#Prompt-Screech

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 14-Paint it Black

Day 14-Screech

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Screech hummed contentedly on the docks, simmering quietly in the afternoon sun. Mali was laid on her runningboard, also enjoying the sun. Pest was sprawled on a crate beside them, the skyrat having stolen someone's chips earlier.

Screech had almost dozed off when she heard the familiar puffing of a Star class approaching.

Abbey backed down into the adjacent siding, her freshly cleaned paintwork gleaming in the sunlight.

“You three seem to be enjoying the heat at least.” She said with amusement.

The seagull let out a self-contented sigh in response.

Freda snorted from Screech’s cab, “Pest snagged someone's chips and Mali’s still trying to get a tan.”

“You can't blame a girl for trying.” Mali grumbled.

“You weren't particularly good at tanning before Screech.” Megan said as she climbed down from Abbey's cab.

Mali sighed.

Megan ducked as Screech stretched out her tendrils to lay over Abbey, then climbed up to sit next to Mali.

“Have you decided what livery you will be painted in?” Abbey asked Screech.

Screech rumbled irritably, “Great Western Black.”

Abbey raised an eyebrow at the tone, and choice.

Gywn sighed,“the young lass won't budge.” He explained. ‘no matter how many times we tell her she can be any color, she just wants plain black.”

Screech cracked open an eye to glare irritably at her fireman, “You keep saying I can choose my livery, then refuse to accept my choice.”

Freda patted Screech's cabside, “We just want to be sure you are happy with your paint, as you will be wearing it for a while. We may be stable now, but we can't afford to repaint engines regularly.”

“Then why am I being repainted?” Screech rumbled, frustrated. “Why not an engine that actually wants a repaint.”

“Because you need one,” Gywn said.

“My paint is fine.”

Abbey raised an eyebrow, “when was the last time you were repainted?”

Screech thought for a moment then shrugged, “Fifty-seven, we were painted in Lined Express Passenger Green.”

“And you don't want that back?” Mali asked. “Wasn't that supposed to be a prestigious livery?”

“I am not a passenger engine,” Screech said firmly, “I have no desire to pretend to be so.”

Gywn sighed,“The work’s crews don't want to paint you black because they think painting you black would make us look like the Other Railway.”

Screech paused, her tendrils stilling, “Pardon?”

Freda explained, “We take pride that all our engines are painted the colour of their choosing, rather than all our engines besides express locomotives being painted black.”

“I like being painted black.” Screech said.

Freda frowned, “we’ll figure it out dear, they just want your livery to reflect our care for you.”

Screech stretched and closed her eyes, “My paint will be dirty soon enough either way.”

Freda sighed fondly.

A/N: Hello loves! This takes place shortly after Something Holy This Ways Comes, before the next (as of yet unnamed) installment. Love Y'all!

[endlessartpumpkin]

Day 27: Large Enemy

The Helmaroc King! 🦅

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2024: Day 14 - Screech

Before Sodor:

When he came out of the works, James was a very different engine to the one who went in. The regular, boring, utilitarian Class 28 who had been pushed in was gone, and out came a prototype. Hughes classified James as a ‘Class 29’.

“You’re a very special engine,” Mr Hughes said, watching on as James was fired for the first time. “I’m hoping your rebuild will bring all the successes I am hoping for.” That made James feel very special. He’d been plucked at random from his shed for the overhaul, chosen from in amongst a group of twelve of his class, as well as another six Class 27s who’d been doing their absolute best to be picked. But it had been James; of all the engines on the entire railway, it had been James.

“I’ll do you proud, sir!” chirped James excitedly. Mr Hughes smiled gently, and stepped to one side to continue to watch the proceedings. James was carefully steamed up, his slightly larger boiler warming quickly. Every part of him felt new and precision machined. His firebox was large and his cylinders strong; his superheater warmed him right through and left James practically bursting with the need to get out of the workshop and prove himself. His fire burned brightly, his steam pressure shot up. The men grinned as James easily passed all their tests, the foreman marking off boxes on his list with the smallest hint of a smile.

James felt his brakes being taken off, and then his regulator being very slowly opened, prompting him to hiss steam as he inched forwards. But as the brakes were put back on with an odd screeching noise. James frowned.

“Something feels a bit off, sir,” he said slowly. “What brakes was I fitted with?” The foreman winced out of James’ view, and went to speak only for Mr Hughes to place a firm hand on his shoulder. The Chief Mechanical Engineer shook his head slowly, a dark look in his eyes.

“It’s a new design!” Mr Hughes called out. “We want to test these before we give them to other engines, and considering how much stronger we hope you’ll be, you seemed like the best engine to trial them on. They do screech a bit though, but don’t be alarmed.” James beamed!

“Oh sir! I knew I was going to be special. Look at me – don’t I look smart!” “You look very nice in our livery,” agreed Mr Hughes politely. “Now we need to start running tests. Your crew and the inspector will take it from here.” With one final meaningful look at the foreman, Mr Hughes placed his hat atop his head and strode away.

James didn’t watch him go, his eyes instead set on the trucks and coaches that littered the yard. “I can’t wait!” grinned James, feeling his driver open his regulator once more after taking off his special brakes. They started him off on some light shunting duties, testing out his response to the controls. In the distance, a foreign whistle blasted through the works as another freight train blasted through at speed. James raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s that?” he asked. “We don’t usually get outsiders here.” “The railway is trialling a foreign engine to see how they could adapt it,” the inspector replied clinically. James hummed, considering the new information before continuing his shunting. Every time he braked, his brakes screeched, and he slid just a little more than usual.

“Inspector,” James began slowly after the ninth time, “these brakes seem a bit weak. Why don’t they stop me sooner?” The three men in James’ cab shared looks out of his line of sight. They seemed to have a silent conversation in the span of several seconds, before the inspector finally responded.

“They’re a dynamic brake,” he said carefully. “They’re a little slower to apply, but they are made of an extremely strong material that won’t wear out as much.”

James felt better after that. Had he been even a little older, he wouldn’t have accepted the reply as easily – after a certain period of time, most engines grew a sort of sixth sense around their motion. They could detect if something was wrong easily, and work to fix it. James had barely seen his second year in service when he was unceremoniously picked to be rebuilt; his youth had made him a prime choice. The older engines whispered about unification and grouping in the back of the sheds, thinking their shed masters were unaware that they knew of what was brewing. In return, their shed masters did their best to hide the full extent of the truth and quash the rumours.

James was ignorant to it all as he was rigorously tested. He worked hard at everything: he banked trains some days, hauled freight on others, and even pulled a couple of fast passenger trains! Each day brought another checkmark on the inspector’s form, and each night brought a new shed with unfamiliar faces. James never slept at the same shed two nights in a row. He went all over the network, seeing all the sights and meeting many engines.

None of them said much to him.

“Good evening!” James would try, only to get a lot of side-eye and subtle glances. James thought they were too impressed with him to speak! Or at least, he did at first. As the days stretched out into months and nothing changed, James began to feel the looks more acutely. The other engines weren’t impressed. They weren’t jealous of his potentially revolutionary design or the way that Mr Hughes sometimes came specifically to see him. They weren’t envious of how James got a special number and they weren’t in awe of how smart he looked.

They just didn’t like him. They thought him an imposter, an oddity. A weird Frankenstein’s engine made of a unique boiler, an unusual pony truck and unconventional brakes that just wouldn’t stop screeching whenever James tried to stop. James figured the screeching had to be from the metal brakes clamping against his steel wheels.

The screeching came from his wheels sliding along the rails.  

Seasons changed. James wasn’t invited into sheds as often anymore, sitting out in dirty old sidings in between the endless trials. They hadn’t ended, though James wondered if that was because he was succeeding and they wanted data in the wet and cold and maybe even the snow if it dragged on long enough… or if he was failing.

The foreign engine was still around somewhere too. James never saw it, but he heard it. When down south, he’d discovered that the whistle belonged to the Great Western Railway, which ran along the distant south-west coast of England. The few engines of that railway that he managed to see looked very smart, with dark green paint and great brass safety valve bonnets that shone like spun gold in the sun. They all looked very sleek and impressive – James felt gangly next to them. But when he asked about the foreign engine, he was always redirected away from an answer.

Winter came, and with it the rumour mill grew louder. Finally, James learnt an uncomfortable truth: the railways were being grouped together into four. When he heard, he asked Mr Hughes what it would mean – Mr Hughes didn’t reply, and instead booked James in for a general service.

The foreign engine left before the year was out, but James spent Christmas in the works sleeping to stave off the cold while the men switched out his brakes. Apparently, they weren’t working as well as hoped, but the trials were being extended to get an idea on what that meant.

The inspector no longer went everywhere with James. Instead, he turned up once a week and asked James weird vague and cagey questions before leaving again. Sometimes it was even a different inspector, especially as James was shuffled around again, heading further inland and into the territory of their rival—no, former rivals. James wasn’t part of a company that rivalled the old Midland Railway anymore. He was part of a company with them.

The Midland passenger engines had very shiny paint. They didn’t have the same gorgeous brass that the Great Western engines had, but instead they had the most eye-catching red paint James had ever seen! It was glorious – it sparkled in the sun and was vibrant even in the pouring rain.

James remained in black. His lining was neglected, and it slowly faded away. James wondered when he’d get a repaint. He had been hurried rebranded as being part of the new ‘LMS’ with an equally new number, but that had been done in under a day by a trio of bored-looking men. The new number sat stark on James’ tender, and he instantly hated it.

James only pulled trucks and shunted now. He didn’t get to pull fast trains or passengers or go lots of different places now. Instead, he was assigned to a shed in the middle of nowhere along a busy line, sleeping in a dirty berth on a dirty siding in between unimportant mineral trains from one junction to another. Monotony crept in slowly, James completely forgetting about his abnormal brakes and becoming immune to the screech they made when he stopped. Every day was the same, every journey the same. The Midland engines didn’t speak to the L&YR reject, steering well clear even as they slowly opened up to their old rivals.

And then one day, a new engine arrived at James’ shed. It was a design he’d seen dotted about, and it looked like a stronger version of his old class.

“I’m here to take over,” the engine grunted. James balked. “But what am I to do?” he spluttered. “I don’t know mate,” sneered the engine. “Maybe you’re time’s up. There’s rumblings in the factory that they finally finished the mogul design.” The engine looked James over, and snorted. “Oh, you’re the rejected design they built. Poor thing, there’s not much left for you now Hughes is retiring.”

James was rendered speechless for just long enough for the new engine to shunt some of the trucks into a line.

“I’m not a reject!” he exclaimed. “I’m the prototype! The class is based on me you nitwit – my design’s the future of this company.” The engine just chuckled, looking James over once more, before his eyes darted to James’ brakes.

“Oh yes, very revolutionary indeed,” he snorted, and puffed away. James was coupled up to some vans needing repairs, and dragged away from the shed he’d been forced to come to know as his home. He went far further than ever before, making his way well over halfway across the country. He was stopped in an unfamiliar workshop that bustled with hundreds of men and machines to have his LMS number unceremoniously scraped off, before being sent on again the next day. This time, he had a short train of trucks behind him. It grew steadily as he went, as did James’ temper.

“Get in line you stupid things!” he snapped, bumping the trucks harshly as he clattered along what felt like a double-tracked branchline to James. All the engines along the line were being withdrawn and replaced with yet more of the same smug class of tender engine that had stolen James’ job and home. James wondered if he was being drawn towards a scrapyard, tucked away at the end of this line.

Then he passed by an immense empty iron train, and realisation struck. He was in Cumbria. This had to be the famed Furness Railway that he’d heard of one night while in being trialled up in the north. Despite being such a small line, it’s massive industrial traffic kept it independent from the giants baying at its doors.

And look how well that worked out.

James arrived at Barrow-in-Furness with a long line of trucks, a screech of his brakes and a furious temper. His crew stepped down. “Sorry old boy,” sighed his driver, “but this is us. Your new crew will take you from here.” James stared at his driver like he’d lost his mind.

“What new crew? What is happening, driver?! I just lost my shed, I’ve been dragged halfway across the country and I'm surrounded by these smug Midlanders! Tell me what is going on!” James’ driver sighed, taking his cloth cap in his hands and squeezing it.

“Mr Hughes is being replaced soon,” his driver admitted quietly. “He’s decided to leave the company. Mr Fowler is taking over, and he’s agreed with the directors to sell you to the North Western Railway as part of a special agreement they’re making.” James blinked, stunned.

“The What Railway?” he asked slowly. “Wait… the No-Where Railway?! They’re… they’re… they’re getting rid of me?! But I’m meant to be the prototype! What, so they’re just going to use some other mogul design?!” His driver winced. A little shunting engine nearby looked over, perplexed.

“Didn’t your lot decide to base it off a Caley design that was influenced by those Westerners? The 4300 lot.” James went silent, unable to think of anything to say. He was stunned.

A new crew clambered into James’ cab and set off. James was silent as he crossed over the points and onto his new railway. He’d been sold off. He’d been sold off because he was a failure. His brakes screeched as his crew braked to slow at a signal. The trucks bumped and clattered behind him, hissing and grumbling.

“What’s that noise?” quizzed James’ new driver. James sighed.

“Those’re my brakes. They’re made of some special metal Mr Hughes wanted to test. They didn’t end up working as well, but I’ve still got them.” The crew shared a confused look inside James’ cab, but pressed on.

At Vicarstown, an old ‘American’ design from the Furness Railway was shunting in the yard as James rumbled in and began shunting trucks on and off of his slow goods train. The old engine winced at the screech James’ brakes made, then looked up and smiled warmly.

“Hullo! I’m Edward, who’re you?” “12620,” came the bitter reply. ‘Edward’ chuckled softly, rolling over to help with the shunting. “Not your number, your name,” Edward said. “I’m James,” said James quietly. “But only I call myself that.” “Well I’ll call you that too,” promised Edward firmly. James’ crew were quick to agree with the bright blue engine. James didn’t like the colour – it was too similar to Caledonian blue. The same Caledonian that stole his classes’ future with their mogul design.

The pair talked for a little, Edward warning James about the steeper gradients beyond Kellsthorpe Road as he helped the former LMS engine reshunt his slow goods to be easier to separate as the various stations along the NWR. James bumped his trucks roughly as he prepared to set off again. Edward heard the screech of James’ brakes again, and looked down. His eyes practically bulged out of his smokebox in shock.

“James, why’ve you got wooden brakes?!” exclaimed Edward. James snorted. “They’re not wood, they’re a special metal,” he replied harshly. Edward was about to say more when the signal dropped. James snorted away, continuing down the surprisingly steep mainline towards Crovan’s Gate. And Edward had called this the ‘gentle’ part of the mainline!

Crovan’s Gate was their works station. It also had a tiny little railway on a ledge above the mainline which skuttled about its own yard before vanishing off under a bridge. A tiny little engine with a nameplate declaring him to be ‘Rheneas’ was dozing in the sun beside the line. James screeched to a stop beside the little engine with trucks to be unloaded for the little railway. Rheneas jumped!

“You sound like you need your brakes checked,” Rheneas said. His accent was thicker than anything James had ever heard – it sounded faintly Welsh, but with Manx and maybe Scots in it? James wasn’t sure what to call it. “They’re a special metal,” James replied darkly. “You all keep asking me like my designer wouldn’t give me the strongest brakes he had.” Rheneas looked confused, but said nothing until James was back at the head of his train. Then, he spotted James’ brakes.

“But… those are wood,” he said carefully. James let off steam furiously. “THEY ARE NOT WOODEN!” he roared. Birds scattered from their trees. “I am sick of hearing that! Leave me alone!” bellowed James, storming off with screeching trucks in tow. The trucks were aggravated, annoyed, tired and then James had insulted Rheneas, one of the nicest engines on the island.

They had seen James’ brakes; they knew the truth. And they knew exactly what to do to prove it to James too…

Back to the Master Post

[calciferous-kelpie]

🍂Voxman Week 2024 Prompt List🍂

It's that time of year again, and I'm honored to once again be hosting this special event! 😄

Rules to Participate! 🍃 Create something inspired by the prompts 🍃 Tag as #voxmanweek2024 🍃 Optional but helpful: Tag me (@calciferous-kelpie) to ensure that I see your submission and can reblog it!

The event begins on November 18th! I'm really looking forward to seeing your work, and I hope that I can also finish all the prompts this year! Last year I only managed to do one. 😆

[winterspiderpurrs]

Okay but like.. combining several fic tropes

*Tony Starks Bio son[Peter] kidnap when a baby/toddler

*genuis Peter, but being smart, don't pay rent= Stripper Peter[ maybe he in college on scholarships or on his 2/3 doctorate]

*someone getting married there is a bachelor party = Peter gets hired with a group and visits Stark/Avenger Tower

*Peter's fingers get scanned=maybe there is a delay for whatever reason

*When the results get sent to Tony's glasses Peter is already in mid lap dance

Peter may or may not be Spiderman-dealer's choice

[squipedmew]

is it real, or is it cake?

[ashertickler]

The first time Asher realizes he had feelings for David is when he comforted him after he fell off the tree in his backyard. The first time he kissed David was a little after Gabe's death.

~ 🦇🦑

STOP STOP OH MY GOD I CAN IMAGINE IT WAIT-

brain dump ramble about David x Asher below teehee 😸

Asher's softly sobbing after his arm got fixed and in a sling, and David isn't mad at him or grouchy... he looks worried? Concerned. David didn't comprehend the concept of death at that young age but in the moment where he saw Asher wailing and screaming on the ground with his arm looking... unnatural, scarily bent, blood pooling beneath it, he assumed the worst. And it hit him, what if that was death? And... if it happened to Asher? It mentally broke him, and in the aftermath David wouldn't leave Asher's side, always watching. Making sure Asher didn't slip away when he wasn't looking, making sure Asher was still with him.

Asher noticed the change in David instantly. He knows his best friend like the back of his hand. He knows all too well how easily he gets under David's skin, so to see his usually grouchy buddy so... soft? Always around Asher, holding his hand, helping him up and down stairs, even helping him eat anytime they had a meal together... Asher felt something more than friendship. His heart swelled... but he couldn't name this feeling. Oh, it's probably just super friendship! Yeah... like we're soul buddies! I don't want him to stop being this way around me...

---

After Gabe's post mortum, the Shaw Pack was inconsolable. Especially David, who'd now lost both parents and had the responsibility of being pack alpha imminently upon his shoulders. It broke everyone to hear about the passing of their beloved alpha, but for Asher... he couldn't stop worrying about David. How could he cope? How could he function? How lonely must he feel... and how sick with worry Asher felt at the thought. His thoughts were consumed my David, and it reached a point where he couldn't bare to spend time away from him. Asher swore he would always be by David's side, cos that's what soul buddies do, right? At night, he would hold David as he wept in only Asher's arms, then put a reassuring hand on David's shoulder during the day as David mustered up what little energy he had to tend to the pack and deal with the funeral arrangements. Asher could only watch with pained eyes as David struggled with all the duties he and Frank would soldier through, noting every laboured exhale his best friend shuddered out.

Asher noticed a lot of painful behaviours in David in the days after Gabe's death... but one struck him hard. Not out of worry, but instead with how his heart would swell. David became clingy. Which for David was incredibly difficult to decipher and point out. But Asher noticed. As he had always done, as he had always noticed whenever David's behaviour changed. Whenever it changed towards Ash.

Lingering touches. Hugs that lasted too long. Brushes of his hand against Asher's arm. Leaning into Asher's reassuring and grounding touch. Small nuzzles when crying into Asher's chest and shoulders when the pain of his father's death hit hardest, particularly in the lonely nights where he would have to sleep in his family's apartment alone. One night, David couldn't handle it. He needed Asher. One short call later, Asher had packed his bags and decided to move into the Shaw apartment for David. For his soul buddy. During the night, with Asher cradling David in his arms as he rambled about the funeral to come in the following days, David felt content. For the first time in the days that felt like years after Gabe's passing, being in Asher's arms felt like home. He finally felt warm again. Whole again. All it took was a sharp gulp and a yearning, tear-stained look at Asher for Ash to realise the feeling from his best friend in front of him. Asher cupped David's face and stroked his cheek, I'm always here for you David, and David choked up before breaking into a smile. A small one, but his first smile in... too long. He's smiling... I made him smile. Asher couldn't contain the surge of emotion any longer, it had remained dormant since he broke his arm. The unrequited yearning, the naive hoping, maybe this was the moment-

Thank you, Ash. For always being the one stable force in my life. David, smiling as a tear trails down his cheek, leans in to peck a kiss on Asher's cheek. And Asher freezes, his cheeks turning a soft pink. David stares, his heart skipping a beat, worried he'd been too bold, if this was stupid, if he fucked up, if he'd lose asher too-

Until Asher tilted his head and kissed David, closing his eyes and smiling into the kiss, cupping David's face as David brought his hand to Asher's head and held it before breaking apart. Foreheads touching, they stared into each other's eyes and smiled, before Asher broke into a giggle and David followed suit.

We'll be ok.

(tagging @dawnofiight lucid pookie for when you come back... my fellow dasher stan I hope you like this absolute word dump brain fart of a thingy about our sillies dasher... miss you dookie)

[pencildragons]

i watched a bob ross video for the first time in preparation for painting a landscape, which i've never done before, and now for some reason im really surprised that im low key kind of succeeding . as though my whole deal is not that i learn from watching other people doing the thing and explaining why they're doing the thing . 'this is CRAZY how is this happening!!!!' dumbass you gave your brain the appropriate materials it needed to synthesise new skill and knowledge. why do you think

[queenofbaws]

QUEENIE you still know me you KNOW I'm gonna be asking about our favorite dumpster fires can you PLEASE give me Hawke AND/OR Varric's "oh...uh oh." moment

"Watch m - excuse me, I'm sorry, do you not see me over here doing my best to protect you against this place? Quit the giggling already, and watch my hands, Sunshine, I'm not gonna be able to sleep at night knowing you're walking around out there, oblivious to something as basic as bottom dealing, so watch my hands!"

Snickering into her drink, Hawke watched as Bethany dropped her face into her hands, her shoulders heaving with laughter as, time and time again, Varric made an absolute mockery of her card skills. When she came back up for air she was wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, taking huge, gulping breaths to try and calm herself down; it wasn't working, of course (once Varric found his flow, there really wasn't anything, save perhaps an inconveniently placed trapdoor or outraged member of the Guard, that could stop him), and as her sweet sister collapsed into another giggling fit, Hawke caught Varric's eye and rolled her own when he winked.

"He's got three up his sleeve, you know," she remarked coolly, lowering her tankard just enough for the accusation to be heard and her smirk to be seen, "he always does;" but it wasn't until Bethany, still laughing, grabbed for Varric's arm - an arm he pulled away with the quickest flash of the cards hidden within - that Hawke realized the greatest sleight of hand had been pulled on her: After everything they'd been through, after everything they'd lost, her little sister was smiling again...she was laughing.

"I don't know how to break it to you, Hawke, but I think this one's a lost cause - here, you deal this hand, maybe the kid'll actually try if you're the one tearing your hair out," Varric joked, and as she took the deck from him and their eyes met once more, she realized there wasn't any use in pretending the flush she felt rising to her face was from the drink: Bethany had been swindled of her coin, sure, but she'd get that back...Varric had stolen Hawke's heart, though, and Maker help her, she didn't think he'd be returning that any time soon.

six sentence sat(or)sunday!!!

[sommersong]

SIMEON KNOWS HE SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED THAT NIKOLAI ACCEPTED HIS INVITATION, BUT HE IS ANYWAY. it seems exactly the sort of thing that would intrigue the king, who delights in the study of others, who strives to know each in his service, who takes personal interest in all those with whom he crosses paths. the king of scars, who learns details about all the palace guards and makes use of them to show appreciation. re'b ravka, so careful to value everyone in a world in which he himself had not felt truly valued for so much of his life. how could simeon imagine for even a moment that such a man would decline to see his home? they've been close for years now, after all, and while cut off from his ketterdam home by the fold, he's spent so much of it in the places dear to his friend ( " simeon's never brought many ... friends around, so this is quite the treat, you understand, captain, " his mother had bustled as she welcomed them inside, while simeon mumbled an embarrassed, " mama! " ) that it seems only fitting.

and nikolai, for his part, has seemed rather enchanted, even concealed in his guise as sturmhond, closely examining near everything in the surprisingly cozy manor home of the sommerfelds, graciously complimenting miriam's dinner and asking about her art collection, discussing the business of trade with his father and sister, and inquiring about his brother's studies. all while simeon, flushed and uncharacteristically quiet, strove to avoid the probing and knowing gazes of his mother and sister. somehow, he'd managed to avoid overindulging in the wine, likely because his father was slow to pour it for him – intentional, no doubt – so his head still feels clear, although he's not sure that's any benefit, really.

" they'll ask after you in every letter now, " sim says lightly, trying to maintain his typical lighthearted charm and cursing the slight edge of tinny nervousness that creeps into the corners of his tone. " and my mother will serve me on the next platter when she finds out who you really are. she'd be mortified about serving cabbage rolls and brisket with gravy and roast potatoes to a king. " a joke, more than anything, knowing as he and nik both do that he likely preferred it that way – being treated as though he were merely a man, rather than royalty.

the inferni perches himself on the edge of the bed on the room's north side and glances around the familiar room with its color scheme of pale blue and pink, the walls painted with fantastical scenes imagined by him and his mother in his childhood, the small piano and lute in the opposite corner covered haphazardly with music books and sheets of notes, and the easel by the window with a years-old half-finished portrait of an aging but beautiful zemeni woman – daya hamani, a friend of his from when he frequented east stave. everything is almost exactly how he'd left it, except that his mother had clearly kept it dusted and ready for him to return. the thought pulls something both longing and guilty in his gut, but he turns his head to look at nikolai with a half-bashful smile.

" I did tell them not to ask so many questions, but we're a family of busybodies, I'm afraid. and of course you were brilliant, as always, although that may be to your detriment because I'm not entirely sure mama will let you leave now, and – " he cuts himself off before he can ramble further, ignoring the heat he feels in his cheeks as he wrings his hands in his lap. " anyway, this is my room. was? is. saints, it's been so long ... " a chuckle huffs from him and he glances around again, chewing on his bottom lip. " seems a bit childish now, doesn't it. "

@disvelocitys as nikolai lantsov : 050.   a childhood home or bedroom . / starter call.

[hazel-of-sodor]

Day 27-The Titan

Day 27-Twisted

Other Stories

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A Western Summer

Duck was sitting with Cassandra on the Haultraugh docks, listening to her talk about one of her adventures off the island. The sun gleamed off her paint, complimenting her freckles. The sea breeze swirled around them, keeping the day from getting too hot from the summer sun. Duck was thinking it was a perfect day. He should have known better.

The air before them split with a scream, barely heard over the roar of air rushing past them into the void within the tear. The world was cast into shadow, the sky darkening enough he could make out the stars, while the sun's light grew cold. Cold enough the spray off the waves turned to ice, their breath fogging before them.

A growl thundered out from the tear, shaking the rails beneath their wheels, the air around them fracturing into thousands of pieces, as if they were in a shattered mirror. He heard the metal of his frames creak as an unseen force tried to twist them.

From the tear, shadows emerged, stretching out into long sinuous tendrils. A large dark figure began to emerge from within, dark and terrible.

It rumbled a chuckle, nearly shaking Duck from the rails. It  slowly pulled itself into being before them.

It took the form of a Great Western 47xx, although he found himself doubting that was its true form, not anymore at least. The 2-8-0 towered over the two tank engines with a smile that stretched far too wide. Its eyes glowed a burning ice blue, and Duck somehow knew that to look into them would shred his mind as easily as a leaf in a storm.

“So.” It rumbled menacingly, “you are the one who dares claim to be worthy of Caomhnóir.”

‘Really?!?’ Duck thought

“I don't see how that is any of your business.,” He snapped, “it is up to her whether I am worthy or not.”

The titan rumbled in amusement, is “So brave little western.” It rumbled mockingly. “I wonder would you be so brave without her light protecting you?”

It laughed at his glare, the sound twisting through his head like the screech of bending steel.

“Or would you run and leave your engines to face me alone.”

Duck had rolled forward before he had even realized, “touch any of my engines and you will wish you had faced Caomhnóir instead, diafol.”

The titan laughed, its mane of shadowy tendrils rearing to the heavens like a serpent preparing to strike.

“Is that so little western?” it leaned closer tauntingly, “I have been sent to tes…”

“Screech.” Cassandra said calmly. “Stop provoking my partner.”

The titan actually sulked, “you did not let me finish.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, “I will tell the others you were suitably terrifying, but I would like to actually enjoy the sun sometime today.”

The titan sighed, and furled herself, collapsing into the form of a 4700 bearing the number 4702, although her mane of tendrils remained, albeit reduced. The sky cleared and the sun shone strongly once more as the tear collapsed behind her, giving Duck his first clear glimpse of her. She was a green dark enough to be mistaken for black, with the lettering in her tender proclaiming her home to be the Uman and Din Railway. Lovingly polished nameplates on the sides of her smokebox read Gwyllgi.

‘A fitting name indeed.’ Duck thought privately.

“I'm guessing she's actually a friend?” He asked Cassandra.

“An overprotective one,” she muttered. “Duck, meet Gwyllgi/Screech, resident terror of the Uman and Din Railway. Screech, this is Montague/Duck, head of the Little Western branchline of the North Western, and my partner.

“Dry Rails and Smooth Runnings Gwyllgi,” Duck greeted formally, just to be safe, “Welcome to the Little Western.”

“Dry Rails and Smooth Runnings Montague, thank you for welcoming me.” The Titan paused, “You may call me Screech.”

“You may call me Duck then.”

The titan turned to Cassandra, “I see you found a proper Westerner to court you.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes, “I told you as much in my letter.”

“Abbey was not convinced.”

“Of course not. Sending you to scare them was the only option.” The tank engine’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

“If he could not withstand my presence, he was not worthy of you.” Screech said simply.

“Is that not for me to decide?” Cassandra demanded.

“Do you disagree?” 

“If I thought he was such an engine I would not have agreed to court him.”

Screech shrugged, “the others agreed. He needed to be tested.”

“Uuuugggggghhh.” Cassandra growled, “off with you. You don't see me showing up to test your choices.”

“Of course not. I am already there to test them.”

“Off.” Cassandra barked, “or I'm telling Abbey you would look good together in express passenger blue.”

“There is no need to stoop that low.” Screech rumbled.

“Out!”

[nonbinaryshotgunman]

Back at it again w the Roy Spooky Month/Haruka Milgram parallels... Roy Android Girl cover can anyone hear us does anyone see our vision...

[calciferous-kelpie]

💕Voxman Week 2023 Prompt List💕

Surprise! With @dorkafricska's blessing and help, I'm hosting Voxman Week this year!! 🥳

Rules to Participate! ✨ Create something inspired by the prompts ✨ Tag as #VoxmanWeek2023 ✨ That's it! Have fun!

I'll do my best to reblog everyone's work! 🥰 I'm so excited to see what you create!!

[loudlooks]

send spring related prompts, please and thank you

[pinky-in-blankets]

If I had a nickel for everytime a Big shot fell for a pastel, I'd have 2 nickels.

Which isn't much, but funny how it happened twice.

( art by @/BBungle on toyhouse)

[sylvieons]

Not to be weird because I hate when people are weird about celebrities because I am fully aware we don't know these people but. Ever since Tom Hiddleston became a dad it's SO obvious he's SO much happier and that in turn makes me feel warm fuzzies. I'm just like awww isn't that cute he's so happy I'm so happy for him :3