#Steam Workshop Never Ever

[splendidsneb]

Fan of the icons? Wanna to say ‘Hey, good job!’ And support me? Consider buying a sticker!

Hello again lovelies! It’s that time again! Only slightly delayed this time because I totally let the release date sneak up on me. Ooops!

Added Sable Ward

Added The Unknown

As per usual, if you’d like to use these yourself, you can find the files on Mega HERE:

Also, as you may know The DbD ToolBox has long since ripperoni’d, but I’ve uploaded my pack to Night Light now instead, so if you’d rather use the app than download them from Mega you can find them there too !

Please remember that these are to use at your own risk as they may be flagged by EAC, so only use them if you are comfortable with that.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

Also if you want to see these character drawings in a much larger size and quality, you can do so HERE!

[leaf-storm-40]

never have I ever seen something so funny in the Terraria steam workshop

[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Of Traitors and Oathbreakers

Summary: A Black in Greens territory is never a good thing, especially if that means falling into the hands of Prince Aemond

Notes: Aemond and reader are childhood friends turned enemies (with benefits). Had to write something for my favorite war criminal. The reader is the child of the blacksmith of the Red Keep (bc why make Targaryen!readers when they can be ~different~)

Hobroti jās – Fuck off

Nyke pendagon avy jorrāelan – I think I love you

Warnings: rough/hate sex, dub-con (power imbalance), biting, scratching choking etc, mentions of starvation, war, imprisonment

Taglist: @levithestripper (hmu to be added!)

Ending 1 / Ending 2 | Masterlist | requests are OPEN!

You didn’t remember how you got here. In fact, you didn’t even remember where you had been wanting to go, or who had been with you.

All you knew was that you were stuck in a cold cell, water dripping from the ceiling between short pauses of silence and driving you close to madness. When you looked out of the small crack in the wall of your cell, you’d seen molten towers you only recognized from childhood tales.

Harrenhal.

Currently territory of the Greens, and you were a Black. The name Targaryen could neither protect nor endanger you here, and for that you were grateful, but for everything else…

They didn’t let you out, whoever your jailers were. If your standing allowed it, you would have thrown the bread they gave you back into their faces and called them cowards.

But your mother had taught you to be resourceful, and your father had never let you leave scraps on your plate.

The only way for you to gauge how much time had passed was from the crack in the wall, watching the sun rise and set, but even like that you lost count after a while. You would’ve gone insane from the cold in your bones or the slow drips from the ceiling, or maybe even the loneliness, if it hadn’t been for the expression of wrath you had seen on the face of your Queen.

Your Queen. Rhaenyra. And yet, she would not risk her life, or that of any of her dragonriders to save you. You knew that when you kneeled for her in Dragonstone, and you had remembered it ever since. Yet you couldn’t help but wish that the situation was different.

Dying like this wasn’t what you wanted. It was everything you despised – the cold, the loneliness, the harsh walls around you. Worst of all was the darkness though.

You’d grown up in your father’s workshop, surrounded by fire as the Targaryens were with their dragons. Light and heat was your childhood, your comfort, and though learning the craft had gone to your brothers, you hadn’t let that keep you from picking up every weapon your father had crafted.

A gift that had cursed you later in life, bringing you into this cell.

The first time they opened the cell door completely could’ve been days or decades after your initial imprisonment. You didn’t demand answers, didn’t fight them yet, letting them drag you out and through empty hallways.

Once, you caught the smell of soot and ash, wondering whether it was from a smithy or a dragon. Were they taking you to your execution?

You doubted it. No one but the Targaryens were executed by the Targaryens themselves.

Instead, they brought you to the tubs that were in the cellars of Harrenhal. The water was hot, steam rising up from the water of the pools, and you could swear that there had never been a lovelier sight.

The guards did not bother turning their backs, so you turned yours. You had no weapon to defend yourself, and you weren’t ready to give all of your dignity just yet. Quickly, you sank into the steaming water, beginning to scrub the smell of dirt, blood and piss from your skin.

Death clung to your skin like a scared child to her mother. You hated it.

The cell had given you more than enough time to remember, but it seemed that you could not. All you knew was that you had been sent to find the host of the Northmen, making your way through the Riverlands.

Somewhere between Dragonstone and Harrenhal, someone had killed your crew and taken you prisoner, leaving you to wake up with their blood on your hands, literally.

Your bath was cut short by a young woman shooing the guards out, before helping you out of it. She was the first one to show you a semblance of respect, handing you clean clothes and a cloth to dry yourself, but she wasn’t willing to talk to you.

Perhaps they were all mute here, terrified into silence by their Lord, the Lord Confessor of the Greens. Perhaps it was yet another way to torture you.

She was somewhat gentle when she helped you lace your dress, before she left you to your own devices again. It was strange to be clean again after such a long time. The dance had left you permanently disheveled in some way.

Even before, Daemon had been drilling you in the yard, making impossible demands at you. You were the only one who made it through his snide remarks that brought grown men to tears and desperation. You would have never admitted the rewarding smirk he gave you after a long sparring session reminded you of a Green.

The woman had you follow her into a small chamber, only equipped with a small cot and a chamberpot. It was barbaric, but infinitely more than the cell you’d been forced to call home.

Here, where you were all alone, you could take in the changes of your body for the first time. Wearing a dress made the loss of weight noticeable. You’d exchanged a part of your femininity for the harshness of battle a long time ago, it was the price female fighters paid in Westeros.

The time in the cells had made the rest of that softness fall off your bones, and all that was left was sinew and muscles. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but you hadn’t had your moon’s blood since the beginning of the war, and a truly delicious meal since even longer.

Luxury was a faraway dream, a whisper of the days in the Red Keep, where the worst punishment had been your mother chasing you through the stables to give you an earful about sparring with princes and forgoing your chores in favor of riding. Where your friends had comforted you after your brother became collateral in a fire in just this castle. Where you’d witnessed Vaemond’s bluntness be his death, and where Daemon spotted your talent as you trained in the yard.

Daemon had taken you and your father from the Red Keep, under the pretense of needing a smith and the truth of wanting a warrior that would always be underestimated. A girl who could slip through the cracks in the expectations of men and then slit their throats.

That was what you were to him. And for a while, you hadn’t noticed that he’d taken your childhood, for he had raised you to glory and given you a taste of battle. But where battle was, war followed, and it quickly reared its ugly head.

A knock ripped you from the myriad of thoughts in your mind. Who would knock at your door? You were a prisoner. If anything, you should be the one knocking, begging for their freedom.

You didn’t answer, and they paused for so long you thought they actually wanted a reply from you. But then, the door swung open.

“She told me you would be here.” He said.

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Aemond replied. He stared at you silently, taking in the tightness of the gown, the slim shape your body had never had before. “Hmm.”

And then, he left, leaving alone again.

Aemond. What was Aemond doing here? He was Aegon’s brother, wasn’t this below him? Shouldn’t he be commanding great hosts, slaying his enemies from above?

He returned with food. A steaming bowl of stew, the smell of which made your stomach growl audibly, and a tankard of ale. It was making you forget that he was your enemy.

“It’s not poisoned.” He said.

“You’ve had enough opportunity to execute me.” You shrugged, hungrily digging into the meal. Aemond only hummed, a habit familiar to you.

He did it the few times you beat him in a spar, trying to assess what went wrong. When he heard you complain about the stench around the smith, only for the noble lord who pissed onto the walls of your home to disappear from court a day later. When Aegon taunted you for being a girl that would never amount to anything, lowborn and worth nothing, only to receive his brother’s punches seconds later.

“I’ve missed you.” He said quietly. You supposed that that was the way Aemond was: quiet in everything. Protecting, fighting, respecting. You wondered if that applied to-

No. Just because he was practically the first man you’d seen since your confinement did not mean you had to fall at his feet. He’d been your friend, and now he was your enemy. Both weren’t what people should pursue.

“You killed Prince Lucerys.” You replied.

“Just as much as his mother did.” Aemond snarled, but he didn’t sound so sure.

“She is the queen. You are responsible.”

“She has put Helaena into agony! Do you know what the war does to her? Days, spent in tears, fearing her own dreams and what may come! Helaena knows what will happen to her, and it is too atrocious for her to speak of, even to mother!”

It felt like a blow to the stomach. Helaena was strange to the ladies of the court, but she was always kind to you. There was an unspoken agreement between you and Aemond as children, that when you played hide and seek in the Godswood with Jace and found Helaena playing with the bugs in the bushes, you’d leave her alone.

“The mother that started all of this.”

“I didn’t know war made you into a frigid bitch.” Aemond spat.

“No, traitors do.” You said, throwing the insult back. His hand shot at your neck, and you wondered if he would kill you.

Days past flashed through your mind, afternoons spent swimming in Blackwater Bay and hiding from septas, mothers and knights. Sneaking Aemond into the city to buy him food from the street vendors in Flea Bottom. Teasing him for his royal stomach as he felt queasy afterwards, assuring him that you weren’t afraid when he returned from Dragonstone, a patch covering his eye. The awkward kiss you shared as teens, neither of you wanting to be unprepared for your great love you were so sure was to come.

His hand was still there, cold to the touch. Jaw set and fury blazing in his remaining eye.

“I lost control of Vhagar.” He confessed. A whisper so hushed it almost carried away into silence. “And it was me who killed your men and took you to Harrenhal.”

“They were good men. They had families, and you killed them.”

“This is war. You’re their bloody commander!” Aemond snorted.

“You could’ve killed them when they made it to battle, to let them die with honor.”

“They wouldn’t have lasted much longer.”

“You don’t know that.” You spat.

“No, but you do. Who made you into a commander? You could barely put a scratch on Aegon when you left for Dragonstone.”

“Daemon did. And I’ve been better than Aegon a long time. I just happened to be lowborn.”

“Think you can beat me?” Aemond laughed, cold and arrogant.

“Why don’t we take this to the yard and find out? It would be a pleasure to kill you.”

“Vhagar would devour you, if you managed.”

“As she did with Luke?”

Just for a moment, Aemond’s façade crumbled, and he grew pale, before he regained his composure, but you already regretted your words.

“Did you eat your heart when you grew hungry in your cell? Or was that Daemon too?”

“And when did you grow into the arrogant prick your brother and grandfather envisioned you to be?” you spat, trying to even your tone.

You felt the frustration and anger of the last few months becoming a knot in your stomach already and watching your childhood friend throw insults at you hurt more than any blade could have.

“Cunt.” He replied, his anger evident in his tone as well.

“Traitor.”

“Bitch.”

“Kinslayer.” You said, letting go of all reservations.

“You’re still a dumb little girl.” He spat. Somehow, this was worse than anything else. Aegon had always called you that, and after one particularly bad day, Aemond had come to apologize for his brother, promising to never say that to you.

The tears spilled quicker than you could stop them, but even through the blurry vision they created, you slapped Aemond as hard as you could.

You wiped your eyes just in time to see his expression, mouth hanging open as his hand touched his cheek gingerly. Before he could regain his composure, you ran into him, throwing him onto the ground. You didn’t care as you heard his body hit the ground, only trying to hurt him somehow, to show him what he had done to you.

But Aemond was at full health, and a man that was taller than you by a bit while you hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. It didn’t take him long until he had flipped you around, holding your wrists down to the stone floor.

You struggled against him, trying to kick him or knee him in the balls, but Aemond was quicker than you, pinning your legs as well.

“Fuck you! You promised me!” you shouted at him, still trying to get your wrists out of his grip.

“You want me to apologize?”

“Yes, I do.” You snapped. “You broke a promise.”

“Hobroti jās.” He replied.

“Your Valyrian bullshit doesn’t scare me.” You laughed, but you were lying. It did. He could be threatening to kill you for all you knew, and you would be none the wiser.

“Is that so, my love?” he taunted.

“Don’t call me that.” You replied.

“Why? Have a lover waiting for you at Dragonstone? Prince Daemon himself perhaps?”

“I don’t. And the King consort would not dishonor his queen like that.”

“I suppose you’re not much to look at anyway. Especially not after a stay in the cells.” Aemond cruelly spat.

Your snarl fell from your face, your mask cracking quicker than you wanted it to. Not being as desirable and pretty as the ladies at court had hurt for as long as you could remember, but it was worse coming from Aemond somehow.

“Never took you for the vain type.” Aemond continued relentlessly, driving the knife in deeper.

“As if you’re a looker.” You replied, trying to push the tears he had cried over his face for years into the background. You knew it was mean, your choice of words especially, but he was just as horrible. Yet, when you said those words, Aemond recoiled from you for a moment, giving you the opportunity to free yourself from his grasp.

You crawled backwards, trying to create space between the two of you, but Aemond grabbed your ankle, pulling you back towards him. You crashed against him, causing him to let go of you to catch himself.

Trying to take advantage of the moment, you pushed him down by the shoulders, trying to ignore the fact that he was staring at you.

“Nyke pendagon avy jorrāelan.” He said. His eye was wide, staring at you with anger and… was that awe?

“Stop with the Valyrian!” you said, punching against his chest in a futile attempt to regain control.

He smirked at you, satisfied that he was getting a rise out of you like this, and you hated him for it. You’d spent a lot of your time around Daemon, for fuck’s sake! This shouldn’t be having any kind of effect on you!

You should get up now. You could get up, your brain was screaming at you, but instead, you stayed where you were, your hands on his shoulders in a futile attempt to subdue a Targaryen.

You stayed where you were when Aemond leaned forward, until your faces were only centimeters apart.

“Go on.” he whispered. You weren’t sure what he wanted, only that, in that moment, closing the space between you felt right.

It took you about two seconds to break the kiss, biting Aemond’s lip. “I hate you.” You tried, but you heard your own voice, and it didn’t sound too convinced.

“Are you?” he asked, wiping the blood from his lower lip with a small smile.

“We’re enemies! At war. We should be killing each other, not doing… this.”

“I took too long. I tried to convince myself that letting you rot would be a good punishment.” He said.

“It is! Look at what I’m doing.” You replied.

“You drew first blood. Hate to admit it.”

“You are insufferable.” You said.

“Am I? You haunt my dreams, taunting me with what I’ve done, and now that I let you speak to me, you make my nightmares reality! I want you dead, and yet I can’t help but want you all to myself.”

“Oathbreakers are the highest of traitors, and I swear, one day your head will be on a spike in the Red Keep, and I for one will be glad for it.” You replied, but it sounded weak against his words, refined with years of study you didn’t have.

“Then why did you kiss me?”

You hated that you didn’t have a witty response on your tongue as Aemond would have.

“Give in.” he said, and by the Gods, was there ever a sweeter temptation?

“So all the blood spilled under my command will be ridiculed?” you asked.

“I am a Targaryen, blood is in my nature. What better way to honor them?”

“Than kissing you? I can think of more than a few.” You laughed.

“I don’t give a shit about kisses.” Aemond replied. When he crossed the room, you didn’t dare back away. They called Aemond a One-Eyed devil, but you had taken off that eyepatch to care for what remained far too many times not to see him for what he was.

All the violence, the fire, the insecurities. His inability to look at his reflection, the pride and guilt of being Vhagar’s rider. The love for Helaena and hate for Aegon. His lust and distaste for the crown, the never-ending spiral of paradox that he was.

But you had been made violence and fire as well, to hide your weaknesses and make you lethal.

Before his lips could crash onto yours again, you felt the horrible realization of what had happened hit you. Your hands caught his chest, and Aemond froze.

“Daemon sent me.” You said. “He knew, didn’t he? He knew you’d spare me; he knew that you’d try to kill me, and that you’d fail because I am your friend.”

Slowly, you watched as Aemond walked to the door, grabbing something from behind a loose stone. You thought he’d hidden the dagger to kill you, until he flipped the handle towards you.

“Do it then.” He whispered. Your hand shaking, you tried to take the blade. You could end this war. You could kill the biggest asset the Greens had. He was practically offering himself to you.

Yet you couldn’t level the knife to his neck. Slowly, you let it sink again, hand trembling until the dagger fell. It clattered on the ground loudly, reminding you of your guilt. The traitor you had just become.

But Aemond was already on you, hands cupping your face as if you were fragile, thumbs stroking your cheeks like a lover to be cradled, soothing the unsurety that confused your thoughts.

“I still hate you.” You whispered between kisses, but Aemond barely bothered to smirk at you.

Instead, your hands betrayed your instincts, wandering to unlace his leather doublet, still shaking from the dagger.

“I hate you too.” He replied, ripping at your gown until it tore from shoulder to hip.

“That was the only one I had.” You complained.

“I’ll buy you another.”

“You’re such an ass.” You snapped. Aemond didn’t reply, his hands wandering to the curve of your hips instead.

The cot made an audibly creak as he lowered you down onto it, and you caught the blush on his cheeks.

“Don’t like being heard?” you asked.

“Not particularly. Didn’t know you did.”

“I don’t. I just happen to be poor.”

“Who?” Aemond demanded.

“What?”

“Who fucked you?”

“You thought I was a virgin?” you taunted.

“Their names.” Aemond managed through gritted teeth.

“Let’s see. There was Alyn, the city watch guard. He was my first. Then your mother’s maid, and a barkeep in Flea Bottom. A former septon at Dragonstone, he was go-“

“Shut up.” Aemond commanded, his hand on your neck again. His other hand was tearing at your dress, and the fact that he was desperate to have you made you feel powerful.

A prince of the Seven Kingdoms, subdued by the daughter of a blacksmith.

What a song that would make. In truth, you were desperate to kiss him again, to bite his shoulder while he fucked you languishly and have him pull your hair while he took you from behind. To dig your nails into his shoulders and watch his eye grow wide as he took his pleasure from you.

“Take it off.” You said.

“What?”

“The eye patch.”

“No.” Aemond refused.

“I’ve seen you without a thousand times. I want you.” You said.

He let you remove it, and your smile grew as you saw the dark, glittering sapphire filling his empty socket.

“Do you like it?” he asked carefully, sounding like the young boy that had reluctantly shown you his angry, red wound the first time he returned from Dragonstone.

“Would you wake if I stole it in the middle of the night?”

“Don’t try it.” He warned, finally unlacing his breeches. Without warning, he lowered himself to your cunt, before he thrust into you slowly. You screwed your eyes shut, trying to adjust to the stretch of it, but the pain felt just right.

“Alright?” he asked.

“Just been a while.”

He nodded, before he thrusted a few more times. And then, without warning, his hips snapped forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to, and Aemond lowered his face to your breasts, taking his time with marring the already bruised skin on your chest further.

His thrusts were harsh, reflecting the anger that was still marring his features. If there was a truly gentle side to Aemond, it wasn’t here now.

Instead, he was all rough and messy, pressing his lips to yours in a desperate attempt to soften its gestures, but all it did was make you gasp into his mouth, only encouraging him to drive further into you.

It took your breath away, leaving you biting his shoulder and neck as you had imagined, fighting him tooth and nail for control.

There was an edge to him, one you’d seen before in Daemon and Rhaenyra, and even Helaena at times. Power and magic that made the Targaryens untouchable, and it clouded his senses just like yours.

His hands were everywhere, grabbing whatever he can take hold on. Bruising, marking your flesh and you know that it’s to claim you over and over again.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes again, but of pleasure laced with pain this time, the stretch of his cock so unbearably good it makes you wonder why. Why hadn’t you done this sooner?

Had this lust been there before? Would this have happened without a war?

Was that really what it took?

“I need…” Aemond began, trailing off into nothing as he nipped your lip, mirroring your gesture from earlier. He pushed your knees towards your shoulders, driving even deeper. It makes you a mess, fall apart in just the way he wants you too.

“Don’t stop.” You begged. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I won’t.” Aemond promised, and his words spoke of the things neither of you dared to say.

“Take me. Make me yours.” A part of you said, one that you did not know you possessed.

“My fierce girl.” He praised. “My fighter, my darling. My love. Mine, mine, mine.”

His words became a mantra, thrumming with the racing beat of your heart.

Yours.

Betrayal shouldn’t feel this good, and yet, Aemond made the guilt disappear into background noise with soft praises soothing earlier insults. He flipped you around after a while, hands grabbing your hips as you tried to steady yourself on the cot, hands tangling with bedsheets.

They bruised you again, lilac and purple blooming on your skin, bones stretching against it. You were hungry for something you didn’t know you wanted, and Aemond’s hands promised sweet release.

His chest flattened against your back, jaw finding your neck again and biting more marks into it, as if there weren’t already enough there. Hands tangling into your hair, he turned your head to kiss you harshly, more teeth and bite than soft kisses, but in that moment it felt right.

“Gods.” He gasped, thrusting into you with a frenzy. His hands found your sweet spot, rubbing until you found yourself painfully close to the edge. You could feel his breath on your back, the desperate savageness that accompanied his person now.

Heat bloomed in your stomach as you felt him continue, observant to your reactions. He studied you as he studied his swordplay, a skill he wanted to master. He already had, and yet, you couldn’t help but arch your back and meet his cock.

“So desperate?” he teased, and you ignored him, even as he taunted you for fucking yourself on his cock.

“You’re the one rutting into me.” You tried. Trading insults didn’t feel necessary, you were both desperate enough for each other to betray the cause you were so loyal to, and that was proof enough of your desperation.

“Give in.” he demanded. “Give yourself to me.”

“You’re mine,” you managed instead. “You’ll always be mine; I don’t care about the rest.”

He bit back his witty comeback, you knew it. It felt like a heartwarming gesture, if his hands and cock hadn’t made your spine go soft and your legs shake. He was desperate to make you cum, and that was how you knew he was close as well.

You wanted him to cum first, to lose if only in this, but with a few more sloppy thrusts, he had pushed you over the edge, your arms failing you as he followed after you seconds later.

As soon as it was done, he tried to move away from you. He let you pull him back in. You kissed him softly, slowly, as you had longed to do for a long time.

Now that his anger had dissipated, his lips melted against yours, his grip gentle and soft again, soothing over the love bites he had just made.

Carefully, he dressed you, a proud expression on his face as he noticed his seed between your legs.

“You’ll get me moontea for that.” You said.

“Or a septon.” He smirked, tying his breeches.

“What gave you the impression?”

Wordlessly, Aemond scooped you up into his arms, carrying you to the door.

“’You’ll always be mine’ was quite indicative.” He said, mimicking your gasps. Aemond carried you all the way to his chambers, setting you down on a bed that felt like a cloud.

“We can’t marry.” You reminded him quietly.

“Yes, we can. I’m the prince.”

“Precisely. I am a blacksmith’s daughter for the enemy of your faction.”

“Perhaps I shall make my own faction then.” Aemond replied.

“And make a peasant your queen? I do believe the nobles would rather have a woman then.”

“My mother would love you.”

“Since when? No doubt she knows I fucked her maid as a parting gift by now.” You said.

“That was your last act in the Red Keep?” Aemond asked. “I do admit, it might be a little difficult to make up for it.”

“I mean it, Aemond. ‘Tis no joking matter. You must either let me go, or kill me now, for I know I cannot do that to you.” You replied.

“You can leave tomorrow morning.” He agreed. “And I shall have no mercy if I see you on the battlefield. Or you can stay, and marry me at noon. The choice is yours to make.”

[khaohomies]

TTTE OCS I'VE BEEN WORKING ON, YAY!!!

The sillies... (I'm too lazy to draw trains)

LORES UNDERCUT!

Milo BR Class 90

Human name: Milo Mansfelid

Freshly out of the workshop, it's true to say that Milo is new to the world. Because of this, he's very unaware of his surrounding. He is a very approachable engine, loving to chat about random new topics he found interesting(The topic can literally be anything). He can go on and on forever and very unaware of how the others think of it. He have a very open and optimistic point of view and doesn't mind opening up a conversation with anyone, this causing some problem when the conversation is not appropriate for the current situation. oh boy he LOVES gossiping and talking behide someone's back. When his chattiness get one someone's nerve he isn't afraid to snap and taunt them back, causing him quite a joker reputation in the railway.

Note:

During his early years. Milo doesn't have a name, only a BR numbers. He got his name from when he ask his first driver what he was drinking, thus the name 'Milo' origin.

He've never visit the island of sodor, but would love to if they ever install electric polls

Love reserching and learning random knowleges.

He learned many creative and hurtful insults he can use from Bulldog.

Bulldog BR Class 55 'Deltic'

Human name : Bud Ballin Burton

Your usual grumpy engine. Losing many coworkers and friends from both roads and rails to scrap and accidents can be quite hard. The large diesel mostly keep to himself, not wanting to build up many relationship with the others. The few that he have close relation with are his crews and few vehicles and rolling stocks. The class 55 is the type to get easily annoyed and can be seen snapping at the others, this putting him in many problems with the others. But don't worry! He eventually tone down with the help of his close coworkers and Milo.

Note:

He used to be one of those ''I HATE STEAM ENGINE!!!" Diesels but quickly come to his senses years later.

His driver call him "bulldog" because when he snap at the other engines, his driver think of a dog barking.

When he did laugh he laugh LOUD

He was annoyed by Milo at first meet but eventually keep him around cause' he's fun

He went from "We all are going to get scrap anyway so why should I care" To "We don't last forever so lets make the most out of it"

Share things he knows with Milo

(human) Milo is literally the reason he quit smoking

Milo and bulldog have mentor/apprentice and Sibling sort of dynamic and they did other shenanigans with the other mainland engines

+ Some face concept of milo!

[themaridenstationchronicles]

I created a new style for myself for drawing the clones and its so crazy easy. So here meet the boys of Mariden.

Description of the boys below the cut

Top row, left to right:

Rocker: proclaimed by his brothers as the "best medic on the whole GAR," Rocker is creative, compassionate, resourceful, and very very good at coming up with devious prank ideas. He and Claptrap are inseparable and often if one is up to mischief, the other isn't far behind. Rocker's creativity also comes in handy when they run out of important medical supplies. He knows exactly what to use as a substitute and rest assured that he will find the perfect plant or herb from the forests of Mariden to cure what ails you.

Dagger: with a temper to rival that of Darth Maul, Dagger is hands down the strongest member of this squad. He's terrifying when he's angry and if he somehow becomes the victim of Claptrap and Rocker's latest prank, they'd better run and hide. Despite his gruff exterior, Dagger does care for his brothers and will do anything to protect them, especially Scrap. Though the two of them have vastly different personalities, you can usually find the two of them working on a new weapon in Scrap's workshop or spotting each other in the gym.

Sarge: this poor man needs a nap like nobody's business but the only way he'll take one is if Rocker sedates him. Sarge doesn't have a temper like Dagger but he's not the warmest man on base either. Gruff and stern, Sarge has a rough past that taught him a lot - some lessons good, some bad - but no matter how bad his past, he's focused to the here and now and making sure his current squad doesn't kill themselves on accident. He may not show it a lot but he loves his men and will gladly lay down his life to keep them safe.

Bottom row, left to right:

Claptrap: the personification of "chaotic hot mess," Claptrap serves as two things at the Mariden station: the communications officer, and the resident prank expert. He loves a good joke or prank and will target anyone (except Rocker; the last time he tried that didn't go over so well). Despite his desires for laughter and practical jokes, Claptrap knows when any one of his brothers is having a bad day and will do whatever he can to help them and cheer them up. He'll tell them stories, make them a cup of caf, or take them outside on a hike. Even if the forests of Mariden can be dangerous, Claptrap is one with nature and is the perfect hiking guide. He loves art and has a handmade journal cataloging the various creatures he spots, and more often than not can be found hanging with Rocker in the med bay.

Scrap: clever, creative, and too curious for his own good, Scrap began tinkering while still on Kamino. Give him a broken Droid, and handful of old tools and about ten minutes and he'll have that Droid up and running like it was brand new. However, his inventions don't always work the way he intended them to, but he's determined to learn from his mistakes and never stop improving. And though brilliant he may be, his common sense and sense of self preservation aren't always in tact. Sarge has had to ban more than one of Scrap's ideas or prototypes due to safety reasons, but that doesn't stop Scrap from trying. You can most always find him in one of two places: in his workshop, or wherever Dagger is.

Visor: by far the most quiet natured clone you'll ever meet, Visor is probably the most mentally collected person in the whole squad (usually anyway). He's got a gentle nature and a heart full of compassion and if any of the boys need an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on, Visor is gladly there for them. Even Sarge comes to him fairly often to let off some steam. He's not that hard to find: look for him on the lookout tower or out on the landing platform outside, patrolling the area and keeping an eye out for any droids or dangerous animals. He's ever vigilante and won't let anything that could hurt his brothers get past him.

[aphroditestummyrolls]

wesper, 6 and/or 26 please (much predictable, i know xD)

Beloved friend! I’m so sorry this took so long. But I’m really happy with how it turned out ❤️ it even broke 2k 😅 which is a little ridiculous for a prompt game, but I can’t say I mind. This is a continuation of the last prompt, where poor Wylan concusses himself in a workshop accident, and poor Jesper is terrified when he finds him.

The torrent of water— after a few long moments of ominous clunking sounds from the pipes— got hot enough to steam the mirror. It was one of the greatest luxuries in the Barrel, to have at least semi-regular access to hot water. Jes unfolded the canvas divider to separate a private little space for him and Wylan. Thankfully, everyone was still out at either the club or elsewhere in the Barrel, so the two of them had the place to themselves.

It wasn’t really good form to lock the door, but Jesper had more important things to worry about.

The washrooms on their floor of the Slat were the nicest in the building— it wasn’t saying too much, but it was still a considerable show of rank within the dregs.

The tub was a lovely burnished copper, and the tile wasn’t nearly as cracked under his bare feet as the bathrooms downstairs, or the washroom in the old club. There was no draft to chill his naked skin, even with the winter wind howling outside the window. It was clear that Kaz hadn’t forgotten to look after his crows’ creature comforts when he started throwing Nikolai’s money into restoring the old place. Jesper told himself that he would do his best to remember that when his boss came round to chew him out later.

According to Nina, he’d been nearly ready to send a search party out. Even if it’s murderously, it’s nice to know he thinks of me, I suppose. He rolled his eyes to himself.

He’d say the joke out loud if he thought his slow-eyed companion would be able to follow more than a few words at a time. But, in the ever-so-slightly brighter lamps of the bathroom, it was clear by the look of him that Wylan was not processing much. He swayed as Jesper deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat, and felt his grip tighten almost painfully at Jesper’s shoulder when he helped him step out of his trousers, shoes and socks.

Shouldn’t have let him sleep, he chastised himself, chewing his lip, lucky he didn’t fall into a bloody coma.

Wylan stumbled as Jes stood back up, and he caught him by the hips just in time. His merchling made a wounded little sound. It echoed in the sudden quiet after Jesper had turned off the spout, and tugged at his heart. Leaning heavily into his side, Jesper brushed a kiss to his temple.

“How’s the patient, then?”

Wylan hummed. “Tired. Cold. Everything hurts.”

Still not slurring, though. He let out a long breath, and made sure Wylan was stable on his own two feet before he stepped into the tub. It bordered on too warm, and Jesper hissed through his teeth like a kettle letting off steam, giving himself a moment to adjust before holding out his hands to his lover.

“Well, I can certainly fix one of those things. Nauseous? Dizzy?”

Wylan started to nod and went abruptly very white. He stumbled to Jesper’s outstretched hands, gripping tightly. His knees buckled like a newborn foal, and Jes didn’t hesitate to pull him in. The lip of the copper tub was the only thing between them, taking his poor lover at the waist. Wylan’s sooty face buried itself in his shoulder. “Alright,” he murmured, taking slow breaths as if that was in any way helpful, “okay— nauseous or dizzy?”

There was a moment where the only sound was Wylan’s breathing, roughly mimicking Jesper’s. “D-Dizzy.” He finally said.

“Let’s sit you down, then.” He kept his voice as soft as the amber lights, filtered through the haze of steam. Wy would be having sensitive ears and eyes for a bit. He’d never been the type to comfort or nurse someone, but… hopefully it was helping. “C’mere Love— just step carefully.”

Finally, they melted into the warm water. Wylan curled into his chest and seemed for all the world like he was about to fall right back to sleep. Jesper hated nudging his side.

“No sleeping, merchling— we’ve got a job to do.” He reached over to the small stool at his elbow, collecting a small cup.

“We have to?” He complained. Jes managed a half a laugh.

“Well, you look like the wrong end of a fuse, and both of us smell like a chemical fire. Because, there was very nearly a chemical fire, remember?”

Wylan waved away the thought with a slow motion flick of his bandaged hand.

“Tired.” He muttered. Jes could feel him pouting against his chest, and it made him feel like screaming for some reason. It made him want to bundle the smaller man up and away from the world; he never wanted him let him go; he never wanted him to go back anywhere near that damned workshop.

Suddenly, the idea of getting hurt as evidence of experience was an utterly idiotic metric to Jesper.

“Well, we can’t get you off to bed till you’re clean and dry, can we?” He smoothed a hand up and down his merchling’s back. He counted each bump of his spine until he reached his hips. “Let me get a look at you.”

It was best to get this out of the way first, right?

With hands so gentle they nearly shook, Jesper scooped water into the cup, and helped Wylan tip his head back. Careful to make sure that none of the cascade of water got directly into the bloodied spot on the back of his skull, he smoothed his hair back and away from those closed eyes. It felt like something was cracking open in Jesper’s chest, but he ignored it.

Water poured in rivulets down over Wylan’s neck and shoulders, running a greyish red into the tub. He hissed a couple times, flinching whenever Jesper got too close to the wound. Mostly, though, he just sat there, looking hypnotically pretty— his head tilted back and his face soft with sleepiness; his long, dark eyelashes fanned out and brushed the tops of his soot-stained cheekbones; his neck was an elegant, pale column, tensed gingerly to keep himself from tilting back too far. He looked… delicate.

That feeling in his chest was creeping up his throat like a sob or a scream, or something. It felt wild and helpless, and he hated how stupid it all was— what was the point of worrying now? He was safe now! But, there Jesper was, retroactively panicking and trying desperately to keep himself from doing something humiliating.

His breath shuddered as he let it out, pouring one last cup of water over Wylan’s drenched hair before he was satisfied that it was all running clear. The smallest little sound escaped his mouth— eyes still closed, a tiny smile on his lips. If he wasn’t a certified expert in Wylan Van Eck, Jes would’ve thought he’d fallen asleep sitting up.

The slight furrow of tension between his brows was the only thing that gave him away— the pain.

Get this all finished, get him to bed, make sure you wake him up at regular intervals. He told himself, swallowing what felt like cotton in his throat. That’s what Da did when it was bad. Right?

Right.

He reached for the soap— the nice one that he picked up in the zelvarstraat markt, with the shea butter and the fancy oil from the southern colonies— and he lathered it into a soft cloth. Starting with the pale expanse of his lover’s back, Jesper stuttered at the sight of it almost immediately. There were bruises. Saints, he could practically see the support beam’s wood grain stamped into Wylan’s soft skin. He’d really smacked himself around. He could have broken ribs; he could have punctured a lung; he could have fractured his skull; he could have…

He could have died. The words echoed around his brain like a ghost. Coming from nowhere and everywhere, they reverberated off the tiles just for Jesper’s ears. You could have found a body.

Blinking rapidly against the hot blur in his eyes, Jes scrubbed down his lover’s neck and over his shoulders. He winced, letting out a miserable little grunt when the cloth swiped over his back, and Jesper winced with him. This time, he forced his breaths to stay deep and even just for his own sake. He would not do something humiliating. Like crying.

“Turn.” His voice sounded thick and weepy the second he heard it, and he cleared his throat. Try again, one more time with feeling. “Show me that pretty face, Darling.”

He meant it to sound more flirtatious, and less like a dying man’s last wish, but it fell somewhere smack in between.

And Wylan may have had his brains coming out his ears a bit, but he still heard the crack in his voice. He saw the sheen in Jesper’s eyes the second he turned. The worst of it, though, was that he seemed so surprised.

“What- Jes, what—?”

“‘M fine. Just… just let me get the soot off you, and you can get some sleep.”

He wrung out the cloth, raising it up to his cheek, only for his hand to be caught at the wrist by bandaged fingers.

Wylan was pale as a ghost under the mask of soot on his face, flushed cheeks in high colour from the heat of the bath water. The tips of his ears were rosy.

The tip of his nose was ever-so-slightly burnt.

He looked at Jesper with glassy brown eyes, pinched with pain at the corners, but still shrewd as he took Jesper in. What did he even look like? He hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror a single time since they’d returned home, but he’d gotten a few wide eyed looks as they made their way from their room to the bath.

Whatever it was Jesper didn’t want him to see, his clever merchling saw it. He clumsily stroked his injured thumb along the delicate inside of Jesper’s wrist. “What is it?” He asked.

It cracked open his chest like a bullet, and all that desperate fear and relief came spilling out in a rush. There were too many words in his head, his tongue was heavy— so, he didn’t speak.

He dropped the cloth into the water, and instead reached out to take Wylan with both hands. He cupped his jaw, and kissed him with as much of those feelings as he could manage without his voice. It was deep and lush, and Jesper could happily spend every second of his life doing exactly this, if Wylan could please not die in the meantime.

His merchling didn’t let go of his wrist, holding them both right where they were as he belatedly got with the program. His breath shuddered out on a sigh and he melted into Jesper’s lips, pulling him flush as they settled back against the reclined wall of the tub. Jes cupped the back of his neck with a tender touch, and Wylan’s arms flailed to wrap around his shoulders.

By the time they parted, the water was finally starting to go lukewarm. Wylan still had a sooty face and Jesper hadn’t soaped a single inch of himself. He pecked the singed tip of Wylan’s nose.

“Whatever happened to those small sample sizes, huh?” He caught his breath. The bright grin on his face was too big to lend much authority to the question.

Wylan managed a huff of a tired laugh, resting his heavy head on Jesper’s chest. “‘M sorry. Vial tipped over— was never supposed to be in, in the compound.”

“Well, I’m awfully glad you didn’t die.” He said, his lighthearted attempt at the words immediately derailed by the way he squeezed him tight with both arms.

Wylan hummed. His eyes had drifted closed, and his face was buried in the crook of his neck— dark and safe. The bathroom was a quiet haven for his pounding skull, and Jesper’s frayed nerves. It wouldn’t be long before Kaz came for him, or somebody else stumbled home from the bars and couldn’t get into the bathroom. But for now?

For now there was just the quiet slosh of warm water and the occasional hiss of Wylan moving his head too much or too fast. Jesper wiped the soot away from his face, and scrubbed himself down until he was dusky pink.

As he dried off and collected their fresh, soft clothes, he glanced back to see Wylan’s big brown eyes fluttering, half asleep and miserably sore. He’d have to ask Nina to send up some coffee for him— Jesper wouldn’t be sleeping. Maybe he could even tell Kaz to meet him in their room, where he could still keep a close eye on those damp curls and that poor, battered body.

Jesper wasn’t letting Wylan out of his sight for a long while.

Any guesses on what Kaz wants to talk to him about? 👀 it’s only the most Me thing in the world.

Thanks for playing, my friend. I hope you liked this little thing.

[kitthenameless]

If you've ever wanted to marry the Interdimensional Prince in Monster Prom, I made a mod you might like 😆 It's got three events and ending art and everything!

(It's been on Steam for years, but I never posted it here because I didn't use this site until recently.)

Also, I think Vera, Liam, and Polly rapping insults at you, which you can see if you fail that event, might be the greatest thing I've ever written. (Honestly, all the fail events are funnier than the successes.)

Here's the link to the Steam workshop page: There's Going to Be a Wedding!

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2023: Day 14 - Young Iron

Ivo Hugh has some Advice for a Young Engine:

The young engine had only just arrived on Sodor, crossing over the Vicarstown Bridge and steaming onto the fabled rails of Thomas and his friends. She’d heard all about them from her driver, fireman and the trust members – the engines who lived on the Island of Sodor were legendary! All she wanted to do was meet each and every one of them and gush over how incredible it was to finally meet the engines who had so greatly influenced the preservation movement.

Her travels brought her to their Works, where her boiler, firebox and several other important parts had been machined before being sent back to her home in Derby. It was huge! It made her warehouse workshop home look like an ant next to an elephant – the Sudrian Works were built almost as if they wished to impress, with the original works sitting primly at the front, with several acres-worth of expansions behind them, stretching far beyond what the young engine could see. The signal in front of her was red, and she was shunted into a siding beside a small raised retaining wall.

“It’s grown a lot,” chuckled a voice from beside her. The young engine looked down, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her smokebox! Beside her was the smallest engine she’d ever seen!

“What are you?” spluttered the young engine. The little engine frowned – the young engine began to worry she’d somehow offended it.

“I’m Ivo Hugh,” huffed the engine. “Have you never seen a narrow-gauge engine before?” The young engine gasped.

“Like Skarloey and Rheneas? I’ve read about you all! Or at least… some of you. Were you in a book?” Ivo Hugh flushed red and let off steam crossly.

“I was too in a book!” he exclaimed. “I was in New Little Engine!” The young engine winced.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t think we have that book back home. It’s nice to meet you, little Ivo Hugh. My name is Tornado, and I’ve come to Sodor to help out while Henry is being repaired!” Ivo Hugh smiled.

“It’s no problem,” he said kindly. “And I’m sorry I got so cross – Duke would have my bunkers if he heard!” Tornado chuckled – she had read all about the famous old engine who had been buried underground. Oh, the stories that Sodor held were so exciting! And there were more that she’d never been able to read too!

“I’ve never worked in regular service before,” admitted Tornado suddenly. Her signal was still set to danger, and she was curious. “Do you have any advice?”

Ivo Hugh considered the question – there was a lot he could say, like remembering all your passengers so a refreshment lady didn’t chase you down the line, or to not be tricked about backing signals like Percy was, or even to be polite to the elder engines because they would get her back – especially Gordon, who was not above getting even, even in his old age.

But no, there was one piece of advice that Ivo Hugh could think of that stood out above all others. Something he’d been told by three different engines: Edward, Thomas and Skarloey, who heard it from their mentors, who’d learnt from their mentors, all the way back to the first steam engines. One piece of advice that linked all engines together, across Britain, across Europe, across the world.

“Engines must always look after the people who catch their trains,” he said. “They are our coal and water; without people, there are no trains for us to pull and then we have no purpose. You can ask any engine, and they’ll tell you the same. I learnt from Skarloey, who learnt from a little old engine called Neil, who supposedly learnt it in Glasgow from an engine who’d learnt it from Rocket himself.”

Tornado gasped – she’d heard of the famous Rocket, who had won the Rainhill Trials and brought about the rise of steam. He was legendary! Even the diesels spoke of him in reverent tones.

“Thank you,” said the young engine. “I’ll remember that.”

“Oh, and Tornado,” Ivo Hugh added. “Don’t copy the engines from the books. Most of them are as silly as you can get! The other day, Thomas himself had to be brought up to the works because his tank had sprung a leak! I don’t even know how he managed to do that…”

But Tornado could only turn to stare at the workshops excitedly, as if hoping that she would catch a glimpse of the famous Thomas the tank engine. Beside her, Ivo Hugh sighed. It was always the same with the engines from the mainland: they had this weird hero-worship for Thomas that lasted right up until the blue tank engine opened his mouth.

Oh well, Tornado would learn soon enough. She was headed for Tidmouth after all – her owners truly were throwing her right into the thick of it, sending her there. He just hoped a kinder engine like Edward or Bear was there to receive her, or he might be seeing Tornado arrived back at the works in a very different manner to the way she arrived!

Back to Master Post

[writing-a-to-b]

Title: Autumn Word Count: 3,460 Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader (with a side of platonic Ellie Williams X Reader) A/N: This work is written in collaboration between @specialagentmonkey & @bangaveragewhitewine. 

We’re back! We are planning to post weekly; two more seasons, plus some ~interludes~ in between the main seasons fics. 

Thanks for reading folks, any comments and feedback are greatly appreciated! Follow and turn on notifications if you would like to hear when we post the other seasons / chapters, or sign up to our taglist to be kept up to date with what we post!

We do not give permission for our work to be posted on other sites. 

Seasons of Us Masterlist

Contains: domestic goodness, illusions to sexy time

—

Autumn brought rain to Jackson; steely grey skies that prepared the town for the snowy months ahead. It’s raining now.  Joel knows the rain has come because your hair is damp; not because he can hear the rain behind the banging and sawing he’s been doing in the workshop, and not with the near constant ringing in his ears, that he is usually able to tune out. 

Joel loses himself in his work so you made sure - as often as you could - to bring him his lunch that you packed him that morning. The lunch that he forgot to put into his pack before coming down to the workshop. You know he probably does it on purpose just so he can see you during the day. Your jobs move you around Jackson with the seasons; fruit picking and tending to the greenhouses or the animals, supervising in the schoolhouse. No matter where you were, what kept you busy from dawn until dinner time, you always made sure to go have lunch with your man. 

“Mr Miller,” you greeted while pulling the workshop door closed to keep the wind and rain out. You wiped your boot-clad feet, “The lunch you forgot - again.” You fixed him with a pointed look as you held out the plastic container.

Joel rose from the stool and quickly wiped his hands on a dusty rag before closing the gap between you, kissing your cold lips with a hum. “You’re wet,” he said, scrunching up his face and lifting a hand to run over your damp hair.

You scoffed and nudged the box into his stomach, “Rain’ll do that to ya.” 

Joel took the offered plastic container. “I didn’t forget it, not this time anyway,” he admitted with a sheepish smile that made you roll your eyes.

“I knew you were doing it on purpose,” you huffed and shook your head before pecking him once more, “I brought mine to eat with you.”

Joel nodded and turned back to the workbench seeing the clutter and chaos, scratching the back of his neck. “Jus’...gimme a sec,” he mumbled and moved around the bench to clear some space, brushing off the worst of the sawdust and clearing any nails out of the way.

“Ever the gentlemen,” you teased as you perched onto the second stool Joel had brought over.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it never was for you and Joel. You’d been together for so long it was just being with each other, neither of you felt the need to fill the silence with small talk. Both of you got stuck into the packed lunches only briefly interrupted by Joel when he left the bench to go into the back of the workshop, coming back with two steaming cups of the mint tea that he had grown reluctantly fond of.

After the lunches were eaten you held the cup between your hands, appreciating the warmth it brought to them.

“How’s the decoration makin’ goin’?”

“We think we’ve got most of it done, the children have loved doing it. We’re hoping that the weather holds off until after Halloween but…who knows.” You shrugged, glancing over your shoulder out the window, “I just hope the pumpkins grow…”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Last winter was awful for the ground, we’ve had so much trouble with the gardens this year in the spring,” you explained softly, “We’re all rooting for the pumpkins because it’s not Halloween without them and it’s going the first Halloween that we’ve managed to find and plant pumpkin seeds - but what if they aren’t ready in time?”

Joel seemed to ponder for a moment his mug paused resting at his chin, “Well…if they ain’t my Momma used to say that years ago- and I mean years before anythin’ went to shit, when they didn’t have pumpkins they carved turnips,” he paused seeing the slightly bemused expression on your face, “Y’got any big turnips?”

You couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up at the thought, carving out turnips. It seemed ridiculous, but very plausible.

Joel deflated and huffed at your laughter, “Just an idea, you don’t gotta laugh at me-”

“No no, no, I’m not laughing at you,” you stopped yourself, put your cup down and slid off the stool to come stand beside him, leaning into his upper arm. “I wasn’t laughing at you, it was just the image of people carving out turnips, it- I found it funny,” you slid your hand up his back and over the collar of his flannel shirt to the back of his neck, “It’s a wonderful idea. Thank you for sharing that with me, about your mom.” 

He raised his eyebrow and gave you a sideways glance. The teasing lilt in your voice was still there but the kiss you laid to his cheek did the trick. “Alright, now go on. I’ve got work to do.” 

Grinning against the beard on his cheek, you cup his jaw to turn his face towards you, placing a slow kiss to his lips, “Are you kicking me out after I brought you food?”

Joel hummed against your lips, his free arm wrapping around your waist, “Yup,” he said once your lips separated. “‘Cause you, darlin’ are a distraction and I don’t wanna have’ta get stitches again.”

“That,” you pointed a finger at him, poking his chest, “Was not my fault.”

He hummed, unconvinced, and gave your backside a tap, “Rather be safe than sorry.”

“You’ll be home for dinner, yeah? Ellie is joining us tonight.” You told him as you started packing up the plastic containers. 

“Aint she out with- uh…”

“Dina,” you supplied with a small smirk and nodded, “She is, but she’s coming home for dinner.”

“Right.”

“So,” you slipped into your coat with Joel’s help, “Make sure you’re home.”

Joel held either side of your coat, “Yes darlin’,” bringing you closer to his chest, “I promise, I’ll be home for dinner.”

—

The early Autumn rain eased over the next few weeks as the fall season brought crisp cool days and crunchy leaves to sweep and gather in piles. The younger townsfolk took great pleasure in jumping in said piles, their laughter ringing through the streets made you warm inside; they had a chance at having a real childhood in this town, far from a QZ or a regimented FEDRA upbringing, tucked behind Jackson’s safe walls. 

You swapped recipes with your neighbours, making the most of the meat the hunters brought back and the vegetables from the community garden. Best of all was the pumpkins. News of their growth and readiness for harvest in time for the holiday spread through the town; you brought it right to Joel yourself, along with warm homemade soup for lunch. 

“It’s not just that they’re ready to be harvested in time for Halloween, Joel. We’ll save the seeds for sewing, that’s almost a guarantee for next year…” You spoke with a childlike glee of roasted pumpkin, stews and soups and pies, and the plans for pumpkin-carving with the little ones in the schoolhouse. 

Joel’s spoon hovered in mid-air as he watched you, that small smirk on his lips. Seeing you so happy made his chest tighten in the best way. 

You caught him staring - no, gazing was far more accurate - and stopped, almost breathless from your happy rant. “Sorry. Eat. I just.. I never even cared much about Halloween that much… not until this year.” You shrugged as your cheeks tinted with warmth. 

“Shit baby, I could listen to you all day. I’m really pleased.” Joel’s hand covered yours and he squeezed. “Hey. Least we won’t have to carve turnips,” he winked, seeing you soften again. 

“Hey I still might, Miller.” You point your spoon at him, “Put it out on the porch too.”

You both continued with your lunch, swapping summaries of how your days were going, any tidbits of gossip you had heard - pumpkin-related and otherwise - until your bowls were empty and bellies full. 

“Oh shoot. Did Tommy tell you? Doreen found a stash of old movies in her attic - they’re gonna show The Addams Family for the kids at Halloween, after the costume pageant - ain’t that sweet?” You smile over your shoulder as you pack up the bowls and thermos to take home.  You made a note to tell Ellie, she was settling into the life you three had carved out for yourselves in Jackson. 

Joel nodded, approving of the film choice sidled up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder with his hands on your hips. “If it means we might have the house to ourselves I’m all for it.” You could hear his smile, feel it in the way he squeezed you gently. 

“Oh you mean so you can go out to your little ‘man cave’ and work on whatever it is you got going on there without being interrupted?” You asked with a raised eyebrow, your head leaning to the side to give him a sceptical look, “Or maybe do some work on the front porch for the umpteenth time.” 

Joel’s ears tinted pink, “I do not- it’s not a mancave…it's just a shed I work in. And the porch actually needed work doing to it, thank you very much. Those boards wouldn’ta lasted the winter, the way Ellie thunders down ‘em. But hey, if you wanted to fall on your a-” 

You turned in his arms, reaching around his neck to cut him off with a peck. You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled from you, “Yeah, yeah, Miller. Thank you for looking out for my ass.” 

—

Your chance to tell Ellie about the Halloween plans came sooner than later, as you bumped into her on your way home after she had been visiting Shimmer, sneaking her extra apples as always. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” you said, as she linked your arms as you both walked home. She had been quiet lately, especially when you had brought up Halloween - you were going to get to the bottom of it.

“So, The Addam’s Family. Y’heard?” you asked, smiling down at her with the assumption that she already made her own plans with Dina. You clicked your fingers, hoping the reference wasn’t lost on her. 

“Weird.” That answered your question. “I heard about it… Never really got to ‘do’ Halloween before this. Obviously.” Ellie shrugged, leaving you both in a loaded silence. You gave her the space to decide if she wanted to continue. 

You let the silence melt into the chilly Autumn air around you, mixing with the sounds of Jackson as you strolled toward home. She stayed uncharacteristically silent until you were back in your house, washing up after lunch while Ellie lingered near the door, ready to continue. 

“I guess I like the idea of it… Halloween, spooky shit. Going to this stupid movie. I - I just have some shitty shitty memories surrounded by Halloween decorations. It’s stupid.”

Fragments of the girl's past slotted together in your mind - the mall, the bite, Riley… 

You turned around from the sink, wiping your hands before leaning against the counter. Ellie stared hard at the floor, not meeting your eyes as you spoke.

“It’s not stupid. How you feel and your memories aren’t stupid, babygirl. You can still make new memories and still remember the good parts of those shitty ones..” You let your words sit with her before Ellie finally looked up. You give her a sad little smile,  “I think she’d want you to be happy.”

You barely had time to brace for impact before Ellie wrapped her arms around you for a tight hug, which you gratefully returned. Pressing a fierce, loving kiss to her head, you held each other until Ellie complained she couldn’t breathe with your squeezing. 

After loosening your hold, she tilted her head back to look at you as you spoke again. “Go see the movie. If you’re not having a good time, you can come home anytime. Tommy or Maria would walk you back.” You cup her face, smushing her cheek with your thumb playfully. “Orrr.. you could stay in with us old folks. Joel’ll probably fall asleep on the couch, I’ll be reading my book… Super fun Halloween, right?”

Ellie rolled her eyes before squeezing you so tightly again and then sighed, “Fiiiine I’ll go.”

—

By the morning of Halloween the pumpkins had been harvested and split between the schoolhouse and the community kitchen and food bank, ready to be carved and cooked. There was a buzz of excitement around the town, especially with the children; most of them didn’t know what Halloween was until they got the school up and running.  There was a general consensus with the adults to keep it light, not too scary - the real world was scary enough for these kids. Laughter rang from the schoolhouse as goofy and jagged faces were carved into the hollowed pumpkins, the flesh saved for the kitchens of Jackson. 

Once they were finished, the kids proud of their handiwork, the pumpkins were loaded into a trailer and brought to the middle of the town, the same area that the Christmas tree was displayed every year. The decorations and lights surrounding the town centre  really made it all come together, and the costume pageant in the town hall was a huge hit. You had never seen so many giggling  bed-sheet ghosts. 

A few hours later, when the sun began to set behind the mountains that overlooked  Jackson, everyone came outside to admire the lit pumpkins. Maria and the townspeople on cooking-duty surprised everyone  with mugs of steaming roasted pumpkin soup and slices of pumpkin pie for after - another hit with the children, and the adults. 

The evening got cooler and everyone began to disperse, most heading into the hall for the movie screening. “Are you sure you guys don’t wanna come?,” Ellie offered, Dina waiting a few steps  behind her - the other girl  was still warming up to you and Joel. 

Joel shook his head, taking one last look at the pumpkin display before throwing his arm over your shoulders, “I think we’ve seen enough horrors. You enjoy yourself kiddo. Remember-”

“-yep, I know, be home by eleven.” She looked at you as you gave her a confident little smile and wink.  Ellie waved you off and jogged to catch up with Dina. 

The two of you turned and started walking slowly towards home. You tilted your head back looking at the clear evening sky and twinkling town lights.  Leaning your head to the side you peered up at Joel, admiring his features. You pressed a kiss to his cheek before slipping your hand into the back pocket of his jeans. 

Joel looked down at you, brows lifting. “Ma’am, you do realise we’re in public? Out here groping my old ass.” His tone is light as he tries to keep his smile off his face, shaking his head in false disapproval. “Town Council sure will have something to say about that, s’indecent.” 

“It’s a perfectly decent ass, Joel. You got a licence for this thing?” You gave him a pointed squeeze and almost snorted as he choked on his own laughter.

—

You had a late supper and a couple of whiskeys out on the back porch to look forward to when you both got home that evening. It didn’t take long until the very real scenario of Joel and yourself having an empty home for the evening became too enticing and you found yourself making your way upstairs with Joel hot on your heels - his hands palming over your denim-clad behind now, leaving his overshirt and belt and your sweater in your wake.  That was almost two hours ago.

Joel was propped up against the pillows, one arm bent behind his head and the thin sheet pooled at his waist, leaving little to the imagination. He watched as you came back from the bathroom wearing nothing but his t-shirt- one of his favourite sights. You made the shirt look ten times better than he ever could and he never let you forget it. 

You approached the end of the bed,  lifted a bent knee onto it and crawled into the space between his legs. You placed gentle kisses to his chest  as you let yourself melt into the safe embrace Joel created.

It wasn’t often you got this sort of alone time -  between work and making sure Ellie was keeping out of trouble - but when you got to spend time with Joel alone, intimately, you definitely made the most of it. 

After a while of simply holding each other, sharing small touches and kisses, you settled back under the covers with him. Your nose pressed into the side of Joel’s neck, breathing him in for a few blissful moments as his lips pressed to your hair, beginning to speak.

“What’d you dress up as- when you were a kid I mean?” he asked, smoothing a hand up and down your side before settling on your hip. 

“For Halloween?” you reply, tilting your head back to peer up at him. The buzz about town over the last few weeks brought back memories for everyone.

Ever the asshole that Ellie never let him forget he was, Joel fixed you with a deadpan look, “No for Saint Patrick’s Day.”

You scrunched up your nose and dug your fingers into the softness around his waist. “Alright, shut up,” you tutted, but couldn’t help the smile when you heard Joel’s rumbling laugh. “Let’s see,” you hummed while moving your hand over his hip to his ribs, “The first one I remember, my Mom dressed me as Alice in Wonderland but I’ve been so many- my favourite one was dressing up as Princess Leia.”

Joel nodded with approval -like every man his age, he had it bad for Carrie Fisher growing up. “Star Wars, huh? Space buns too?” Joel saves that tidbit from your old life, stores it away in the increasingly large space you inhabit in his mind.

“Duh, you’re not Leia without the buns, hon. I loved to watch it with my Mom…” The ghost of a sad smile crosses your face before looking up at him. “Your turn. Lemme guess.. Cowboy?”

“I have you know that I made a mean John Wayne,” he said lifting his nose in the air, “My Momma made all the costumes from old bits of clothing so…it looked a bit mismatched but it worked, got me plenty of candy.  Tommy was always covered in camo paint and running around like some army man,” he waved his hand in the air dismissively. 

You sigh happily. “Now that I’d love to see. Little Joel Miller running around in cowboy boots, a stetson. Plastic revolver twirling around your finger…”

Joel huffed a short laugh, “You ain’t too far off.”

“No Johnny Cash?” You asked, your eyebrows lifting as you smiled, knowing how much Joel loved to sing old country music songs.

“Him too,” he smirked and pressed his lips gently to your forehead, “and Hank Williams.” 

You swapped memories of the best candy you got while out trick or treating and the first horror movies you had seen. After so long together, you were still learning about each other.

 A little later, as your fingers stroked through Joel’s hair, his head against your chest, you remembered the time. “Ellie should be back soon, we should make ourselves decent.” 

“She’ll just go into her room and stay there until she smells breakfast, as usual.” Joel’s voice was almost dreamy as he felt close to sleep, curled up with you.

Before you could move, you heard the front door open and slam shut, making both of you wince. No matter how many times you and Joel had told Ellie about slamming the doors, she still managed to shake the house. 

“She’s gonna bust that door off the hinges soon,” he grumbled and rubbed his forehead, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Another damn thing to fix.”

“What the fuck?!” Her muffled voice drifted up the stairs, “Ew! Guys!” There was a beat of silence before you both broke out into quiet laughter. You shook your head and pushed yourself to kneel, taking Joel’s head in your hands to peck his lips a few times. “I’ll go collect our clothes before she really starts to freak out.”

You look back at Joel as you open the door. “Well, if Halloween didn’t spook her, we sure just did.” Your straight-face crumbles as Joel groans in frustration behind you, burying his face into the pillows. “You been readin’ that stupid pun book again? Jesus lord..” 

Despite Ellie’s utter disgust awaiting you downstairs, you think this might just be the best Halloween you have ever had.

[splendidsneb]

Fan of the icons? Wanna to say ‘Hey, good job!’ And support me? Consider buying a sticker!

Hello again lovelies! It's that time again! Only slightly delayed this time because I totally let the release date sneak up on me. Ooops!

Added Alan Wake

Fixed a booboo on Chucky's icon

As per usual, if you’d like to use these yourself, you can find the files on Mega HERE:

Also, as you may know The DbD ToolBox has long since ripperoni’d, but I’ve uploaded my pack to Night Light now instead, so if you’d rather use the app than download them from Mega you can find them there too by clicking the banner!

Please remember that these are to use at your own risk as they may be flagged by EAC, so only use them if you are comfortable with that.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask.

Also if you want to see these character drawings in a much larger size and quality, you can do so HERE!

PS. Including my other minor mod here as well for my fellow Laurie fans. It replaces the Character Info and Store background with a version that reflects her updated model, since BHVR never got around to it for her or Claudette some reason.

[rebornologist]

Hello babe! I love you so so much and your fungus + fish pictures ;)) Can't wait to see you again and go crazy for girlie night kekekeke 🤪 Anyway time to indulge in my toxic trait 👁👄👁 Can I have an imagine for 🔧 where he has a fight with their s.o. over him always working and never making time/canceling last minute on date nights 😭but you know instead of the typically they both say some hurtful shit and cool off and apologize and makeup, I WANT IT DRAMATIC, MY TOXIC TRAIT! I WANT S.O. TO LEAVE WITHOUT A WORD LIKE 🔧 SAYS SOME SHIT LIKE I ENJOY WORKING THAN GOING ON THESE STUPID DATES AND LEAVES TO HIS WORKSHOP AND S.O. IS JUST SHOCKED PACK THEIR BAGS AND LEAVES NO NOTE NO NOTHING. eh you can decide to end it however you want whether he finds s.o. and makeup or he ain't see them ever again 🤡 love you bby gurl my best stem major girlie 💓 💗 💖 💕 😘

hiii baefie ♡♡ I didn't adhere completely to the prompt and ngl I just lost steam at the few hundred words pt, but I hope this is some juicy drama for you :') xx

♡ SPANNER/READER silly date night drama˚₊⁺˳✧ warnings: ngl reader just stonewalls him, I don't condone this behaviour count: 1035 words

༚✧⁺˳₊˚‿︵‿︵‿୨୧ · ˳ · ♡ · ˳ · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿˚₊˳⁺✧༚

It wouldn’t happen again.

You told yourself that you wouldn’t let it happen again, and he promised you the same.

So you sit there, scrolling on your phone, checking your texts with him, wondering why it seemed to be happening again.

‘bb?’ you shoot him a message, chewing on your bottom lip as you try to suppress your dreadful thoughts. He doesn’t even read the message for a while, and you spend a few minutes fixing up your jewelry and makeup before nervously checking the phone again. Nothing.

You decide to call him.

He doesn’t pick up, and that’s when you feel that familiar frustration light up inside of you, like a match was struck.

Your phone pings with a new text.

‘srry working.’

You scoff when you read it, and call again.

“Hey, babe—” he mumbles, speaking with the same lazy tone and muffled by the lollipop in his mouth. He’s working.

“Hi, how much longer are you working for?” You nearly spit out, trying and failing to put a cap on your mounting annoyance.

He doesn’t reply for a moment, and you just hear rustling as he puts his phone on speaker and sets it down to return to the task at hand. You raise an eyebrow, and he finally clears his throat.

“I’ll be in the shop overnight, one of the—”

“So no date night??” At this point, you’re unable to mask the disappointment in your voice.

More rustling and shuffling sounds, the quiet clang of metal against metal. “Huh..? Oh, tonight? I can’t.”

Your response was delayed as well, but for other reasons. You look at the little gift that you had so thoughtfully put together for him. You weren’t sure how it happened, but next thing you know, there were warm tears streaming down your face, as your mind swirled with thoughts of him having the audacity to sound like he was brushing you aside yet again. And you were probably screaming, but your ears felt clogged and he sounded even more muffled over the phone.

“You never can! Maybe you might as well build a robot partner for yourself, because you clearly cannot respect the needs of a human one!”

“[Y/n], when did I ever.. say anything about dis..respecting you?” he groans, biting down on the stick between his teeth.

“You don’t respect my time, Spanner! Over and over again, you keep canceling on me, completely abandoning our plans, leaving me waiting. I don’t want all of our time spent together to be in your musty workshop. We’ve been wanting to go out for so long!”

That seemed to strike a nerve with him. He whips his head over to face his phone this time, quickly pulling the lollipop out and clearing his throat.

“Maybe I enjoy spending my time in my fucking workshop?!”

He’s met with silence. You swallow your sobs quietly, and end the call.

He goes back to work, but not before quickly sending you a text: ‘will talk to yuo tmrw’.

He does not get to talk to you tomorrow. You decide it yourself. You pack your essentials, realizing that you don’t even want to be here when he comes back to your shared living space. You pull up to Colonello and Lal’s place, spending the weekend in their guest room and talking through some of your feelings with them over take out and a bottle of wine.

When Spanner returns the next day to find all of your key belongings missing, he completely just bluescreens and his brain is scrambled. He sends a string of confused texts, calls a few times, gets left on delivered and sent to voicemail, and finally he reaches out to ask Irie what the fuck happened. He panics for a solid day, checking his phone every few hours, turning over pillows for any hidden notes, biting every lollipop stick down to just pulpy paper sludge before spitting it out bitterly.

What makes it worse is that he finds the wrapped gift on the dining table, the one thing that slipped your mind when you left. You also left your key behind; it may have also just slipped your mind, but it signaled to him that you did not intend to return.

Now, depending on whether and how you decide to get him back in the loop of what you were thinking, feeling, and doing, the situation could resolve itself fairly amicably or very unfortunately.

If you contact him later on, explaining yourself and actually discussing why you felt the need to up and leave, he would.. do his best to understand, and express that he would rather you not do that again and leave him in the dark like that, but the experience might actually light a fire under his ass to commit to the time he promises to spend with you. Unfortunately, I think that also means that he makes less date plans with you just so he can be realistic about fulfilling them, especially when it’s crunch time for him. You get your fill of quality time by spending it with him in his musty (it's really clean, actually) workshop in addition to the very sweet dates he takes you on every once in a long while.

If you just go on ghosting him, it would take him a good week to come to the conclusion that you.. don’t want to see him ever again. He opened the gift box in case there was a note from you in it, and there was. It was a really sweet little message encouraging him to cut himself some slack and take some time off for rest between working on his machines, and that you’re here for him when he needs to turn his brain off and just bask in your affection… clearly, you’re not always here for him. That note and the little gift you had included makes his head hurt every time he looks at it, so he sets it aside in a corner of his shop with the intention of leaving it untouched until you come back to him. He’s sooo avoidant rip. SpannerY/n, y’all had a good run.

fin.✧

[hopefulvittori]

Birds of Prey - Chapter 6

Stalker!Carlo/OC & Romeo (AU)

Reposting my novel from ao3. Enjoy!

A tragedy struck when the father of puppets suddenly died in an accident. While the whole city of Krat has been mourning the engineer, the son of Geppetto only felt the sweet smell of liberation. What is he going to do now that the source of his hatred is gone?

An AU series where the puppet frenzy didn't happen, Carlo and Romeo didn't perish from the petrification disease. This is the story of a hawk, a falcon and an eagle about finding their purpose while they're uncovering dark secrets behind the origins of Krat's prosperity.

──────────

Chapter 6: Concealed secrets

Heavy machines' blaring echoed throughout the workshop. The noise of clanking steel and sizzling steam filled the air with clamour. It wasn't uncommon for the members of the Workshop Union to hear it on a daily basis.  And it was never too early to start the work either. Ever since Krat's most famous inventor died, the workshop couldn't truly sleep. Even those who tended to avoid the industrial streets of the Union knew about the competition between guilds. The stench of smoke covered a good portion of the city. Some say they could hear the roar of the Fire Eater's ringing across Krat's underground parts. Its tireless arms and flames breath life into puppets, making technology bountiful. However after some time Giuseppe Geppetto perished, Fuoco started to act strangely. Its vigourous - almost cheerful - roars turned into pitiful yowls. It was quite audible, especially on work-filled mornings. 

Vittoria heard it too. Her watchful eyes gazed at the huge puppet. Its ever lively  fire now weakly flickered across the center of the works. A few members of the forgemaster guild surrounded it. Trying to rekindle its feeble flames was a fruitless endeavor. A heated conversation arose between the forgemasters and armourers. One which the youngest Durante didn't want to hear. She doubled her steps towards the entrance of Venigni Works. 

The girl finished with her classes way earlier. She didn't expect it though. Her tutor said there was "some commotion among the puppeteer guild". They had to cancel the rest of the classes until the problem was solved. Despite that, nothing seemed out of order... none except the presence of Stalkers. A small group of Sweepers - and even alchemists - were roaming around the industrial boulevard. They were purposefully searching for something - or rather, someone. One of the mercenaries stopped her too. They looked for a Bastard, donning their uniform and a lion mask. Apparently they were responsible for a fire on Elysion Boulevard. The girl couldn't hear about the news nor recognize their Stalker-fugitive. It left the chaser quite frustrated and disappointed. The mercenary told her to get home as soon as possible. Then he left Vittoria alone in her pondering state.  

However she wasn't in her obedient mood. She could only imagine how this piece of news could have shaken the whole Stalker community. As soon as she realized this fact, she turned tail and started pacing towards unknown parts. She reached a dead end next to Venigni Works. As everyone - men and puppets alike - has been busy with either their bustling business or looking for the fugitive, no one noticed how the young Durante started climbing on a ladder. She sighed deeply as she reached a rooftop next to the entrance of the main factory. She couldn't help but cough from the thick smoke covering the whole upper area. The sun was barely visible through the smothering clouds of smog. 

The girl purposefully leapt towards a bronzened chimney. It was an old cloth-filled smokestack, seemingly out of commission. She picked up an iron bar stuck between the roof tiles and started hitting the chimmey's side. Sometimes she hit it faster, sometimes she stopped. Hoping that her message would reach its destination, Tori repeated this process a few times. She took a step backwards after a while. She took a purposive look down to the factory's building. Waiting for a reaction, her gaze shifted towards beyond Venigni Works. Hearing the Fire Eater's miserable sounds even from that distance made her quite heedless. It filled her with a tender sadness. Although it was a puppet - a simple machine -, was it remotely possible that something so lifeless could feel something?

The girl started to lose herself in her thoughts. She didn't even notice at first how a gloved hand shaken her shoulder from behind. It doesn't help that the stranger's steps were as light as a feather. Even with the quiet jarred sound of the weapon on his back couldn't reveal his presence to the young Stalker-to-be. Nonetheless, seeing her acquaintance made Vittoria smile. 

"Greetings, Fratello." she said with a nonchalant handwave.  

The masked man stood before her with arms crossed. He didn't say anything but reciprocated the girl's gesture. The man tilted his head to one side while letting out a questioning "hmm?". 

"Forgive me, I know you've been busy..." the girl continued with regret, "But I need your help."        

Fratello let out a quiet "hmm" then curtly nodded. He flailed with his left hand as if he wanted to say: "go on". 

"It's the Sweepers. They're looking for a Bastard with a lion mask. Do you know someone?" Tori asked with eyebrows furrowing then releasing. The man averted his unseeable gaze from his protégé and looked beyond the horizon. Tapping with his foot, he tried to remind himself of something. Seeing his distress, the girl continued, "Colorful tailcoat, fancy saber? Bastards are kind of haughty people, being nobles and all."

As an epiphany hit him, Fratello clasped his gloved hands together. He then muttered in a husky tone, "Hortensia's pupil."  

"The Hortensia? The legendary Stalker?" Vittoria gasped in surprise.

The other Stalker grunted in affirmation. Relaxing his posture, he let out a shallow sigh. While his face was ever invisible to the gaping eyes, Tori knew about his source of suspiration. The man of few words was hit with a sense of nostalgia. It was a rare sight, seeing her friend like this. He wasn't known as someone who wore his heart in his sleeve after all.

"I didn't know that she had an apprentice." she said quietly. 

Fratello spread out his arms, shaking his head. "Two." he added laconically. 

"What happened to them?" the girl asked with raised eyebrows.

The air around the man suddenly shifted. As summer became autumn, his suddenly lifted spirits disappeared. He froze as the warm feeling of nostalgia turned into something sour. He shook his head yet again and replied, "One has met with a tragic end." When he heard the youth letting out a somber "oh", he added, "The other one didn't share the Peacock's ideals." 

The youngest Durante had to face a cruel truth yet - that not everyone could have achieved their dreams by becoming Stalkers. Life was fleeting after all. Especially with the pandemic around. And it's not like everyone could have the same ideals either. It made her quite curious though. Is this why it was impossible to get tutoring from the veteran Stalkers outside of the Charity House? Even from those who lost their edge all over the years. Why was everyone so obsessed with their secrecy and lofty ideals?

Fratello saw the doubt oppressing her. Uncertainty was painted across her features. Tori's gaze started pacing between him and the rooftop beneath her feet. He looked at her with deep understanding. A huge responsibility weightened her and the next generation of Stalkers. It was their duty - their calling - to correct the mistakes of their predecessors. The man of few words silently watched her. Waiting for her protegé to regain her composure, the Stalker put a hand on her shoulder once again. Vittoria gave him a small appreciative smile. The masked man nodded then took both of her hands. Although she jumped in surprise, the youth didn't flinch back. His rough hands swept across the girl's bandages, starting to remove them.

Her delicate skin started to harden from the reddened and blistered burn marks. Although the swelling started to disappear, it still felt hot just by touching her hands. When he made her clench her fists, she slightly hissed. Fratello wrinkled his brows beneath his mask. As he let out a huff of displeasure, the girl abruptly looked at the man.

"I'm okay. Just.... give me more time." Vittoria muttered in desperation. Her hands slightly shook within the Stalker's grasp. The man of few words shook his head. 

"I pushed you." he murmured, words drenched in guilt.

"No. Even if you did, I can't let this stop my training." she said, motioning at her hands. She sighed deeply through her nose, fighting off the flaring pain. As she pulled away to put the bandages back, Fratello let out a small "oh?" in genuine surprise. The girl looked into the mask's warm brown eyes with newfound determination and said, "After all, I want to partake in your way of life. Sharing those ideals with others doesn't seem so bad to me."

A warm feeling filled the man's chest. Pride blanketed over his being. While the sudden change of her behavior was a surprise, it was a pleasant feeling nonetheless. He nodded at her once again. She heard him smiling contently behind his animal mask. The Stalker coughed to excuse himself, saying, "Change your bandages sometime."

"Will do." Tori replied with a humm. Her simper disappeared as she reminded herself of her unresolved questions. Expressing her concern, she asked, "Do you know where this lion could be?" 

The Stalker silently hummed then shook his head. Hearing his pupil's sigh of disappointment however reminded him of something. He grabbed his scrip hanging on his right side. The man of few words pulled out a smaller inflorescence of a flower than handed it over to Vittoria. It was a white chrysanthemum. A well known flower known as a symbol of optimism and joy all around Krat. In ancient times, people used these flowers as protection charms against God's anger and certain diseases. There were two public places where they planted these blossoms.  

'The Cathedral and the Monad Charity House.' the girl hummed, immersed in her thoughts. Gaping her mouth open, she spinned her head towards the direction of the orphanage. Her hunch was acknowledged when Fratello murmured in agreement. 

"I appreciate it." Tori said as she bowed her head in gratitude. She carefully slipped the inflorescence into her pocket. "Well then, I shall seek them out. If this Bastard is truly a troublesome fellow, Monad is going to be in danger." She wholly turned her attention to the destination in her mind. As she waved goodbye to the masked man, she was abruptly stopped by a firm pull. Her mentor drew her back by her coat. The girl jerked her head towards Fratello questionly. 

"Stay away from the alchemists." he said firmly, almost with a guttural growl. Tilting his head downwards, the animal mask's eyes ominously gleamed in the half-sunlight. The air once again shifted around the Stalker. Even without seeing his features, his hands were trembling from seething hatred.

With her mouth falling open, Tori quietly asked, "Why?"

But the Stalker avoided giving her a proper answer. His fingers clutched the fabric of her reddened overcoat. His raspy snarl reminded her of a more dangerous beast than a man. It almost terrified the girl. 

His hold over her clothes suddenly shifted. Fratello grabbed her by the shoulder and gently squeezed it. He let out a sharp sigh before looking into Vittoria's cerulean gaze once again.  

"Just promise me, little one." he growled, fingers digging into her shoulderbone. "Do not talk to the Hand. Your brother's life depends on it."

──────────

Krat Times Issue 1023 - Friday 26th October

On Thursday's evening, a sudden fire caused by unknown culprits burned down Theodore Books, Krat's most famous bookstore. While the general populace grieves the loss of the first wonder of our beloved city, some eyewitnesses saw how an automation dog (which normally guards the Petrification Quarantine Zone) risked its life to protect the shop owner's. Although this mechanical canine was destroyed in the fire, its ardent desire to defend someone in need won't be forgotten. As such, the Workshop Union decided to hold a commemoration for all those puppets which sacrificed their existences for the sake of our dear citizens. The event will be held on 31th of October at the basement of the Workshop Tower. 

As compensation for the destruction of Theodore Books, the Monad Charity House offered up--

But before he could finish reading the article, Romeo angrily stuffed the newspaper into his pocket. A mix of fury and disgust ran across his features. 

"Filthy liars." he grumbled under his nose, shaking his head in disbelief. The youth knew the truth. Two days ago he ran from this "heroic canine" to save his own skin. It absolutely baffled him how the Workshop shifted the blame just to save their reputation.

It was already past noon. The blond youth tapped impatiently with his legs, sitting on a bench before the Charity House. He hugged himself as he shivered from the cold autumn wind. Despite it being a sunny day, the chill seeped into his bones. He had already waited long enough for his friend's arrival. Not only Carlo didn't come back to the orphanage but he didn't show up for training either. He never skipped those sessions. Becoming Stalkers was the boys' lifelong dream after all. The worry almost overwhelmed Romeo. He started pacing around in nervousness, kicking some pebbles away in the meanwhile.

Luckily, his hopes weren't entirely misplaced. As the school's last ringing was heard, the mischievous teenager appeared. Despite the classes being over, he also donned his school uniform. Carlo made slow yet robust steps towards the tall boy. A relieved smile graced the blonde's lips... until he saw his friend's gaze. A scowl darkened his expression as he moved towards Romeo. He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the discomfort coming from his bruise.

"Oh, there you are." Romeo greeted him with a reserved smirk. "I hope you had fun with Lady Durante."

Although he said nothing, Carlo rolled his eyes. 

'We have different definitions about what fun is.' he thought bitterly. He had to spend the last night at his old man's house. The boy didn't have any choice no matter how he hated the very idea. Everywhere he looked at the apartment, he only saw Geppetto's shade lurking around. It reminded him why he hated the puppet maker so much. Even though last night's experiences gave him a valid reason to doubt, his resentment got the best of him.

His head hung low, downcast expression held a mix of uncertainty and somberness. As he expected, Romeo didn't know anything yet. The older youth moved closer, holding out one hand to him.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his head tilted to one side.

"...Perfectly fine." Carlo mumbled, shaking his head in dismissal. 

Blinking rapidly the blond boy asked, "Are you sure? You never skipped training..."

As Romeo looked at his friend in confusion, he stepped forward. The son of Geppetto immediately flinched back. 

"I told you I'm okay. Thanks for your concern, Mom." he hissed dismissively once again. 

"If you say so, man." The friend shrugged nonchalantly. "The apology went well, I assume?"

"Oh, it went real good." Carlo's voice was dripping with sarcasm. Putting his hands on his hips he continued, "I didn't expect to cross the Sweepers to save your confidant on the way though."

Romeo looked at him with dull eyes. Unable to say anything, he froze. He knew what was coming yet he couldn't face his companion. Not like this. Seeing his friend's eyes twitching with anger made him completely silent. Now it was Carlo's turn to step forward. Even with the height differences, Romeo felt so small before his best friend. 

Carlo leant towards the tall boy, asking with a low hiss, "Stop beating around the bush. Just what are you two scheming?"

The orphan youth swallowed. Massaging his nose bridge, he asked with a shaky breath, "Is Leo okay?"

Although the shorter boy nodded, his expression got darker by the second. Feeling utterly exploited, Carlo couldn't help but look at his friend with such animosity. Knowing that he saved someone unworthy made him irritated. He thought he could finally hold onto his firm beliefs as a future Stalker... only to save a deserter. The boy unwittingly touched his right shoulder. The slight discomfort coming from his injury reminded him of his own mistake. On the other hand, Romeo sighed deeply from relief. 

"Are you just gonna ignore my question, huh?" His best friend gazed at him expectantly.

"Well--"

"Hello guys."

A familiar girl's quiet yet assertive voice interrupted their potential argument. Carlo's dark expression slowly faded away when he turned around. He became quite tense when Vittoria looked at him then at Romeo with uncertainty. As his amber gaze met with her cerulean ones, she averted her eyes. After she swept a few long hair strands from her flushed face, she hid her hands within the pockets of her reddened overcoat. 

"H-howdy..." he said quietly, scratching the back of his head.

"Good afternoon, milady." Romeo waved in a theatrical manner. "I heard you wanted to talk with me."

The girl rolled her eyes in slight annoyance, saying, "Really? You wanted to discuss something with me in the first place." 

"Did I...?" he asked with fake surprise. His brown eyes shifted between Carlo and Tori. 

"Yes, you..." But before she could finish her sentence, she noticed the brown haired youth's wavering half smile. Carlo scratched his neck in confusion, humming in puzzlement. Even though she didn't know him as much as his best friend, she could easily read between the lines. The girl raised an eyebrow at Romeo and asked, "Wait, why didn't you tell him?"  

"Yeah, Romeo, why didn't you tell me?" Carlo repeated her question with a sarcastic grin. With amber eyes flickering menacingly, he gave his friend a knowing look.

The tall youth held his hands up in defeat. He shook his head in disbelief but couldn't hide the conceading smile spreading across his lips. Once again, these two were more upset at him than anything else. On the top of that, noticing how her presence made Carlo calmer filled Romeo with relief. He couldn't help but chuckle in surrender.

"Alright alright!"he said with a knowing smile. "Let us take this conversation to somewhere else, eh?"

The two of them agreed with this suggestion. It was safer to discuss the last few days' events in a more private place. Carlo suggested the garden behind the Charity House. There was a greenhouse at the corner of the Monad estate, surrounded by hedge walls. Surprisingly, almost no one visited the house in this season. They were mostly alone, safe for the old gardener and a few cats visiting the garden. On their way, Romeo showed the newspaper to the young Giuseppe. Even without knowing the truth, he found it baffling to heroize a dog puppet in such a manner. Although he didn't share his father's interests, he knew a few things about Geppetto's creations. They couldn't defy their masters' orders just because they felt a higher calling. Most of the puppets were programmed to do simple tasks. It was impossible for a pile of iron and gears to suddenly grow a heart. As he mentioned this statement, he noticed how his friend and the Durante girl fell into silence. They knowingly looked into each others' eyes then at Carlo. When he glanced at them in a questioning manner, Romeo only said "you will change your mind soon enough".

Warm air washed over them as they entered the greenhouse. The sun shone through the transparent glass. Its gentle gleam blanketed the house with tender warmth. The perfect silence was rarely interrupted with crickets' chirping. There was enough shadow beneath a huge tree in the middle of the greenhouse. As if someone knew they were paying a visit, they found a wooden table and chairs there. After they closed the distance to reach their destination, one by one, they sat down. Carlo took another look at the pair. Vittoria quietly gazed at the blond youth, scratching her bandaged hands. Romeo then curtly nodded and took a deep watery breath.

"Alright then. There was another reason for the news lying to everyone." he said, spreading his arms. The brown haired boy raised an eyebrow and muttered a quiet "go on". The taller youth then continued, "Two days ago, that puppet attacked me. If not for her, I would be as good as dead." He looked at the girl and gave her an appreciative smile.

"Are you serious?" Carlo asked flatly. Even though his words were harsh, his face told another story. A swirl of shock and worry piled up within the son of Geppetto. When Romeo hummed in affirmation, his amber brown eyes quickly settled on Vittoria. He then quietly implored, "Really?"

"My apologies, I had no choice." she said with a tint of guilt. She looked at Carlo with an almost pained expression. "I know these puppets are your father's last rem--"

"It's not worth one's salt. You saved Romeo's life." he interrupted her while shaking his head in denial. His eyebrows furrowed in subtle anger as a scowl surfaced on his features. While it wasn't directed towards her, the girl rubbed her hands together. Noticing this, the son of Geppetto tried to flash her a reassuring half-smile. Tori scratched her chin, still averting her gaze from the boys.

"In any case, the Workshop clearly tries to cover up the whole scandal." Romeo said, changing the topic. Rubbing the temple of his head, he let out a faint sigh

The girl hummed as an epiphany hit her. "My classes got cancelled at the last second. Apparently, there was a huge uproar within the Puppeteer Guild."

"Puppeteer Guild?" the blond youth asked curiously, tilting his head to one side.

"It's the Guild responsible for engraving the four laws onto puppets and organizing their purposes." she replied with a shrug.

Romeo huffed, broad forehead wrinkled in pensiveness. "My best guess is because of that dead puppet at the Quarantine Zone."   

"That doesn't sound right." Carlo said, shaking his head in disagreement. "Why would they announce it two days after the incident?"

"It's the Quarantine Zone, man. The security is quite low on these days." the boy replied, sighing deeply through his nose. Remembering the sight of puppet corpses mangled up made him wince. It's not like Romeo didn't see decommissioned automatons before. The way the iron corpses were tangled in each other reminded him of the sheer brutality of a murderer's mind. It made him quite upset how the news tried to make a hero of the dog puppet - the source of the heartless carnage. Shaking off his thoughts through rapid blinking, he bitterly added, "It's not like anyone would care about a handful of moribund people anyway."

"It's true. There were only puppet guards to keep the area safe." Vittoria agreed, shaking her head with a troubled frown.

"In any case, they keep trying to shift the blame to someone else." Romeo continued. Gritting his teeth, he held back a frustrated growl.

"To Leo." Carlo said it out as flatly as possible. The two teenagers looked at him with silent shock. His stare lacked the warmth it usually emanated. Seeing the confused pair left him no choice but to explain last night's events. How after saying farewells to Durante, he accidentally met up with the injured Bastard. How the Sweepers set Krat's most famous bookstore in flames while looking for him. After swearing to himself to live up to his ideals, he bought some time for the man so he could escape his pursuers. As he went on with his story, Tori noticed how his gaze darkened while rubbing his right arm. His voice got lower and huskier the more he talked about the Lion and the two Hyenas. And while he didn't share any of his doubts to them, a reserved yet tired expression spread across his face. 

Romeo saw how the boy became more quiet... stoic even. The taller youth found himself struggling to find the right words to say. He knew how confusing this situation must have been for his friend. And even though Carlo tried to shrug it off, he was still processing the death of his father. Scratching his neck in uncertainty, Romeo tried to gather his thoughts.

"The Sweepers and the alchemists looked for him at the Workshop this morning." Vittoria said quietly, clasping her hands together before her chest. Taking a deep breath, she asked, "Do you know where he is hiding?"

But before Carlo could open his mouth, Romeo interrupted him. He asked with a guttural voice, "Why do you ask?"

"If the alchemists are looking for him, then he's a potential threat to all of us." she answered in a matter-of-fact way. "The Bastards and them are collaborators after all."

"All of us?" Romeo repeated her sentence, raised an eyebrow questionly.

Rubbing her nose bridge, the girl tried to gather her thoughts. "Leo has ties to the Charity House. If trouble rears its head, who do you think they're going to hold responsible?"

The youth fell silent. His eyebrows knitted in concern while averting his gaze from Durante. Gritting his teeth, he clenched a fist on the table. Carlo noticed this. He turned his head towards his best friend then at the girl. Feeling unsure whether it was a good idea or not, he shrugged and said, "He went to the Cathedral."

Like a primal urge, Romeo abruptly got up from his chair. Both of his hands were shaking. He swallowed a shaky breath as he tried to move away from Carlo and Vittoria. The son of Geppetto however saw where his sudden spur of action was coming from. He quickly grabbed the blond boy's hand to keep him from leaving. While Romeo tried to free his wrist, Carlo didn't let him go. Tori gaped her mouth open, feeling frozen in her chair.

"Let me go, Carlo." The tall boy said with a guttural growl.

"No." Carlo shook his head and continued, "Not until you explain what is going on."

"I thought you didn't care less about my - our - schemings." Romeo chuckled in a deep voice. Even though he tried to free himself once again, he wasn't as forceful as before. Seeing his friend's reaction made the blond boy a bit hesitant. It was subtle yet noticeable for him. The face of a young boy, trying to hold back his tears. He puffed his cheeks in stubborn defiance, shaking off the anguish to no avail. The orphan youth only saw this on that certain painting made by that famous artist. It was a sour reminder how Geppetto's absence made his friend's life the most bitter. Seeing the same look made Romeo halt. While his features lacked tears, the mischievous boy's eyes pleaded with him to stay.

"I didn't say that," Carlo declared with a thoughtful expression. With hands folded in his lap, he continued, "But that just means you don't trust any of us here."

"Please, Romeo." Vittoria said pleadingly, placing one hand on his.

Uncomfortable silence has set around them. Although the shorter boy's plea managed to convince Romeo to stay, he couldn't muster his strength to confess. It was all true. He couldn't trust them - or anyone, save for Leo. How could he expect understanding from them? Despite this, both the boy and the girl looked at him with expectations in their hearts. One was his true friend, the second saved his life. The debt he owned was too much. 

He swallowed the bile in his throat and made his confession, "The Lion has leaked out information regarding the Sweepers and the alchemists. He broke his Stalker vow to bring the whole community together."

"At what end?" The girl asked with narrowed eyes.

The question made the blond boy chuckle in almost a menacing way. Both Carlo and Tori looked at their friend with confusion. A smirk graced his lips as he gazed into the girl's cerulean eyes. With a deep watery sigh he answered, "To rule all over Krat."

I added worldbuilding on purpose. I feel there were a lot of details about the game's lore that left much to be desired. Understandable, it's mostly because of its setting. I hope the DLC is going to show us more of Krat in its glorious era though (through memories or some other way)! In any case, I tried to add a multiple layer to the Workshop Union as a working organization. The Guild system is mostly based on irl guilds so every 'faction' has its important role within the Union. Oh, and the Legendary Stalker was mentioned by 'Fratello'. I named her Hortensia (The Peacock) for the sake of symbolism. Her story will shed some light to the Stalkers' true nature. Thank you for reading, stay tuned for the next chapter!

[fandomaddict505]

Guess who’s hyperfixating on A Hat in Time again! :D

Heres the thing though: ive never played it on Steam until this week, because my laptop could never run it well enough to be actually playable. Now that i have an actual PC, im floored by how easy it is to mod. The workshop levels featured on the winter desth wish map were all amazing and now im hooked and idk how ill ever stop playing this game now

[fandomsnstuff]

Im just a sucker for the holidays ok it's melancholy lucretia time

@taznovembercelebration Ice or steam

-

After six months on her own, Lucretia thought she'd gotten used to the loneliness. She has to be okay with it, otherwise it'll consume her. But with the arrival of her first Candlenights alone in Faerun, she finds herself feeling emptier than usual.

Even with Davenport's mental state improving since she found them a place to live outside the ship, the pit of guilt and grief in her chest is cavernous.

She told herself at the beginning of this that she wouldn't seek out the boys. It wouldn't help her mental state any, and she doesn't want to interfere with their new lives. But with the cold weather and holiday season, she misses them dearly. A peek wouldn't hurt.

Raven's Roost doesn't get much for snow, but all the residents seem to have banded together to deck the whole place out. The sides of the bridges between pillars are wrapped with garland, every home and business is lined with soft colourful lights, plant arrangements with bows and ornaments sit on porches, and candles flicker in the windows as the sky darkens.

She finds the shop with surprising ease. The shop itself is dark, the only light being the string lights loosely weaved between festive wooden figures displayed in the front window. The home above the shop is alive with activity. A Candlenights bush glitters in the window, decorated with handcrafted wooden and metal ornaments, including a duck.

From her spot on the street, Lucretia can see people chatting and hugging, exchanging gifts and eating cookies. She swears she can hear Magnus's booming laugh through the layers of glass and wood between them. Her heart swells, and she weeps.

She stays there, listening for Magnus's voice, until the cold starts to get to her.

Her next stop is a beach. It's dusted lightly with snow, and the frozen sand crunches under her feet. She finds the beach dwarves in the middle of a Candlenights festival. She would stick out like a sore thumb in this crowd, so she stealths her way through (thank you, magic), looking for Merle. She finds him smack dab in the middle of all of it, dressed as Santa, working through a long line of children.

Lucretia claps a hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh. She loves Merle, and he was something of a father figure to her, but if she had to pick anyone to be Santa at a Candlenights festival, it wouldn't be him. He never struck her as the type who would voluntarily deal with little kids for this long.

She hides behind an oversized fake snowman and just observes. He goes in and out of his Santa voice constantly, and accidentally drops a few curse words here and there, but otherwise he's not a bad Santa. He nods along to every kid's holiday wishes, and says some variation of "we'll see." He asks them if they've been good, and makes them giggle when he asks them if they're absolutely sure.

She lingers until Santa's Workshop closes, then leaves to allow Merle to enjoy the rest of his Festival.

She thought her last stop would be harder to pin down, but there were flyers plastered everywhere. She finds herself in a picturesque little town, snow covers everything, making the whole place look like a greeting card. The Sizzle It Up caravan glitters in the dark, spilling light and delicious smells out to the crowd as Taako makes an entire holiday spread.

Lucretia hangs at the back of the crowd. All she can do is smile as she watches him in his natural habitat. She ignores the ache in her chest when she notices the empty space next to him. Even with everything, he's subconsciously leaving a space for her.

When the show ends, she gathers enough courage to approach for a sample. She takes the small serving of bread pudding, smiles, and thanks him. Taako waves her off, as aloof as ever. It's only a bite or two, so she throws away the little paper cup, takes one last look at him, and starts heading out.

When she's just at the edge of town, she hits a patch of ice, hidden under the snow, and falls backwards. A hand catches her by the arm and steadies her.

"Careful," a familiar voice says. Her eyes widen, she whips around, and there's Barry. He looks like himself, but there's a faint red shimmer around him, and he's just a little bit translucent.

"Barry," she breathes. There's a million things she could and should say to him. She ends up with, "what are you doing here?"

He puts his hands in his pockets and angles his head back towards the caravan, "same as you."

"Barry, I'm-" she fidgets nervously- "I'm sorry," she whispers. He sighs and she says, "I just- the relics were destroying-"

He shakes his head, "I don't want to do this with you, Lucretia. Not tonight." He puts a spectral hand on her shoulder, it makes her skin tingle. "Take care of yourself, Luce. Joyous Candlenights."

"Joyous Candlenights," she responds. Then Barry's gone in the blink of an eye. She pretends she didn't wish for him to hug her.

When she returns to where she's living, Davenport's waiting for her with hot chocolate. It's piled high with whipped cream and has chocolate sprinkles on top, just the way she likes it. She smiles and accepts the drink, settling on the couch to watch Frosty the Fantasy Snowman. "Joyous Candlenights, Dav," she says.

He responds with a chipper "Davenport!" but she gets the message.

[bloodanddiscoballs]

I have a somewhat embarrassing question. What is TF2.

It's not embarrassing at all! TF2 stands for Team Fortress 2, a game that was released on October 10th, 2007, by the game studio Valve. It is a first-person shooter where you pick to play as 1 of 9 mercenaries, each with their own unique skills that are separated into three separate classes:

Offense: Scout, Pyro, Soldier

Defense: Engieneer, Demoman, Heavy Weapons Guy

Support: Medic, Sniper, Spy

The game is set up so you are either on team RED or team BLU, each team holding 9 players, and you play through matches and game modes such capturing points by stealing the enemy intelligence (a physical briefcase you pick up and run with) or capturing control points and battling to defend those. There are variations of these as well as some other game modes you can choose from. It's free to play and on Steam for both Windows and Mac users. (though it was originally offered on the Xbox 360 and Playstation 3).

If you ever played Overwatch, you already have an idea of how the game is set up for you, but in my opinion, TF2 is MUCH more fun.

If you want the "lore" behind the game and the characters, you should definitely check out their website. They have write ups on each character which also shows you who you might be interested in playing, as well as comics, the short films they've put out (including fan made ones for the Saxxy Awards), full descriptions of the major updates, music, and official art. You've got a beautiful 15yrs to look at that is just oozing love.

What has kept people coming back to this game for so long is in the art, the humor, and the Community Workshop - a place where you as a fan can upload your own creations for customization for the characters. TF2 is affectionately nicknamed The Hat Simulation Game/Hat Dress Up Game cause that's a secondary part of it. While you can earn and pick up different weapons for your characters, you can also unbox crates that have cosmetics inside to make your characters look fun. Things like a hot dog hat or a banana hat or reindeer antlers, all of which only serve to make your guys look goofy and fun. There's also chest pieces and the occasional shoes or little shoulder pets. A LOT of these are made by fans who then submit them to be voted on by all players, and if they get accepted into the game, you'll have a chance of unboxing them. There are taunts as well, such as conga dancing or high fives or rock paper scissors that allow you to interact with other players regardless of the team. There are even many of the maps that you play that have been made by people in the community, making TF2 something that feels like something to be interacted with as well as to be played.

While the ultimate goal of each game in TF2 is to kill the opponents and to win points, most of the games you'll end up playing include some air of messing around. There are lots of times when matches will take much longer than they need to because someone started dancing and now half the players are dancing with each other. The map 2Fort is notorious for this, and I'd say it's about 70/40 of screwing around to actually capturing intelligence. I can honestly say that TF2 is THE game to always have me laughing and enjoying myself, especially compared to other games with similar setups. It never takes itself too seriously, though if you'd like to play competitive, there is an option for that. More often than not, the palyers are fun people, and even if you run into the occasional asshole, you can just drop out of that match and find a new one pretty quickly.

TF2 has lasted as long as it has because it is, in its bones, all in good fun. It takes the whole 60s-70s era dangerous mercenaries and spies in a secret organization and cranks up the ridiculousness of that to an 11. Each of the characters are from different parts of the world, but they're all such over-the-top representations of their cultures that it becomes something a lot like a Mel Brooks-esque setup. Shakespearicles was the strongest writer who ever lived and invented the two-story building, but everyone had to use rocket launchers to get up to the second level until Abraham Lincoln invented stairs 100yrs later. Every Halloween, you have to battle Soldier's old roommate who is a powerful wizard because Soldier turned his old castle into a raccoon sanctuary. All Australians are ripped as shit, have amazing mustaches, and Australia-shaped chest hair.

PLAY TEAM FORTRESS 2

[handeaux]

While The Wright Brothers Toiled, Cincinnati’s Flying Machine Fanatics Tanked

Ohio license plates proclaim the Buckeye State as the “Birthplace of Aviation.” Had fate turned out differently, that sobriquet could have applied to Cincinnati. Over the years, several Cincinnati tinkerers tried unsuccessfully to loft a heavier-than-air craft.

As far back as 1834, a Cincinnati resident named Albert Masson constructed a vehicle he described as an “aerial steam boat.” According to a writer signed only as “J.L.” (possibly John Laughlin, secretary of the Ohio Mechanics Institute), in the Liberty Hall and Cincinnati Gazette newspaper [3 July 1834]:

“The boat is about ten feet long; the ribs being covered in silk, in order to render it very light. – The engine, of two horse power, is placed in the middle, and turns four vertical shafts projecting over the bow and stern, into each of which are fixed 4 spiral silken wings, which are made to revolve with a sufficient velocity to cause the vessel to rise.”

According to “J.L.”, the entire apparatus weighed about 60 pounds and Mr. Masson intended to fly the contraption on July 4 – the very next day. At the time of publication, the aerial steam boat was on display “on Race street, nearly opposite the old Lath Factory, below Third street.”

Mr. Masson did not go airborne on Independence Day and, in August, his flying machine was on earthbound display at the Commercial Exchange. The Daily Cincinnati Republican reported, “There is nothing of the balloon principle connected to the apparatus.” and that it was “a beautiful and ingenious piece of mechanism.”

As beautiful and ingenious as it was, the aerial steam boat appears not to have ever achieved flight and all references to it cease after 1834. Tom D. Crouch, curator of aeronautics at the National Air and Space Museum and a former chief of education for the Ohio Historical Society, has researched Masson’s invention extensively, publishing his findings in the Journal of the American Aviation Historical Society [Spring 1974]. According to Mr. Crouch:

“If we are to believe the articles published in the Cincinnati papers, and there seems no reason to doubt them, then Albert Masson was the first person in history to produce a heavier-than-air craft, powered by a prime mover, that was actually intended to fly.”

Although Mr. Masson vanished into the mists of history, between 1840 and 1902, Cincinnati newspapers printed at least 404 articles with the phrase "flying machine." Some of these reports featured home-grown Cincinnati aeronauts.

Cincinnatians awoke on 27 Oct 1889 to learn that a local man, one Ferdinand W. Randall of Main Street, had built a flying machine. In fact, this inventor had quite a surprise for the scientific community. As related by the Cincinnati Enquirer:

"He not only has a flying machine, but claims to have discovered perpetual motion."

The newspaper goes on to relate that Mr. Randall's inventions have "something lacking." That "something" was, of course, money.

Mr. Randall, approximately 35 years in age at the time, was a photographer. His workshop was on Main Street. His flying machine was described as a "peculiar-looking sail-boat" suspended by a wire from the ceiling. It was basically a boat hull, with a screw propeller and rudder at the rear, four wheels and an "intricate mass of fans and wire cables." Two black wings, wider and longer than the boat, were suspended above. According to the Enquirer,

"The beauty about Mr. Randall's machine is that it can move on land, in the water, or in the air."

Randall told the Enquirer he had read every book available on aeronautics and is "undoubtedly well posted on the subject." Well posted or not, Mr. Randall joined the roster of inventors whose aircraft never left the ground.

Curiously, just 18 months later, the Cincinnati newspapers found yet another potential flying machine. This one was created by a mechanic named John Randall, of 322 Vine Street, who had built a flying machine remarkably similar to the airship unveiled by Ferdinand Randall - a boat 18 feet long with a mass of wires attached.

Similar flying machines and identical names? Not a coincidence. The Randalls were brothers who had operated Randall Brothers Outdoor Photographers for several years. The younger brother struck out on his own and got work as a mechanic and electrician.

Ferdinand apparently gave the flying machine to his brother because the machine described in 1891 is almost identical to the 1889 machine with one exception. John replaced the two black wings atop Ferdinand’s machine with a large canvas balloon. In other words, it was no longer a heavier-than-air machine, but only a mechanically propelled lighter-than-air craft. Not the same thing at all.

Had another local man succeeded, Kennedy Heights or Norwood might be known as the birthplace of manned flight. Alas, Charles M. Mallory did not succeed. In fact, he failed again and again and again. Sometimes spectacularly.

In August 1902, the 40-year-old Mallory, a pattern maker with the Bullock Electric Manufacturing Company, announced that he would launch a new flying machine into the air from a vacant lot in Kennedy Heights. With a large crowd observing, he rolled out a contraption described by the Cincinnati Enquirer:

"It was as if two monster Mexican hats had been inverted and joined together by a framework that had wings on either side. At one end was a rudder."

With a squad of volunteers tugging away, Mallory's monstrosity "scudded along the scaffolding for a few feet and then toppled over on one side."

Mallory tried again in November 1902 at the grounds of the old Norwood Inn. This time, instead of human volunteers, Colonel James E. Fennessy, a local theatrical impresario, volunteered to tow the contraption aloft with his automobile. Col. Fennessy got bored waiting for Mallory to prepare his flying machine and drove home. Fennessy sent a chauffeur out to Norwood with another automobile, but he, too, lost patience.

When Mallory was finally ready, no automobiles could be found, despite messengers and phone calls. While waiting in vain for another runabout, Mallory agreed to pose for photographs in his machine, hoisted to the top of a derrick. The wind caught the contraption and dashed it to the ground from a height of 25 feet. Although Mallory was unhurt, his flying machine was in tatters.

Mallory attempted another flight in August 1903 off Lookout Mountain in Tennessee but, again, the wind dashed his contraction to flinders. Interestingly, Mallory told the Cincinnati Post at that time that he had achieved an 80-foot flight in Norwood, a feat suspiciously unseen by any other witness.

Four months later, the Wright boys grabbed the prize.