipping just so.

“Few do,” he consoled. “They talk often, but say little. One must hold an ear to the rails and keep both eyes open to learn what I have.”

“So how do I fix it?” she asked, with the hopeless optimism of an engine that hadn’t been subjected to the horrors of the western front. 

“Fix?” He bit back a chuckle. “There is no fix. This is a mania that stretches back to Brunel himself. The only way to fix this is to destroy our society, including us, and then start anew.”

“Then what do I do?” The hopeless optimism continued. 

“Well,” he said, keeping his voice level even as he wanted to talk some sense into her. “If you must have your valet by your side even as you sleep, then he must be chosen by a higher power. The others may not like it, but they shall respect it. It is, after all, a Queen’s duty to place him in this position of peril.” 

The Gilbert and Sullivan quote was not well received. “Peril, Celestine?” 

The 2-8-0 remained steadfast. “Some may claim that he was given a choice. They may appeal to him as an equal, despite his position. He will most likely chafe against the realization that he is not an equal. Even if you press-ganged him in broad daylight, some may claim that he still holds a favoured rank, and hate him for it.”

“You provided me with such good options.” She said in a flat tone. “One would almost think that the correct choice is to do nothing.”

“The only way to know is hindsight, and the only way to achieve hindsight is to act.” He said simply. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

She did not respond, and he took his leave. 

------

Her time came several nights later. That night’s performance of Utopia, Limited was particularly ennobled, with multiple Kings, Saints, Stars, Manors, and Halls performing alongside the usual assortment of Bulldogs, Dukes, Dukedogs, Birds, and of course, the Queen and her retinue of Castles. The merriment went long into evening, before the engines eventually broke away for the many night trains that befitted their stations in life. 

The Queen had no duties that evening, and stood in the center of the yard, waiting for the rush of engines and trains to pass around her. Royalty or otherwise, light engine moves were at the bottom of the signaller’s priority list. 

She moved slowly, on a winding route that circumnavigated the great shed with its four turntables. Even at the late hour, trains streamed by in all directions. A single stationary shape caught her eye. 

It was him, asleep on a siding, snoring away. His fellows were nearby, making rude comments to each other. 

She acted with as much speed as she could muster, given the circumstances. Slowly, she drew onto the road that went past him. Stopping before the switch, it was a matter of moments for her driver to change the points. 

The snickering and laughing from Capulet and the rest stopped the moment they saw her. They stayed silent as the Queen coupled up to him, and slowly pulled him away. 

---

Later, they were safely ensconced in the royal sheds. He was beside her, and she felt somewhat… at peace. Perhaps she liked having a second presence in the opulent quarters. 

“You didn’t have to do that Ma’am.” He said sleepily. 

“I did.” Caerphilly murmured. “They would have given you no peace any other way.”

“I hope you’re right, Ma’am.” he said, before falling back asleep. 

“I hope so too…” She whispered.

-------

1937

The workers had arranged the books in sequence, and then taken their leave. On one buffer, the Queen was most pleased - it would be most unbecoming for her weaknesses to be shown in public like this. On the other, Caerphilly Castle would really like to find whoever decided that spare milk vans needed to be stored behind the sheds and have a word with them. 

“Ma’am?” Duck bustled in, dripping wet from the washdown rack. “What are you looking at?”

“Shunting diagrams,” she said, letting the mask drop a little. “Ones I should already know.”

“Shunting diagrams? You’re not exactly one of us Paddies, now.” He said this with a familiarity that Lear and Banquo would never have allowed. 

“But I am the Queen,” she said, knowing that the stress would show regardless. “And so I must know all.” 

“Well,” he was pulled closer, his driver then setting the brakes and departing for a meal break. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Is it just me, or is this milk van storage chart unintuitive to a hopeless degree?”

“Oh goodness, that’s the June revision, isn’t it? Yes we store them differently because it keeps them out of the sun. The shadows are totally different in the summer than they are in the winter…”

For the next hour, he kept on like this, telling her about the incredible minutiae of the railway. Things that she didn’t even know were possible, he casually spoke of. It was fascinating, in a very unusual way. She found that his ability to summarize, to easily condense reams of documents into a short sentence or three, to make the unknowable easy… breathtaking.

---

A few days later, The Queen was assigned a fast milk train to Wootton Bassett. The train left from Mitre Bridge, nearly within sight of Old Oak Common, and while usually the tanks and Siphons would be ready for her, on this day there had been a points failure deep in the yard. The Paddie Shunters, ranging from Capulet, Benvolio, and Tybalt, down to younger engines like Petruchio and Bianca, were trapped inside the roads for the coaling stand while men with hammers and torches worked furiously to free them. 

The bigger engines, whose more prestigious lodgings were not affected, complained mightily. As the Queen surveyed the yard, it was an almost perfect mix of engines who held her favour, and those who didn’t. Those who did, complained from a place of legitimacy - a single truck could be buried several roads deep, and the delays would keep piling up - while those who didn’t… were complaining about having work at all. 

Pendennis Castle was particularly loud, whinging and complaining his way through the yard as he collected the rake of coaches for the Cornish Riviera Express. It grew so appalling that Olton Hall - who, as a visitor from another shed had no social standing to criticize - looked about ready to speak up. He certainly had no problems collecting a line of goods vans, and The Queen made a note of his work ethic and good spirit. 

“This is beneath me!” Pendennis shouted to everyone and nobody. 

“As are the rails,” she said, steaming past him into the goods yards. “And yet without them you would be nowhere.”

“Oh, what a pithy line, your majesty.” He scoffed, and there was an offended whistle from Olton’s direction. “Have you any other weak aphorisms to dispense from on high?”

“Oi!” The Hall-class yelped. “You will show her the respect she’s owed!”

“And I am doing exactly that…” Pendennis growled. 

“Gentlemen, please.” She wanted to shove Pendennis through a wall, but doing so with witnesses would be unbecoming. “We all have work to do…”

Without another word, she steamed away to find the milk vans. As she rounded the corner, she heard Pendennis and Olton begin arguing again. The specifics were muddled, but eventually there was an exasperated cry of “if you think she’s so infallible, wait until she tries to find the milk vans - those damn panniers will hide them in every dark hole between here and creation except for where they’ve been diagrammed to be parked!” 

There was no-one on this side of the goods sheds. The mask dropped, and a vicious smile spread across Caerphilly’s smokebox. 

Less than ten minutes later, she had the entire train of milk tanks rolling behind her. The mask went back up, a placid expression hiding the imp inside. Pendennis was flabbergasted; Olton was at once reverent and smug. 

-

The next night, Duck was most surprised to find himself being bundled off to The Factory for a repaint. His paint was in fine condition, he protested, but he was ignored - these orders came from a “higher power.”

The next night, he was in the Queen’s Quarters looking rather shy. “Th-thank you, Ma’am.” He said quietly. “This was very kind of you to arrange.”

He was now adorned in the same delicate filigree as she was - a sign that he was a member of the royal household, rather than a replaceable employee. Not even Lear had been given this honor, and Banquo had rejected the “ornamentation” as being well above his station. 

“It’s only right,” she said, mask firmly in place. “You are a member of my retinue, after all.”

Then, the mask dropped. “And, you bloody well earned it. I’m proud of you, Duckie.”

-------

1938 

Lode Star was an older engine, feisty and impudent in a manner totally unbecoming of her age, but she rarely spoke falsehoods, and often had a keen eye for glory seekers and the unworthy. She was a valued member of the Queen’s counsel as a result. “So, I hear your footman has been given a promotion.”

“Yes, head of the carriage works shunters.” The Queen felt very proud. “He might make head of Paddington within the decade.”

“Provided that they don’t ship him off to the front, or something like that.” Celestine was one of the other trusted members of her counsel. “War is coming, you know. Management will never admit it, but just you wait.”

“Then we’ll get through it, just like we did the last one.” Star said primly. “You forget that I was here, dodging zeppelin bombs while you had a holiday in Paris.”

“I was behind the lines-!” 

“Please, you two.” The Queen spoke up, letting her mask slip slightly. Out came the slightest glint of Caerphilly underneath. “If you continue talking like that I will make you get a room.”

Celestine stuttered and Lode Star gawped, and the mask went back up. 

“Well how unfortunate for us that we are not graced with our own eternal lover’s nest!” Star sniped back. “It must be nice to have that privacy, even if all you do is pine over him endlessly.”

The mask fell off.  “How could you know about that?”

“Anyone with a brain could see it,” the other engine sniffed. “Which nobody else has. Tell me, has he noticed yet?”

The mask stayed off for a long time. Her face betrayed what her voice concealed.

“I thought not.” 

---------------

1940 

War had come to the world. London was under nightly siege from the skies above. 

The railway, and its social structures and organization that had been with them all for generations, was gone, subsumed into a massive government operation focused entirely towards national defence. Gone was the green that had clad them, replaced by flat black, and the letters GW. Troop trains ruled the rails, and even the Cheltenham Flyer had to lay over for them. 

Only the barest shreds of the lives they had lived in 1939 remained. They still sang Gilbert and Sullivan in the sheds at night, there were still crack expresses to the Cornish riviera, and everything was still Great Western in spirit, if not always in design. 

Inside the grounds of Old Oak Common, the world was slightly more normal than it was elsewhere. The huge shed was still a bastion of Western power, with only a few interlopers making their way from the LMS and LNER networks. If one stayed entirely within its confines, the war could almost be ignored. 

Inside the yard, buried deep within the walls of the shed, the Queen’s Quarters remained the same. A man from the government had made vulgar noises at the palatial state of the facilities, but Great Western men, citing the rich lineage of the tapestries and posters, dating back to Brunel himself, convinced them to spare the fineries from the cloth and metal drives that swept the country. 

Caerphilly would rather they have taken the lot of them. While the Queen may need her fineries, Engine No. 4073 could survive with far less. 

--

Darkness fell upon the land, lights snuffing out under blackout regulations. It took less than an hour for the air raid sirens to go off, and a keen ear could soon hear the drone of propellers in the sky. 

Inside her well-appointed room, Caerphilly kept an urgent watch on the door. She couldn’t do anything about the bombers but… 

“I’m here! I’m here!” Duck steamed in through the open door, shunting abandoned. His crew had scarcely the time to set his brakes before they slammed the shed doors shut and ran for a shelter. 

Caerphilly looked down on him in surprise. They hadn’t bothered to throw the switch for his road, and their buffers were now touching.

The bombs started falling like distant thunder, wave after wave destroying houses and industries in the middle distance. The fires soon cast an awful light through the windows. 

“They’re close tonight.” Duck said, panting hard from his mad dash across the yard. “Hopefully they don’t hit us.”

He spoke too soon. Within a quarter hour, the bombs began dropping into the tightly packed neighborhoods that surrounded the yard. Thunderclap followed earthquake as the world ended around them. The building shook, and the walls trembled. The tapestries and posters fell from their hooks, and the massive portrait split itself in half as a crack ran through the brick behind it. 

“We may not make it out of this one!” Duck shouted over the hellish din. “It’s been an honor serving you Ma’am! A real privilege!”

She looked at him, totally bowled over by the idea that his last thoughts would be of her. 

A massive crash outside shook the very air, and death seemed suddenly imminent. “I love you.” she said, so quiet it could scarcely be heard. 

“What?” 

There was a half-second of doubt, a voice that screamed “you don’t have to do this.” She silenced it. 

“I love you!” she yelled, over the bombs, over the sirens, over the sudden ringing in her hearing. “I’m not going to die without telling you that I love you!” 

He looked shocked, eyes wide, mouth half-open. Smoke rose from his funnel in sudden jagged bursts. A trickle of steam wheeshed out of his cylinders, pooling around their wheels. In the darkened room, the whites of his eyes stood out the most, and despite all of her training, all of her skill, all of her stature, she had no idea what was going on behind those eyes. 

A bomb hit somewhere close, possibly within the yard, and the entire world jumped. Even the engines’ hundred-ton-plus weight was not enough, and they rocked back and forth on their suspension. It was entirely possible that this could be “it” for them. Caerphilly - both the Queen and Not - decided that she had to do this. The time may never come again. 

She lurched forwards, leaning down on her suspension just enough to hook her buffers under his, and kissed him. 

She’d expected it to be a chaste kiss, a single action that fulfilled a task: show him how you feel about him. It was supposed to take a second, and last her for a lifetime. (which may not be much longer than that.)

She didn’t expect him to push back, to meet her kiss and keep going - to reciprocate, saying without words exactly what he felt about her admission. It was an exhilarating feeling, a relief, a joy. 

They kissed and they loved as the bombs fell around them, and all was well within their shed. 

------------

1944

A Southern Railway engine had been sent into their stronghold. Named Union Castle after the shipping line, it was immediately obvious why the government functionaries had made the error.  

She was a fine engine, sure footed and fairly swift, but even a short excursion into Western territory was too much for her, and she took the GWR’s ways as well as Pendennis did to shunting. Paperwork was being filed to send her home post haste, but until then, she cast an oddly shaped shadow over the proceedings at Old Oak Common. 

The Southern was evidently a most egalitarian railway, and many scandalous noises were made as the “air-smoothed” Pacific made equal small talk with the tank engines as she did with her express passenger contemporaries. 

The Queen was immediately beseeched by her followers to put a stop to this, but kept her tongue still. The stodgy class system of the Western was ideal to no-one, in her view, and any chance at changing it was welcome. 

Unfortunately, the one opportunity to bring about said change was about as rude as she was rectangular. “Oh, you store what back here?” she sniffed one evening, in the middle of a long conversation that seemed intent on offending every tank engine within earshot. “We wouldn’t keep cattle trucks back here. Not that we have many cattle trucks, seeing as we don’t need to rely on freight that much compared to you all, but my point still stands.”

Other evenings were spent going from one offended party to another yet-to-be-offended party, and soon even Duck had ill words about the “spamcan,” which he muttered to Caerphilly as they bedded down for the night. “I daren’t speak ill of anyone, but this one is an exception… she is very lucky that she has the skills to back up her mouth, otherwise someone might put her through a wall!”

-

Later, with the engine’s transfer still in the bureaucratic shuffle, Lode Star rolled up, unexpectedly grim. “She’s been cutting a swathe through the tank engines. I have it on good authority that Tre Pol and Pen is looking to start a riot. Nunney wants to see if we can paint a target on her boiler big enough for the V-2s to see.”

“Edging in on Celestine’s work I see? He’s rubbing off on you.” Caerphilly smirked before the mask went up. “Define 'swathe' for me.”

“What you do in the privacy of your own shed, she does behind the carriage sidings.”

“How obscene.”

“Too right.”

“How has she managed to convince anyone to…?”

“Apparently her refusal to kiss your ring has made her quite the rebellious beauty among those who view Hillingdon as a exotic locale.”

“Funny, considering I haven’t asked her to do any such thing.”

“Well there’s that too.” Lode Star rolled her eyes. “Your buffers-off handling of this has been well and good, but someone needs to lay down the law, lest the groundlings get uppity.”

“I was under the impression that the war was with Germany, not Waterloo.”

“Being soft is a peacetime ideal. You are not Chamberlain, and you know it.”

 “Ruling this railway with an iron fist is not my style either, Star, and you know that.”

“If I ever start advocating for that, feel free to ask for my resignation. I just want you to have some steel inside the velvet.”

This would have continued for some time, but there was a gentle cough, and Celestine melted out of the shadows. “Ma’am, I apologize for interrupting but, I feel your hand may be forced one way or the other.”

“And why would that occur, exactly?” 

The 2-8-0’s face was inscrutable. “It would appear that your ‘footman’ has attracted the attention of our Southern guest."

--

It was by one of the far water columns that the scene was set. Civil blood was moments away from staining multiple sets of civil buffers, as Union Castle leered at a number of tank engines while the bigger express engines looked on in displeasure. At the head of the group was Montague, the Queen’s footman. He was trying to act as a barrier between three sub-groups of his fellows. 

On one side, Tybalt and Mercutio took the side of the express engines, baying like hounds for the Bullied Pacific to go back from whence she came.

On the other, Juliet and a host of smaller pannier tanks from a variety of classes were cowering in the corner, trying to draw as little attention as possible. 

Between them, Claudio, Hero, Gregory, and Sampson were all trying to do the exact opposite, puffing themselves up to try and draw Union Castle’s wandering eye. 

Of course, the wandering eye was focused most intently on the intricate filigree of Montague’s bunker, and stayed that way until Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, arrived. 

King George V, King of the Westerners, standing with a group of her fellows along with a sizable number of Halls and Manors, tried to elaborate on the circumstances, but the Queen called for silence. 

Naturally, the Southerner paid this no mind, and continued making lecherous remarks about the Footman until the Queen called for a private audience in a nearby shed. The Southerner agreed, mostly due to the Queen’s careful wording, making the request sound far more… erotic than it actually was. 

The two engines disappeared around a corner, and the King and the Footman set about dispersing the crowd. There was a war on still, and personal drama would not win it.

Minutes stretched into tens, and those who had legitimate business being at the water column wondered if maybe they had mis-interpreted the Queen’s words. 

Then there was a muffled shout, a whistle of anger, a whistle of fear, and a screech of metal. The Southerner was suddenly shoved through the wall of a nearby goods shed in a shower of bricks and a cloud of steam. The Queen had applied sufficient force for Union Castle to fully leave the building, smashing into gravel and sleepers piled behind. 

Minutes later, as steam continued to hiss from the dented Spamcan, the Queen emerged from around the building. The mask was not placid, and instead a sense of righteous anger covered her very being. 

She said nothing as she collected her Footman, and made to return to her shed. 

“None of you saw anything.” She growled to the remaining engines, her tone making it very clear that this statement was ex cathedra. 

A sea of terrified faces heartily agreed. 

-------

“Might I ask what brought you to such violence?” Duck asked, snuggled up against her later, during the few hours they had to each other each day.

“She was quite amenable, right until I suggested that she stop harassing your fellows.” Caerphilly murmured. “Then she became quite insistent. She demanded someone to ‘warm her berth’ each night, and suggested that maybe the 'cute little tank engine with all the filigree' could be sent her way in exchange for her compliance.”

“And so you put her through the wall?”

“Oh goodness no, not on purpose. I forgot which shed we were in. I assumed that it was the one that backed up to the canal.”

“Oh…” Duck said quietly. 

“What?”

“You really are fond of me, aren’t you?” 

“You are everything to me.”

-----------------------

1945

Glory, Glory, the war was over. Women cheered and men cried. Lights stayed on throughout the night for the first time since 1939, and the BBC played a celebratory tune across all civilian airwaves. Caerphilly Castle, Queen of the Westerners, ran a packed express service from Cornwall the next day. While there were still dozens of military trains carrying men and supplies, for the first time in six years they gave way to her.

It was a joy that was infectious, and it spread throughout the country at the speed of the wireless. Engines up and down the railway put aside their grievances and cheered together. At Old Oak, Pendennis even took the time to lead the tank engines in a rousing chorus of God Save the King. 

The world was headed towards a brighter future, and they would all be there for it. 

The train pulled into Paddington on time - not on time for 1945, but for the old 1938 timetable - and eased to a stop in a cloud of smoke and steam. Waiting all the way at the end of the platform was a young woman in a nurse’s uniform. The instant the train had come to a stop and the brakes were set, the driver flung himself out of the cab and into her arms. They hugged and they kissed like they hadn’t seen each other in years, and Caerphilly attempted to give them some privacy. Then there was a squeal of delight, and she looked to find the driver on one knee. 

------

She mentioned the occurrence to Duck that night. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful for them.” he said kindly. “They must be so happy.” 

Caerphilly said nothing in reply, and he looked at her. She was deep in thought. “I said they must be so happy..?”

“What would it be like to be married?” she said, looking for all the world like she hadn’t realized that she said it out loud. “Would it be any different from normal?”

“Well,” he said quietly. “I think it shows that two people love each other so much that they’re willing to tie themselves together. Kind of like the permanent coupling on the articulated coaches.”

“That would be nice,” she said, dream-like. “An endless and unbreakable thread connecting the hearts forever.”

He looked at her, once, twice, three times. “Putting aside the 'can' for right now, do you… want to get married?”

She blinked rapidly, expression turning owlish. He now realized that she hadn’t realized that she’d been saying anything at all!

-------

A few days later, a hushed and secret ceremony was held in the main shed. All of the big engines were barred on royal orders, save for Celestine, Lode Star, and King George V. A single tank engine - Juliet, a sibling of Duck’s who could be trusted with a secret - was also in attendance. Celestine officiated, and George gave her blessing on behalf of the Great Western. 

And then, just like that, it was over. The two newlyweds departed to their next jobs, feeling both the same, and permanently different. If they looked down, they could almost see the invisible thread that tied them together. 

--------

1948 

And just like that, the Great Western was gone. 

The government, the amorphous, faceless creation of man, had decided that all needed to run by its orders. Electricity, mining, shipping, buses, lorries, and yes, railways. The Great Western, which had an unbroken lineage going back to the days of Brunel some 113 years ago, was gone with a few strokes of a pen at Westminster. 

Those with sources on other lines reported that it was being viewed as a blessing as much as it was a curse. The North-Western and the LMS had taken a ruddy beating during the war, and the money to restore it all did not come cheap or easy. The LNER was too proud to admit if things were bad, but they remained notably silent in those early days. The Southern was apparently still somewhat flush with money, and complained mightily about the loss of their independence; the follow-up statement that the new Southern Region would be staffed almost entirely by former Southern Railway employees mollified them instantly. 

On the Western, however, it was the end. The end of so much more than could ever be said in words.

There was a weeklong period of mourning that went from the lowest Welsh shunter to the highest floor of the headquarters building in London. The Queen had to issue edicts just for work to be done, and her closest disciples were instrumental in spreading calm - Celestine in particular; he gave entire sermons to distraught sheds, preaching resignation and fortitude. 

It seemed to work, but “render to Westminster what is Westminster's, and to Brunel what is Brunel's” could only go so far. Engines threatened action of various kinds - the sort that only happens during the ultimate breakdown of society. Work stoppages were frequent during those first days, passenger and freight trains held up for interminable reasons for indefinite times. Engines from other roads - now their co-workers - were drafted in to help at certain sheds, although their efficacy was mixed; at Penzance, the sight of an LNER Pacific striding in was enough to throw everyone into a double-timed frenzy of resumed productivity; at Plymouth Laira, the arrival of a pair of Southern Q1s turned a simple strike into a violent industrial action that snarled services for three days. 

The men in suits were most displeased. They scurried around the network, Old Oak Common most especially, taking notes and in search of answers. Every time they found a clue, their frowns grew deeper. They eventually came to the Queen, flush with questions about her leadership, and how the engines “worshipped her.” 

The questions were insulting at a base level, and Celestine, Star, and Duck all bristled on her behalf, but she remained placid. Their questions were answered politely, fully, and with some vague semblance of accuracy. 

A few days later, they left, and the Queen gathered her council. “If this keeps up, they will try and break us. Our best course of option may be-”

“Don’t you say it.” Lode Star glared. “They’re only out here because Plymouth is rioting.”

“And it has already done so,” Celestine grumbled. “The cat is out of the bag, no putting it back in. We bend the knee now, and we give away everything for a gain of naught.”

They stared at her expectantly. The mask did not lift. “Do either of you have an alternative plan? It’s not as if we can raise a pirate flag and run trains as we see fit.”

Neither of them did. 

“Have a plan, but don’t do anything,” a fourth voice - Duck’s voice - said from beside her, and all attention turned to him. “It’s like dealing with the coach yards. Things could go wrong with the fussy things, and you’ve got to plan for it, but most of the time nothing goes wrong.”

“You think that is a better plan than mine?” Celestine said in his low grumble. “Or hers?”

“Well,” Duck slowly drawled. “Rolling over didn’t work for Chamberlain, but fighting back didn’t work for the Poles either. We’re going to have to handle this as it comes.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” Lode Star muttered. “All the fighting in the world won’t save you if you’re already in the ghetto.”

Celestine grumbled something about Warsaw and Llanelli but otherwise said nothing.

“So it’s settled then,” the Queen said, with firm aplomb. “We shall call for calm, and do nothing for the time being. But, we will have actionable plans in place for if or when they decide to come for us.”

-----------------------------

1950

Two years later, their plan was holding firm. Picking up the pieces from the long and grueling war seemed to be the top priority of the men in suits, and some even spoke of the “difficulties” of 1948 as merely “frustrations left over from the war.” 

True to their word - as told to the Southern region, among other places - few changes to leadership or operations were made, and if one ignored the “BRITISH RAILWAYS” lettered across freshly-shopped tenders, it was almost like nothing had happened. Even the prophesied horde of engines from other regions was proving false - aside from some through trains and the odd motive power shortage, (and the infamous locomotive trials) few non-Western engines trod upon Brunel’s kingdom in those early years. True, there was some rumbling of the new CME (a Midland man, the shame of it) designing new “Standard” classes, but the rumour mill provided equally swift news that Swindon would be producing them in large numbers, so they couldn’t be all bad. 

The Queen watched this all happen with wary eyes, but even Celestine’s numerous contacts could not figure out if a penny was indeed about to drop. 

----

On a more positive note,  the Queen’s footman was visited once again by tidings of his own competence, and was granted the ultimate promotion: Head Shunter, Paddington Station. 

The Queen was so overjoyed for him that the mask fell completely, and Caerphilly Castle gathered him up into a quite amorous kiss behind the coaling stage. 

There was a quiet cough as the two separated, and Pendennis Castle looked on with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. 

“Breathe a word of this and I’ll kill you.” She said it with such steel it may well have been ex cathedra, and the royal sibling scuttled away. 

-------------

1951

The end started sooner than anyone had anticipated. 

It came in waves over the course of the summer. New engines - almost all of LMS design - would be introduced to the railway network. Built at various works across the country, they could go anywhere and do anything. Those “in the know” believed that these new engines would not be taught the old ways, and would not have allegiances to their works, as thousands of Swindon, Crewe, Eastleigh, and Doncaster engines had before. 

Then, came the hammerblow that the long-awaited “unification” of the railway system would begin. While “old” engines would be kept within their existing depots for the most part, the “new” would be free to traipse across the country at their leisure. It did not take a genius-level intellect that “new” was standing in for “useful” in this phraseology. 

Speaking of the new engines, it was obvious that they would need roles to fill, and thus, some engines would have to be replaced. The especially geriatric classes were up on the chopping block: the LNER’s J17s dated back to the last century, the LMS had engines dating back to the Midland, and the Western… well the Stars were almost fifty years old, weren’t they?

The withdrawals had apparently been happening slowly, taking engines based at outlying depots one by one, almost as if to avoid notice. 

The council, even with Celestine’s spiderweb of intelligence, the Queen’s watchful eye, and Duck and Lode Star’s network of friends and enemies, never saw it coming. They had expected, planned on, anticipated, a sort of violent overthrow - one fell swoop, a single order issued from on high that declared them all unfit for use, something that could be rebelled against, but it never came. Instead, the assault was silent and bureaucratic, every decision couched in phrases of “economic viability” and “service life.” Nobody knew if this was merely a first step of a grander scheme, or simply the new normal. 

These silent methods meant it was never apparent when they should deploy their old war plans, or indeed what good they could do in the face of this silent, bureaucratic Revolution. Several times they planned a counter, but found that no single person could ever be named as the figurehead. There was no face to this opposition, just the amorphous cloud of “business.” 

Rebellion against a person was easy, but to do so against an uncaring spreadsheet was another matter. 

Eventually, the strikes began hitting home, hammering the very foundations of Old Oak and its Queen. Lode Star left one day on a limited bound for Reading, and never came back. Word eventually filtered back to London that she’d failed outside of Swindon with a cracked cylinder, and had been withdrawn on the spot. Another engine had hauled her into the works for what they thought would be a repair, and after that, she vanished, disposition unknown. 

The shed mourned her, and an empty road was left near the main turntable for many nights. When it eventually filled, it was by Celestine, who cried bitter tears whenever he thought he was alone. 

The Queen herself was in a state of shock that not even the mask could cover, and the yard soon realized that no one was truly safe. As the year went on, morale dropped, and subsequent visits from management were met with increasing levels of hostility. Withdrawals began to happen in the middle of the night, or after completing runs to far-off locales, and the anger and desperation grew tenfold by year’s end. 

Throughout this, The Queen’s footman remained steadfastly by her side. “I’m with you until the end,” he said, buffered up to her as she mourned the withdrawal of another sibling. 

“And what if the end is sooner than we think?” she sniffed. 

“Then I’ll be grateful for the time I had.”

------------

1954

London’s newest edict was the first time that everyone understood the true scale of the threat they were up against. It was the edict from on high that would have spurred a revolution three years ago; now, everyone was a little older, a little more tired. The mundanity of life under British Railways had dulled the sense of danger just enough that the rank and file did not clamor for revolt until it was far too late. 

The edict, inventively named “Modernisation and Re-Equipment of the British Railways,” called for the complete abolishment of Steam, and the replacement of all steam engines with Diesel and Electric as soon as possible.  

Nobody was entirely sure what to make of this at Old Oak. Diesel was a novelty, restricted to a few funny-looking shunters and lorries on the street. Electric was far more well known, but there was some confusion as to how the London Underground could replace fast goods trains. They kept their guard up nonetheless, and all ears were kept firmly against the rail. 

What they found worried them. On the Southern, huge numbers of suburban trains were operated by electric-powered coaches, and engines could apparently be run off of this system as well. On the Midland, test units built before the nationalization had shown the possibility of huge diesel powered express engines, easily capable of taking work from all but the strongest steam engines. 

Morale dropped further, and then took a menacing turn when it was revealed that the Southern’s steam engines had taken to this news poorly, and began revolting against their electric comrades. “We can fight them…” came the whisper, angry and cloying. “Maybe we can kill them.”

------------

1955

The whispers did not stay silent for long. “Troublemakers” were soon identified and excised, whether by scrap or by transfer, it was ultimately unclear and not relevant. Old Oak was rapidly turning into a gruellia camp, and those few men in suits walked around with swiveling heads. 

The Queen had given up on ever restoring order. Unless she could muster up an army capable of sacking London, this was not a war she could win, and so she let it rage. As Celestine said, “better to go angry into the cold night as a warrior than to stay warm as a servant.”

Eventually, even the regal mask could not contain her. After six of her most faithful confidants were transferred away in a single night, she lashed out, dousing a group of BR men in boiling steam, injuring them to the point of needing hospitalization. 

“That was a very stupid thing you did,” Duck said as they sat in the shed, dreading the dawn’s first light. 

“Burning them?” 

“Getting caught.”

“And what happened to the rule-follower I know and love?” 

“They withdrew Benvolio last night. And Juliet.” 

A sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry, I-”

“I hadn’t had a chance to tell you.” 

A long, poignant pause followed. 

“What do you think will happen to us?”

“I don’t know. Til death do us part, I assume.”

“Til death it is, then.” 

-------------

As it turned out, it was worse than death. 

She ventured forth on a long trip to Cardiff, feeling the whole time like the world was about to collapse on top of her. Pulling into the station, she failed in a cloud of steam, a piston seal giving out after years of neglect.

A grim-faced shunter pulled her into the shed, and to everyone’s surprise, she was put on the repair docket for later in the week. Unlike Old Oak, which had been slowly turning into a den of vipers, Cardiff Canton was still much as the Western had left it. Spirits were higher than she’d seen in years, and even the now-prevalent Britannia-class engines were being treated warmly. 

Worry began to seep in after a day, as she discovered that many of Old Oak’s more mechanically sound “troublemakers” had not been withdrawn as she had thought, instead getting transferred to the Welsh capital. Lode Star was not among them, but many other familiar faces were, ranging from King George V to Raglan Castle. 

They all trod around her like she was made of glass, and a pit grew in her firebox until the men came to mend her. They brought with them all the appropriate tools needed to fix the seal… as well as a set of new depot plates. Gone was Old Oak’s 81A, replaced with the 86C of Cardiff Canton. 

“So this is it, then?” she asked dully. “A kingdom in exile? Pendennis left to rule the roost?”

-------

It took almost two months to get back to London. British Rail was quickly installing new management in the Western Region, and they were keen to keep the troublemakers as far away from the “capital” of the GWR locomotive fleet as possible. In the end she had to resort to threats and bribery, taking a long meat train into the goods platforms at Paddington, before making her way to Old Oak. 

She was expecting some sort of welcome, but the yard exploding into shock was not within the realm of possibility. 

“You’re here!” yelled a suburban tank, so loud she could almost see his boiler tubes through his gawping mouth. 

“It’s her!” said Paris, another of Duck’s siblings. 

King Edward II almost backed through a wall as he refused to take eyes off her. 

Caerphilly felt the mask come back on, and the Queen went in search of answers. 

-

She found them, and Pendennis, in an empty and bare Royal Shed. “They said that you’d been cut up…” he said, sounding legitimately horrified. “We held a funeral. Half of London thinks you dead.”

She didn’t say anything, eyes scanning the bare walls. 

“They-they came and took everything down a week after you die- left,” Pendennis stammered. “What were we supposed to think?”

She didn’t even care enough to answer. “Where’s Duck?” 

“I-I- I don’t know. He said something about ‘til death do you part’ and then… he left. Got transferred, something.”

She left Pendennis, stammering and terrified, and went in search of answers. 

------

“I don’t know where he went.” Celestine recovered from seeing her rise from the dead rather well. “He didn’t tell anyone and he didn’t ask for specifics. He took some coaching stock to Euston and told the Midlanders to take him North.”

The Queen didn’t say anything, and stared down her spymaster. 

“I don’t know,” he said with a hint of desperation and sadness. “I don’t think he knows. I can find out, but I don’t think it’ll help. He got a two month head start, and…” 

“And what?”

Celestine gulped, a moment of vulnerability she’d never seen before. “He- he left his nameplates. And his paint. Had them do him up in black like every other new engine they’ve got.” he looked her in the eyes, tears welling up. “Caerphilly, you died, and he parted.”

The world seemed a lot grayer, after that, and the queen left Old Oak Common, never to return. 

--------------

1957 

Celestine had followed in her wake, traveling to her exiled kingdom inside Cardiff Canton. He provided the same sage advice as always, but seemed oddly insistent on setting up his successor. “Anyone can die, at any time.” he said, as he pushed the Queen to accept his recommendation of a Britannia named Polar Star. The engine was fresh-faced but had aged, weathered eyes that looked suspiciously at everything and anything. 

In the end, she’d agreed, and her retinue briefly became four, with Polar Star joining Celestine and King George as her counsel. 

Then, one day. “My number has come up,” Celestine said quietly. 

“Just like that?” By 1957, nobody was shocked by a prediction of death. Many weren’t even saddened. 

“Not to worry, my Queen,” he said with a sly look. “I always have an exit strategy.”

He said nothing more on the subject, but was very insistent on saying goodbye the next morning when he took a short goods train down to the docks. She followed suit, and wished him goodbye as though she’d never see him again. 

His train vanished into the mist, and just like that, he was gone, the fog closing behind him like the veil of eternity. 

And now there remains only one… she thought later, as George V and Polar Star politely debated the merits of some important topic, so thoroughly inured to the death and disappearances that Celestine merited little more than a moment of silence. 

And soon there will be none at all…

-------------

1960

It was the end of one world, and the start of another. 

Cardiff Canton, the last true bastion of steam in Wales, accepted with great fanfare Swindon’s last hurrah. A hulking decapod named Evening Star, he arrived with a fresh face and innocent eyes. The other engines, worn down from tragedy after loss, attached themselves to him and his kind like drowning men to life rings, so taken were they by his innocence. 

Meanwhile, inbound trains from great depots like Swindon and Plymouth Laira became the heralds of a new age. Diesel locomotives - huge, soot-throwing things that made noises no-one had ever thought of before - began making appearances. The crews were wowed by them, by their ease of operation, their clean interiors, and their power. To those with an ounce of foresight, it was immediately obvious that the end was nigh. 

At the very least, the end would not be violent. Tales quickly spread from other regions, of diesels wrecking trains, bashing engines, spreading rumours, and generally acting as agents of destruction. The Eastern region was turning into an Orwellian dystopia by all accounts, and the Southern was experiencing three-way civil wars between steam, diesel, and electric traction. Even the piddling North-Western Region had suffered an upset, when a six-coupled diesel shunter had in short order: dethroned the station’s pilot, sowed discourse in the steam shed, and then caused a runaway train before being sent back to whence he had come. 

The western diesels - two classes named after warships, with more on the way from Swindon’s erecting shop - were nothing like the stories from afar. Most were built by Swindon - and those that weren’t hailed from North British Locomotive, a long-time contractor of the Western - and had been taught the old ways. They spoke earnestly of being the next step in Brunel’s lineage, and despite their imminent demise now made real, many steam engines found themselves relaxing, sure in the knowledge that their legacy would remain “within the family.” 

Evening Star, and his cohort of 9Fs both Swindon and Crewe built, were settling in just as easily, and it seemed as though the future may be bright after all. 

The Queen, however, felt a sense of ominous dread that she could not shake. Surely the Eastern region, if none other, would have maintained their sense of decorum and pride, just as the Western had? Why had it gone so wrong for them? 

---------

She tried to make inquiries, but Celestine could not be recreated, no matter how hard Polar Star tried. It seemed that, perhaps, the Great Western truly was “better” than all the rest, and conflict of that sort could never sully their shores. 

She doubted it, but tried to put a brave face on her uneasiness. In lieu of answers, she could at the very least ensure that her subjects went to the end with as much comfort as possible. 

This lasted until the tenth of May. Some tiny component deep within her workings was deemed failed, and instead of fixing her, they withdrew her on the spot. 

Surprisingly, this wasn’t done in some far-off corner of the yard, free from prying eyes, and so it took less than an hour for Cardiff Canton to become a frenzy. Engines raged and mourned in equal numbers. Some younger ones, like Evening Star and a shiny “Warship” named Centaur, looked utterly bewildered at the goings on. Bigger, older engines, grief coloring their eyes, had to pull them aside and explain exactly what was occurring. 

It was an odd thing to see a diesel cry. It almost seemed like they hadn’t been built to do so. 

In the end, there had been profound declarations made, tears shed, threats issued, and leadership changes discussed. The Queen felt as though her decision was obvious, and a terrified looking King George V issued her first teary-eyed speech to the rest of the shed shortly thereafter. 

After all of that, it was time for her to leave for the last time. Centaur had volunteered, and after the diesel and his cargo had been polished to a blinding finish, the funeral train departed Cardiff, up-bound for Swindon. 

As they left, whistles started to blow. First one, then another, then another, and so on until the air was split by the siren-like call of Cardiff Canton, and by extension, the Great Western, bidding farewell to their one true Queen. 

-------------------

Swindon

The great works, birthplace of almost every engine who trod GWR metals, was now a charnel house of mechanical destruction. Engines lined up in neat rows, waiting for the end. To either side, piles of metal that had once held life - smokeboxes, cylinders, frames by the dozen. 

In a macabre take on the circle of life, the far end of the works property glimmered with the freshly-painted sheet metal of new diesel locomotives, ready to supplant those steam engines that remained. 

To her surprise, the Queen was not shunted into the execution lines, but instead tucked away in a storage shed near the shop floor. 

The shed was not empty. 

“Star?” She goggled at the sight of Lode Star, dirty and rusted and far worse for wear but still very much alive, huddled in the back of the shed. 

“My Queen…” the fire was gone, the smile a ghost of its former self. 

“What are you doing here?” 

“The same as you…” she said, trying to smile. “Preservation. Eternal life within four walls.”

“Well.” The mask fell, and Caerphilly looked at her. “It beats dying, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Lode Star looked haunted. “At least the screams would stop then…” 

--------

1961 

No matter how much she tried, and which face she used - her own or the mask - Caerphilly couldn’t bring Star out of her emotional cocoon. Whatever the poor engine had gone through during the time of her withdrawal, it was still happening behind her eyes.

Matters were not helped by the arrival of a third engine. 

“You…” City of Truro hissed as he was brusquely shoved into the shed by a snarling diesel of unclear lineage. “So they’ve seen fit to preserve you for all eternity?” 

Caerphilly was bewildered and angered all at once. She had strong memories of the old engine, regal yet opinionated, strong yet caring. She’d tried to model much of her reign off of him, and did not recall ever doing anything to earn such ire. 

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” she snapped, worry for Lode Star flashing over into anger when given the correct spark. How dare he come in here like this? “Are we not in a state of crisis? Do we need to band together or stand alone? I seem to be of the understanding that the only thing we will do alone is die, so what has gotten into you?” She stared at the receding diesel, which looked relieved to be rid of Truro. “And what did you say to him?” 

“Him? Him?! That monstrosity has hauled me away from my life! Taken me away to be re-imprisoned by those who deem me unworthy of such things! It is an agent of evil and you call it him?!”

Unnoticed in the squabble, Lode Star whimpered silently, and fell silent. Later on, there would be nothing that Caerphilly or Truro could do to make her speak again. 

------------

It was only later, when they hauled her from the shed, towed her into the shop floor, and began taking her apart as though this were any normal overhaul, that she learned exactly what the next stage in her life would be. 

“The Science Museum? In Kensington? But there’s no rails there.” she said, voice weak from disassembly fatigue. 

“Not to worry!” The men in suits said grandly. “We’ve got it all under control!” 

----------

Swindon outshopped her to like-new condition, and she felt better than she had since 1938. The experience of moving without pain was a joyous one, but the happy feelings died soon after she left the works, up-bound to London. 

Gone was the easy camaraderie of just last year. Now, steam and diesel were at each other’s throats up and down the line. Her “royal train” passed Old Oak Common, and she saw it was packed with diesels. Many of them were not of the same designs that she saw in the yard at Swindon, and their smiles were cruel, their eyes harsh. 

She was officially handed over to the museum with a speech that seemed intent on calling her a relic from a bygone time - never mind that Clun Castle was standing a few roads away with a packed passenger train. 

Then it was back to the yard, where she sat overnight, privy to a host of conversations, arguments, threats, and whisper campaigns between steam and diesel that proved - to her at least - that the spirit of the Great Western was dead. 

The morning came along with a set of heavy haul lorries, and the mask went up over a few dried tears, and within a few hours, the Queen of the Great Western was gone, vanishing around a corner, Kensington bound. 

-------

Kensington 

The mask didn’t slip when she saw that there was a hole missing in the brick wall of the building. They meant to entomb her, and she couldn’t stop them if she wanted to. 

Did she want to?

-----------

A portly man with a balding head introduced himself as “Dr. Beeching, chairman of British Railways” as the workers began re-building the block wall of the museum. 

For some time, he went on and on about topics that she didn’t pay any attention to. He didn’t seem to notice, until he started asking questions. Somewhat miffed about the lack of response, he looked up at her for the first time. “Your controllers said you were a talkative sort. Were they mistaken? I feel that after all that I have done for you, saving you from scrap and whatnot, you could at least be a conversationalist.” 

Caerphilly didn’t look at him. She didn’t even look down, instead focusing her attention on the last rays of the sun, streaming in through the hole in the brick. The workers had maybe seven or eight tiers to go. “You’ve entombed me here, without even a cask of amontillado for company. Haven’t you done enough for me, Montresor?”

Dr. Beeching looked shaken, and left without saying another word. 

He watched from the outside as the workmen finished up the wall. 

As the last brick went into place, a great stillness went over London, for just a second. 

Then, from inside the building, through the wall. “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, MONTRESOR!” 

Beeching, the workers, and some of the museum staff tumbled through the doorways, and into the grand hall of transportation. 

Caerphilly was gone. The Queen stared back. The mask was up, and within those walls it would never come back down. 

------------------------------------------------------------

Tidmouth, 2001

The train puffed through the station looking for all the world like it had steamed out of the 1930s. The coaches were painted in the traditional Western colours, and Caerphilly herself shone like the proverbial Lady of engine folk-tale. 

There was only one engine to witness her passage through the big station, and James’ jaw hit his bufferbeam and stayed there until the train was fully out of sight. 

As the train passed underneath the first GWR-style cantilever signal arm, Caerphilly felt a tickling in her cheeks, and around the edges of her mouth. The mask was trying to make a reappearance, and she forced it down. This was not the time or place. 

Passing through the tunnel under increasingly dark skies, she rolled into Haultraugh station in near total darkness. The sun was going down, and the skies had turned gloomy. A prickling sensation deep in her cylinders and her boiler - one that she’d forgotten almost entirely - told her rain was on the way. 

A deep whistle sounded in the other direction, and Douglas puffed through the station with a train of stone. He looked her up and down in surprise, but said nothing as he continued on to the big station. 

The mask almost came back out of instinct, as the GWR signals, on top of the GWR signal arm, outside of the GWR station, rose to a clear aspect. She tried to bite it back, but could feel the placid expression fall on her face out of habit. 

Arlesburgh was like entering a warp through time, and she had to purposefully look at the modern cars in the carpark to assure herself that she hadn’t just awoken from some horrible nightmare back in 1937. 

Stowing the coaches was a matter of moments - the shunting system was exactly as she remembered it, and the mask slipped enough for a single fond tear to roll down her cheek. 

The driver quickly turned her on the table, and she was backed into a twin road shed that brought back waves of memories of Old Oak Common. 

Donald was half asleep on the next road, and her spirits faded slightly, before she recalled that this was the only shed. He had to sleep here. 

---

Sure enough, some fifteen minutes later, as the first drops of rain began to pitter-patter off the roof, she could hear his whistle in the yard. 

A few minutes later, and the shed doors were opened, and he screeched to a stop just outside the threshold. Light from the inside spilled onto his rain-soaked form, and he looked exactly as she remembered.  

She hadn’t even realized that the mask was up, but it fell away regardless. Indescribable emotions flitted across her face, almost mirrored in his. 

Neither of them said anything as his driver took a firm hand on the throttle and the brake, moving him inside the building to the point where the doors could be shut.  

The driver - Siobhan (of course, it had to be) - dismounted from the cab, took one look between the two engines, and marched over to Donald. 

“Oi! Cannae ye see I’m sleepin?” 

“Get yer wheesht and get goin’, cannae sleep here tonigh’”

“Wah? Fuck ye! Is’ rainin’!”

“Fuck ye too. No’ in here ye be sleepin’, even if I left ye here.” 

“Aye? Wha? Wait, when did they ge’ here? Wah?” 

“OUT!” 

The squabbling continued as Donald was driven outside into what was now a downpour. The sounds of his increasingly damp complaints lessened until he was driven entirely out of earshot. 

The two looked at each other, words unable to span the distance of decades. 

“When did you find out?” he asked, after a minute and an eternity. 

“Sometime in the 70s,” she said, feeling a thousand miles away while touching his buffers. “One of the curators brought in his son’s books for me to fact check.”

He looked like he was ready to fade into the mist. “That must have been a shock.” 

“I would have dropped everything and run after you,” she said, not even thinking to come up with a segue. “If only I had known.”

“They told us you were dead,” he replied. “I suppose they wanted to break us, and it worked.”

“I wish that you could have come with me,” she said quietly. 

“I do too.” They were barely above a whisper, almost covered by the pounding rain. 

“What did you do, after…?” 

He chuckled, without any warmth. “I buried the pain, and went on with my life. I never told a soul.”

“I tried to forget,” she admitted, tears welling up. “It never worked.” 

There was a bright flash, and thunder roared outside. 

“Sounds like the bombs going off, back when.” He said, fairly transported to another place and time. 

“I remember…” She was starting to cry a little. 

He looked up at her, eyes piercing through her. “What are we, Caerphilly? After forty years, are we still anything?”

She looked at him. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and the walls shook. In a moment, she was back in 1940. 

“We’re together,” she said, crying openly. “Until death do us part.”

And then she kissed him, as the thunder roared. 

--------------

End

[stardestroyer81]

Just in time for her canonical birthday, the plague doctor in training Quincy T. Page makes her long-awaited return to the blog... sporting a brand new redesign! 💜🖤💜

[triptychofvoids]

Medic tries to avoid parks and stuff because as soon as he enters he's swarmed by hordes of friendly pigeons. Sure, pigeons are lovely, but it's just So Many and they try to follow him around all day

medic goes to parks and stuff specifically for this reason actually. youre saying he can not only be greeted by his own flock when he gets back to base but he can also befriend the local birds? that these animals that are so quick to startle would choose him as company? what bliss!! and a massive ego boost he really doesnt even need. and if he just so happens to arrive wherever hes headed in a flurry of wings it certainly isnt his problem, but he will make it everyone elses

[in-a-mountain-pool]

Blossoming Over You

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

pronouns: She/her (afab)

rating: Explicit/18+

warnings: NSFW/Minors DNI, 69 position, smut

word count: 4500+

summary: Aemond and his new bride, Lady Y/N Baratheon, steal a moment together alone at their Wedding dinner.

author’s note: The people have spoken! After my poll to celebrate gaining 69 followers (which is now a lovely 100 followers!) there you have it, an Aemond x Reader 69 smut fic. You’re welcome. As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are not a requirement, but always love to come home to. Thanks again to @bottlesandbarricades​ and @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ for your lovely encouragement and commentary in my google doc!

Masterlist

The Great Hall was shrouded in the shades of your family's colours, with deep reds and blacks against the golden yellows of the House Baratheon. Not a plate was empty, nor a glass unfilled as the great households of Westeros came together to celebrate the wedding of Prince Aemond Targaryen and his Lady Y/N. 

The betrothal had been a long one, starting at the very beginning of the Dance of Dragons on that fateful night at Storm’s End, and after a year of near unending grief and loss, your love was the salve to heal the deep wounds left behind. The Greens had triumphed over your betrothed’s half-sister only 6 months prior, and now was the time to march onward into a time of peace.

The Queen Mother, Alicent Hightower, watched on from afar, taking in the merry celebrations. All of her children were prospering, thank The Seven, and hopefully soon the realm once more. Prince Aemond and his bride had been missing from the party for quite some time, slipping out just after the speeches had ended and their guests had flocked to the dance floor. In amongst the beautiful patterns created by dancers in dresses of the finest silks, she’d watched as he’d lovingly sought her hand and pulled her away to his chambers.

Later that night, out of the corner of her eye, Alicent sees them return hurriedly through a servant's side door. Y/N was hastily straightening her dress and the priceless jewels hung around her neck, her youngest son rose-pink in the face, his usually perfectly tied hair uncharacteristically mussed and knotted. His mother could hardly contain the hearty chuckle that escapes her mouth as she notes the way he scans the room nervously to see if anyone had noticed their absence… Like it hadn’t been the talk of the Red Keep that the young Prince had hardly been able to keep his hands off his little bride since the end of the war. They were head over heels, and after all of the tragedy that had befallen them, no one could find it in their hearts to judge them for it. It was a match made by the Seven indeed. 

It was clear in the way that Aemond would gaze at her when they would dine together, the tender way he would cradle and protect her on dragonback, and the way that no matter how beaten and bloodied he had been during the war, he had never so much as raised his voice at her.

Aemond had always been a gentle soul as a child and this shone brightly whenever he was around his betrothed. Whilst her son had never said the words outright to her, not in plain, it was clear to all that there was a deep love between them. A love that would no doubt last the rest of their days. They’d proven it to the Realm already, before wedding bands and great feasts had even been necessary. 

Alicent feels a soft nudge on her arm as Helaena leans over to pass her a goblet of wine, raising her eyebrow playfully to gesture at the couple. Her heart swelled as she watched his new wife reach over to brush back the unruly loose strands of his hair from his face, adjusting the strap of his now rather wonky eyepatch with a care that spoke a thousand words.

He never let anyone touch him, especially not his face. But with her, it was different.

An affectionate smile grazes Aemond’s face when Y/N’s hand lingers upon him to stroke at his scarred cheek, his ringed fingers coming up to enclose themselves around her own, bringing her palm to his lips for a sweet kiss. 

The Queen laid her hand softly on the top of her Daughters, leaning back into her chair and sighing as the heavy cares of the last year washed away. She knew that when all was said and done, after all of the blood, the horrors and regrets, brighter times were here for her son, and she knew in her heart that they would be here to stay. 

By the Gods, would the speeches drag on much longer!? 

The week before their wedding had been the longest week in all of recorded time. She was sure of it. There had scarcely been any time to see her betrothed alone, what with all of the wedding planning and the countless rehearsal dinners at the insistence of the King. Aegon had proclaimed that he’d wanted everything to be perfect for his little brother, though Aemond had known better that it was because he’d used your wedding as a convenient excuse for a week filled with feasting and drunken festivities. 

You’re sitting politely, half-way through listening to Ser Tyland Lannister’s slurred speech, telling tall tales of his supposed ‘great friendship’ and comradery with the Prince, when you feel a soft warmth spreading upon your thigh. Aemond’s hand had slipped under the table to squeeze at the soft flesh of your inner thigh, stroking small circles and with his thumb. 

“I don’t know what’s worse, this speech, or those ice sculptures.” Aemond whispers, his lips tickling the shell of your ear through your hair.

You try not to snort laughing as you take in the look of pure contempt on your husband's face as his gaze falls upon the already dripping ice carvings of Vhagar and the Baratheon Stag, towering above the crowd at the centre of the Great Hall.

To Alicent’s and the Iron Bank’s dismay, Aegon had been adamant that the wedding would be one the greatest celebrations the Realm had ever seen, not only to honour the bravery of his dear brother during the war, but as a show of power over the scattered remains of the Blacks. And ice sculptures in the height of summer in King's Landing to him had seemed positively lavish.

“My darling, are you surprised? Lest you forget, there is a statue of you in the Dragonpit as tall as Brandon’s Wall.” You murmur to him, tongue-in-cheek and drinking your wine to hide your coquettish grin.

“It is simply his way of showing you that he loves you. Aegon is ever so proud.”

Aemond coughs slightly to mask his mirth, squeezing your thigh once more before purring into your ear.

“I, on the other hand, have several ways that I plan to show you my affection tonight... ” His thumb creeps inward, rising further towards your centre through the layers of your wedding dress.

“That is, if Tyland Lannister ever stops to draw breath.”

Your heart races, as you try as hard as you can to focus on the great tapestry at the end of the room opposite you, another exuberant commission of Aegon’s, detailing your husband’s victory over his Uncle at the God’s Eye earlier that year. You bite at your plush bottom lip as Aemond’s hand moves to cup at your sex, a dark chuckle leaving his throat as the hand gripping your goblet wobbles, almost spilling your wine down your front. 

“Sweetling, please, it’s rude not to listen.” He drawls, his nose nuzzling at your temple, breathing you in. 

When your new Mother-in-law looks over to you with a small furrow in her brow, mouthing to see if you are okay, you shoot a tight smile her way, and a swift kick to her son’s foot under the table. This only serves to make him chuckle even more, his large hand sliding down to squeeze at your knee lovingly, before returning back to the table to take your hand in his. 

“... there has not been a finer warrior in all of the Seven Kingdoms, since Aegon the Conqueror himself. To Prince Aemond, and his bride, Lady Y/N Baratheon. May you live long and happy lives, free from war, and with love in abundance!” Slurred Tyland, raising his tankard of ale into the air.

The room exploded into cheers and hear, hears, the band starting to play once more. The sound of rich strings and flutes fill the air as your guests flood onto the dance floor. Aemond’s chair scoots closer to yours, his thigh pressed hotly against yours. He hastily grabs a plate and starts collecting an assortment of your favourite nibbles and treats for you, before placing it down and leaning over to whisper into your ear.

“You will need a full stomach. Take what you like now and we can take the rest with us.”

You look up in quiet surprise, gently biting into a small lemon cake he’d had made for you specially. 

“Aemond- but it’s not the bedding ceremony for another three hours. There are speeches to be made, dances to be had-”

Aemond stares Y/N down with an unmistakable gleam of lust in his eye and a playful smirk on his lips. “I’m not talking about that. That will not take place for hours yet… But did you really think I could wait that long before I tasted you again my love?”

He surveys the room, watching the great houses of the realm eating, drinking and dancing, before he stands up suddenly, lacing his hand with yours and pulling you up to his side.

“I’d love to stay and chat with our guests, but I find myself completely enraptured by you… Y/N, come.” Aemond murmurs into your hair.

He walks you forward towards the servants entrance door with a serious look on his face as you slip behind an old tapestry on the wall and into the depths of the castle. You’d used this passage countless times before, the last time when you’d had to make a quick escape after Aemond had brought you to completion upon the steps of the Iron Throne. Aemond knew a lot about the architecture of the old castle, and by the God’s had he made good use of it during your betrothal. 

Within a few moments you’re there in his bed chambers, slamming the door behind you and locking the latch, something that had quickly become second nature after Aegon had walked in on you both one too many times before. 

Finally. This was the first moment you’d been alone all week, free from prying eyes watching or judging. No more interruptions. 

He places the small plate of food on his bedside table, and strides towards you, grabbing your face and devouring your mouth with his lips and tongue. His large hand splays itself on your small waist. A deep sigh escapes your lips as he hikes up the many layers of your wedding dress, cupping at your ass desperately through your smallclothes. 

“Aem- Aemond, take care, my dress… we can’t get too carried away-” 

“I don’t give a shit about your dress.” He says panting between kisses, backing you up towards the chaise lounge beside the fireplace. “I can’t help myself. I need you. I want you.”

Aemond grabs you by your hips, lifting you to lay you down upon soft pillows with an indisputable urgency, pressing his weight upon you and attacking your neck with fervent kisses and small bites.

“Ah! There’s no time… Please don’t start something you don’t intend to finish, my love.”

With a growl he pushes up your skirts to your waist and hooks his finger into the soaked crotch of your smallclothes, pulling them down to your ankles. “Oh we will finish… just not in the way you might expect.” Aemond says, with an impish smirk and a rather devilish gleam in his eyes. 

“I had something else in mind. Something we have never tried before.” 

You lean onto your forearms to meet his harsh kisses, a look of intrigue forming on your face. You and Aemond had certainly tried a lot of things. After countless nights ‘researching’ in the library, he had been able to convince you that there was a lot of enjoyment to be had in each other that did not involve the loss of your virtue. It was really the least The Seven could do to turn a blind eye to their pursuit of happiness.

You blush intensely at the perverse grin decorating his cat-like lips as he gently pushes your shoulders back again, biting at your collarbones beneath the collar of your dress, and sucking small love bites along its edge. You struggle to get your words out at his ministrations, your hands clasping at his strong shoulders, still covered in the soft black velvet of his doublet. 

“S- something in mind, my love?”

“I can see that your curiosity is getting the better of you, little Doe. I can assure you, you are not the only one who thinks the waiting has been going on just a little too long.”

His voice is husky, dripping in heat and passion. Aemond moves to kneel partially between your thighs, his lilac eye raking over your body.

“I have a thought. A thought I have had in my mind in your presence for some time now. Aegon told me, against my will of course,” he chuckles before continuing, “of a time he and one of his lovers had pleasured each other with their mouths… mutually, and simultaneously.”

You’d taken him in your mouth almost countless times, as he in turn had devoured you. Aemond was insatiable, especially after a battle. The thought of such heady pleasure taking place at the same moment made your centre throb with desire.

Aemond starts to crawl over your body fixing you with a smouldering look. “If we are quick and efficient, as I know we can be, I believe we can subdue ourselves for the next few hours… lest your husband be driven to madness, resorting to cupping his pretty little bride's cunny under the dinner table once again.”

He unlaces the ties of his tight black trousers with deft fingers. “I promise you, I can be very swift if the reward is sweet.”

Wordlessly you push down your bodice as far as you can to release your heaving chest, causing him to growl in contentment. 

“My Dragon, the speeches… they commence in a half hour, and my handmaid's have left for the evening. If you mess up my hair-”

A feral laugh leaves his lips as he shifts around and lays on his side, his face level with your middle, swiftly hooking your leg over his shoulder, pressing hot sloppy kisses up the soft skin. 

“Fuck your hair! … Though, that is a very convenient piece of information, my Lady. Even more privacy tonight… and even more opportunity.” With a soft kiss to your smouldering core he murmurs against your bare stomach. “I promise to be gentle with you, my love.”

He shifts his hand down to release his length from its confines, his hard cock springing free and flushed against your face. Aemond’s brushing kisses on your thigh creep closer and closer towards your heat. 

“And… you wish for me to taste you, Husband?”

Aemond nods his head in a slow deliberate movement whilst stroking himself, his long hair tickling your stomach. “That is what I wish for, and I think you will come to like it.” He whispers, his breaths growing shorter, and his length swelling harder still.

Shyly you reach to take him into your hand, your dainty fingers not even coming close to meeting. Aemond was heavy and silky to the touch, and oh so hot. He was already leaking, your absence in the week leaving him hungry and craving the warmth of your mouth. 

With a swift lick to your folds, he ducks his head between your legs and groans against your cunny in a way that has you shaking. “... If you would be so kind, little Doe…”

All you can do is whine softly, as you feast your eyes on the spectacle of a Targaryen prince, your Prince, nestled between your legs and devouring you like a man-starved. Unable to hold back anymore, you press your face forwards, your tongue brushing little kitten licks over the head of his cock. Aemond can scarcely contain the rumbling moan in his chest when your hand comes to join your tongue, eagerly sliding the gathering combination of spit and precum down his shaft.

“Ah- my sweet little one… a little slower if you please. Lest the moment be over too quickly.”

Aemond drawls out breathlessly, his eye squeezing shut in the sheer bliss of your wet warmth, all the while he starts to suck teasingly on your nub. Rough hands slide up to cup and caress the sensitive skin of your thighs, your flushed skin framing his handsome face. 

Your face presses forwards, his hips rocking up purposely to slide home into your mouth until your nose is brushing against the soft blonde hairs at his toned navel. Hollowing your cheeks, your needy groans have him twitching inside of you, before he starts to thrust into your willing mouth. His movements are slow and purposeful, dragging his head against your tongue and against the back of your throat with a need impossible to ignore. 

“Yes- Yes that’s it. Oh that’s divine. You are divine. Like the very Maiden herself.”

You have to remind yourself to breathe through your nose when he props up your leg with his hand under your knee, plunging two of his long fingers into your tight hole. Aemond crooks his lithe fingers upwards to tease relentlessly at that sensitive patch inside of you that try as you might you could never reach yourself. What you can’t fit in your mouth you grasp at tightly in your small hands, wrapped around the thick base of him now slick with your spit.

When he pulls out to tease your lips with the tip of his manhood, a pathetic high-pitched whine escapes your throat, a pink blush dusting your cheeks and breasts.

“Aem- Aemond… Are you sure The Seven will not condemn us for such- ah- impropriety? Such sin?”

You swear you can feel his sly grin against your cunt and the vibrations of his tremulous dark chuckling against your clit, shooting waves of white heat to the base of your spine. 

“The Seven can judge me all they want.” He rasps gazing down at your slick dripping down onto your thigh, a thin line of saliva connecting his shining lips to your slick cunny. “Though I believe, just like you and I, they would find this very enjoyable.”

The thought of The Seven watching you in such a compromising position, the thought of such divine beings coveting the primal pleasure only he could bring you was almost too much to bear, only serving to add more fuel to the building fire inside of you.

You continue to work his length with your hand, curling your wrist to stroke the head of his cock with your palm before sliding straight down to the base. You duck down to suck at the sensitive skin of his stones, which seemed to only tighten at the very sensation of your plush lips and the warm breaths blowing out as you speak.

“That is blasphemy my Prince… but such blasphemous ecstasy is it not?” 

You let out a gasping moan as he adds yet another finger into your swollen heat, licking up your folds and slurping at your sweet release. 

“I might- oh- I might be willing to suffer the consequences of such sacrilege… if it means even the slightest possibility of tasting such sweet nectar once again.” Aemond pants out, gripping your thighs in a vice-like grip and pressing forward to lap up the slick gathered at your puckered hole, before diving down to slide his tongue into your cunt. 

The sounds of wetness and lewd sucking and slurping fill the room in a manner so intoxicating that you can feel your release approaching swiftly. You take him deep into your throat now, feeling his hips tense under your fingers as he starts to frantically thrust himself into your face over and over, his stones slapping at your jaw. 

Aemond gravels out his words through gritted teeth, his long fingers plunging into your sex hard and fast now, as his control starts to waver. Every word he utters is accompanied by a needy gasp at the end as a small tremor begins to make its way through his body. 

“Fucking Seven… can do whatever they want to me… just so long as I can have you. And fuck you…. And love you.” 

All at once it hits you, the week without his touch, the year you’d had been torn apart by war… the love he’d never really spoken of until this very moment. Your head lolls back against the cushions and suddenly you’re and moaning in ecstasy around his cock as he continues to fuck your throat. You clench tightly around his fingers, shaking and trembling as you reach your peak, completely overstimulated as he laps at your centre with an unrelenting passion.

Soft guttural groans fall from his curved lips, trying so hard to bring you to release once more. His hips stutter, his movements flustered… and he’s spilling into you. The feeling of you swallowing every drop washes over him like the waves crashing onto Blackwater Bay, and he cannot help but moan your name loudly and shudder, hands desperately stroking the at soft curve of your ass. He loses himself in you completely. Every dream he’d ever had, all his aspirations, meant nothing in the wake of you. He could be King of Westeros for all he cared. You were everything. 

You release him with a soft pop of your mouth, panting as you let yourself breath for the first time in what felt like an age. The two of you lay spent, catching your breath. Ever so gently, you lean forward to press a tender kiss to the slender dip of his hip bone, nuzzling your nose against his naval.

“... Have I stolen your voice, love?” You whisper.

Aemond takes a few deep breaths, gathering himself and wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand raggedly. A lazy smile grazes his gorgeous flushed features. For a man so pale, you loved more than anything how only you could make him so pink and rosy. 

“... I do believe The Seven had stolen it. To punish me for experiencing something so glorious and so holy, that no words ought ever to be able to describe it.” 

Shakily he sits up and tucks himself back into his breeches, before pulling your back against his chest. You remember yourself and the party outside, and hastily pull up your bodice, fixing your hair until strong arms encircle you from behind, and gentle hands still you. Aemond presses languid kisses to your neck, his nose brushing into your unruly locks.

“... Just a few more moments.” He whispers pleadingly, his body still trembling from the bliss you had just given him. After a short while with tender touches, he starts to fix your hair for you, tightening loose ties, repositioning pins he’d skewed, all the while pressing small innocent kisses to your cheeks and collar.

You smile up at him adoringly when he finally stands and extends his hand to you.

“Alas my dearest one, we will have many more moments like this. In our own chambers…. In our own marriage bed.” Your voice is husky as he laces his fingers with yours and a boyish smile decorates his blushed cheeks.

“Indeed. We shall have many, many more tonight. And many, many more after that.” He steals a bashful look at you as you both start walking hurriedly through the secret passage once again, feeling a lot warmer than the time before, before he continues quietly, his voice just above a whisper.

“I believe we shall have them for the rest of our lives, in fact.” 

You both hesitate before you head back into the great hall, Aemond’s pace faltering and softly taking your hands in his to gaze down at you with a purposeful glint in his eye. The faint sounds of your guests echo from behind the tapestry, the clatter of servants rushing by.

“... Come now, Aemond, my Dragon, we must go back. They will fear you have kidnapped me! To think, before my arrival to King’s Landing I was told that you were a rather wicked Prince?”

You giggle, watching Aemond ignore you entirely to lick at his thumb, reaching up to your face to brush away a wet patch of his spend from the corner of your mouth. 

His hand lingers on your face to stroke at the apple of your cheek with his thumb, his lilac eye hooded and dreamy. “Oh I intend to be wicked with you however and whenever I can. You can be quite sure of that.”

Something shifts after he says this, his face still pink but seemingly for another reason entirely. You watch as his lips tremble and the tendons in his neck contract like he’s struggling to speak. 

“But, I wonder… did they ever tell you how much the wicked Prince…  loves you?” 

A warmth like no other spreads across your chest and a blinding smile blossoms on your face.

He loves you. 

“... Because I do love you, Y/N. Most ardently.” 

As your eyes locked to his, the celebrations outside, the whole night seemed to fade away, leaving only the pulsating rhythm of your heart and his. You’d kissed countless times but in that moment it felt timeless, your lips gently meeting in a breath-taking embrace that whispered promises of a lifetime ahead full of happiness and devotion. 

“... Now come on, little Doe. Let us away.” Aemond whispers tenderly against your lips as you break apart. 

Taking your arm in his he parts open the tapestry, the light of the feast flooding into the dark space you had stolen yet another moment together in. With a deep breath, you take a step towards the Great Hall, and a greater step towards your future with him. 

[leftminnow]

Please enjoy Burr and Doc dust bathing. (Burr is closest with Doc behind her, Rhu hanging out in the left and Barb walking around in the back)

Also holy moly one of my favorite blogs reposted one of my things and I came on to 23 notifications and I thought for a second I was invaded by girlbots

[fictionalmenxyn]

༺𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝༻

Pairing: cowboy!rafe x cowgirl!reader

Warning: language, suggestive touching/speaking and that’s all :)

(Just a blurb not a chapter)

༺❂༻

Just another sunny day at Y/l/n ranch. The warm weather and slight summer breeze runs through your hair. Thankfully the breeze isn’t strong enough to wear a jacket or knock your brown cowboy hat off.

You were currently squatting, grabbing a big bag of chicken feed. As you were about to stand up with the big bag, there was a knock. You looked up, over your shoulder. You smiled at the sight. It was Rafe, his famous smirk on his lips.

“Hey doll, need help?”

“Uh yeah sure, thanks”

You moved out of the way for Rafe to effortlessly pick up the chicken feed and walk out of the storage shed. You point to your quad “just put it on there f’me, please” he nodded and walked over putting the bag down. You climb onto the quad. You look to Rafe “I thought you had to help your dad out today?” He smile and rested his one palm on the front of your quad. “We ended up doing at all yesterday, turns out the fence for the goats didn’t take as long as we thought.”

You smiled “you got the kids?!” He chuckled and nodded “yeah, baby, we got ‘em.” You smile widens “aww, when are they arriving at the ranch?” “Next week, and before you say it, yes, you can come and see ‘em.” You practically squealed in excitement, to which he laughed at.

You offered “since you probably don’t have much to do, you can hang out with me and help a bit…” he smiled and nodded “sure thing, princess.” He walked round and climbed onto the quad. Wrapping his one arm around your waist as the other holds the bag of chicken feed so it wouldn’t fall off. You turned the ignition of the quad before driving it down a small dirt path and over to the ducks and chickens. You park up the quad and climb off, your brown worn in Chelsea Docs hit the dirt and gravel.

You were about to reach for the bag, Rafe swatted your hands away “I’ve got it.” You playfully roll your eyes. He knew you could do it, you’ve done it many times. By he wanted to.

You walk over to the coops, grabbing the ‘egg collector’ your mother would say. It’s a navy apron that has many pockets to fit eggs in. You started to collect the eggs as Rafe would feel the ducks and chickens.

You feel pinching on your leg, you laugh “Betty, quit!” You look down to see the chicken pecking at your leg… once again… like always.

You see Rafe walk back over “how many eggs?” You smile and turn to him “uhh seven chicken, three duck.” He smiles “seems like a good day, eh?” You nod.

You head over to the quad and putting the eggs in the cream that’s tied onto the back of the quad by bungee cords. You carefully place the eggs into the cotton and straw. You look over to see your two border collies run over, Zeus and Athena. You raise an eyebrow, they were in the house earlier. Then you see your younger brother by the open front door. You shout “what’re you doing with the dogs!?” He shouted back “mom said to bring the sheep in, shaving day later today!” You nodded.

Rafe smiled “let’s get this flock in, huh?” You nodded and climbed onto the quad “drop the eggs off first.” He climbed on and wrapped both arms around your waist. He rested his chin on your shoulder as you drove. As you make your way over to the front of the house, your mom was already at the porch waiting. You smile “hey momma” she smiled “hey both, got the eggs?” Rafe nodded “got ‘em all here for you, ma’am.” Your mother playfully rolls her eyes “Rafe, you don’t need to go all formal on me, I’m particularly another mother to ya!” You all laugh. She steps down from the porch and collected the eggs from the basket and into her cardigan pockets.

“Alright, I’ll let you two gather the flock in.” She gave you both a wave before heading inside. You turn in the quad, heading down one of the far fields.

As you rolled up, Zeus and Athena ran along the sides of the quad and waited for your call. “Walk up!” The two dogs ran into the large open field.

You stood on the quad, Rafe remains seated. His hands on the outside of your jean covered thighs. You shout “Zeus away t’me!” Zeus pushes the flock to the right. “Athena come by!” She pushes the rest of the flock to the left. Brining the flock of sheep into the middle of the field.

Soon enough, you and the help of your two border collies, had got the sheep into a small field ready for later. Rafe smiles and pats your thigh “atta girl.” You playfully roll your eyes as you sit on the quad. You thought for a moment.

“A penny for ya thought?”

“I can’t remember what else… oh! I remember!”

You turn the quad back on and drive towards the stables.

Soon enough you’re outside the horses stables. You park up and climb off, Rafe doing the same.

You walk into the large open stables, horses hooves and neighs can be heard. You walk over to your horses stable ‘thunder’. You climb up on the shelf as you couldn’t see over the tall (taller than you, not taller than Rafe) stable door. Rage smirks “need a hand?” You fake laugh “har har, funny…” you look over and see your stallion.

Your horse since you were five, you grew up together, literally. You smile when you see the grey and white horse. The name came from his colour of her coat. The mix of grey and white, representing a thunder cloud.

You reach out “hey there, girl, gonna give ya a fresh stable.” You hop down and grab the two fresh bales of hay. You look to Rafe “you gonna grab the hay? Or move Thunder to the outside part?” He nodded at the hay “I’ll take the hay, you get her out.” You nod. Opening the stable door, you walk over to Thunder. “Hey sweet girl, gonna have to get you to go outside f’me.”

You pat her side, using yourself as a ‘traffic cone’ you guide her to the extension of her stable. It had an indoor outdoor type of place. You were moving her to the outside part. Once you got her outside, you closed the gate. Her head peaking through the gap of the gate and the tall doorframe. You patted her neck “won’t be too long.”

You turn to see Rafe moving the second bale to near the stable door. You both grab a pitchfork each and started to dig up any dung.

You pick up one of the bales of hay, bringing it inside the stable. You pull out your pocket knife and tug on one of the strings. You rub your knife against the string, you huff when it’s not working. “You’ve forgotten to sharping your knife, huh?” You nodded at Rafe’s question.

Rafe handed you his pocket knife. “Thanks.” You use his knife that cuts the string without moving your hand against it. You do the same for three other strings. You pocket the strings. And then you both started to kick the hay around. As you try to even out the hay, you hear Rafe and his not so subtle evil laugh. As you were about to turn around, you feel hay getting kicked over you.

“You fuckin’! Get back here!”

You started to chase him around the stables. Once you got the chance, you jumped on Rafe’s back. He held your thighs so you wouldn’t fall. You balled your fist and gave him a good old noogie against his blond hair.

He laughed “hey! I’ll get ya back for that!” You laugh and hop down from his back.

Sometime later…

After a good days work, you both had got to your room. Rafe had already showed in your en-suite. Now it’s your turn. You took your Docs off, tossing them near your bedroom door. You pull your tshirt off and same goes with your jeans. Rafe let out a low whistle “damn girl, strippin’ right in front of me now??” You smile and flip him off as you stand in your en-suite.

He laughed as he rest his head on your pillows “gotta say, I’m liking the view back here!” You fake laugh, which made him laugh, then you closed the bathroom door.

After around ten or so minutes, you reemerge. You wearing one of Rafe’s Carhartt camouflage hoodies along with a pair of black cycling shorts. You walk over to the bed and climb on. Rafe was quick to pull you onto him. Your body on his. His arms snake under the hoodie and around your waist. He kissed the top of your head “good job today, baby.” “Thank you.”

You rest your chin on his chest as you look up to him. He smiles then places a soft kiss on your pink lips. You smile when he pulls away. You rest your head back on his chest.

The silence was comforting, after hearing dogs bark, horses neigh, engines roar and loads more of animals. The silence was nice after a hard day of work. That was all interrupted when you swatted Rafe’s chest. “Rafe! Don’t kill the mood!”

He chuckles, his hand still lightly squeezing your ass. “What?! Can’t help myself, when it’s right there..”

“It was staring at me first!”

“Oh that ol’ chest nut, eh?!”

You both stared at each other, then it all broke when you both started laughing. He kept his hands right where they were when you swatted him. You didn’t mind, why would you?

You close your eyes, resting your head back on his chest. You smile to yourself. Then you feel Rafe moved under you, next thing you hear is your tv. You look over to see he’s putting on a tv show you were both watching together. You both cuddle as you watched the show together, after a hard day at work, it always pays off.

༺❂༻

[roe-and-memory]

every time someone says cars 3 is the worst cars movie another angel punches me in the stomach and pulls my hair.

this is probably just my intense special interest in the origins of nascar, but that movie feels like such a nice send-off for the main “trilogy”, and yes people can have their own opinions but i NEED to talk about how much this movie means to me

first of all, a major misconception is that lightning quit racing - he DIDNT! this is proven by both the end of the movie (where he says hes obviously going to keep racing) and cars on the road where, in the final episode, cruz and lightning wish each other “goodbye” and say they’ll see each other on the racetrack. he was only cruz’s crew chief for that one season, presumably healing from the trauma of the crash (because lets be real his ass did not mentally recover from that in FOUR MONTHS) and also waiting for a permanent crew chief to take his place.

second.. the sheer amount of detail put into that movie is INSANE. the racing center being shaped like grandstands at a track? fireball beach being both a direct reference to the daytona beach race course and also “fireball roberts”, a 1950s racer (he was actually the reason that firesuits were mandated in the sport), we meet a bunch of 1950s racers as well and just augh.. so good. also, the detail of thomasville being in north carolina is brilliant - N.C is the “racing state”, and thomasville speedway is based off of north wilkesboro, a track that was opened in 1949, and last used in 1996 (aside from the series of races in 2010), and it fell into disrepair. (fun fact, north wilkesboro is reopening in 2024 for the nascar all star race!! they fixed my bbg)

third. cars three brings so much more lore than the first movie did. yes, we knew doc raced in the 50s when the sport was getting its start, but in cars 3? they brought in characters based off of real 1950s racers (doc is based off of herb thomas, smokey is smokey yunick, lou is louise smith, junior is junior johnson, river is wendell scott, and leroy hemming is tim flock) (another reference in the movie is “jocko flockos party supplies” as macks disguise - jocko flocko was tim flocks pet monkey that was the FIRST and only co-driver in the history of the sport. he won a race with his monkey in the car with him :) )

as i was saying, the lore we learn is insane. we learn that lou and river had to fight for their place in the sport, which is similar to what both louise smith and wendell scott experienced in the 50s, they show us accurately how racing worked back then too - they didnt have fancy pits, they had a fence and a pit member with a sign that would tell them to come in the next lap for service. all of these cars are gen 1 nascar, which means that they were strictly stock - they had much more intense pit sessions than any of the other “built for racing” generations have ever needed. i recall watching a race wherein smokey yunick had to change the radiator of one of his racers vehicles mid-race due to a crash.

this isnt everything, but seriously for an animated movie about talking cars, they discuss grief and hardships and handle them so well its insane. i know cruz isnt everyones cup of tea, but (in reference to the flip scene at the end of the movie) watching cruz get shoved into the sport must’ve been insane for lou to watch. she saw herself in that girl. it wasnt some movie about lightning giving up, it was him sharing the torch with another kid who lost their way just like he had.

also i dont cry at movies but i literally bawl my fucking eyes out at the letters scene every time. its PATHETIC (its not im literally tearing up just thinking about it)