#fusspot lines

[swevenfox]

Personak work - Shiratori Isamu

'Onryo of Shirakawa' - Social stigma

[marigold-hills]

june 29: blooming and June 30: camper | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 1009

PREVIOUS PART • FIRST PART

June, some years later.

There are lines in the stones like fingerprints, swirling into a pattern too ancient to be understood. Something carved into it, unique to it and yet connecting it with countless others just like it.

You are you, but you are of us.

Remus is cataloguing the lines, tracing them onto parchment. He stands in a bloom of flowers, careful around the blossoms not to trample them but helpless to do just that, the stone unreachable on any beaten track.

It’s the third day of their, Remus and Sirius’, stay in Brú na Bóinne. The land cradled into the arm of the river had welcomed them with unusual heat, cessation of the hostile rain which has been battering it for the previous month, and an explosion of greenery. As if the land knew: a man comes and he is a part of us, and here to study us. Show him the best parts.

Sirius can understand. He’s no stranger to making himself pretty to get his Moony’s approval.

It’s been long in the making, this trip of theirs. Endless research proposals and grant applications that Remus had to submit, then even more scrutiny on account of his status. Then, oxymoronically, a back and forth on Sirius’ involvement: a highly trained curse breaker to oversee “the werewolf professor” was welcome, but another pair of hands and eyes and feet at the sacred prehistoric site was most definitely not.

Still, somehow, it worked. They had jumped in their camper van and set out for Ireland.

“Time for lunch, Moons!” Sirius calls from under the canopy they’ve set up next to the van.

Remus, loose sleeves of a linen shirt folded to show his arms, leather suspenders holding up his trousers, looks like an academic wet dream. His hair has grown out a bit recently and now the curls fall softly over his forehead.

“You’ve forgotten your hat again,” Sirius admonishes when he gets under the canopy they set up by the van, two chairs and a small table set up with bread and cheeses. “It’s too hot for you to go around without cover.”

“Stop fussing,” Remus bats his hand away, “I’m fine.”

“My one purpose here is to take care of you. I have paperwork to show for it. Want to see? No? So let me do my job,” Sirius grins as they sit to eat.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, love. And don’t pretend like you need paperwork to be a fusspot. Never stopped you before.”

“Got me there.”

Sirius pulls a bottle of white wine from the enchanted cooler by his feet, summons two glasses.

“Drinking on the job?” Remus raises an eyebrow in mock outrage, “how scandalous.”

“You know me, always ready to bend the rules.”

Remus hummus happily and plucks away at the assortment of cheeses. The wine is crisp, faintly tasting of apricot. The grass around them is blooming daisies, the scent fresh. Sirius puts his hair up with his wand.

“I’ll never forget that you came here with me,” Remus says with a far away vice. “I’m so thankful to have you by my side. This… you know how much of a dream this has been.”

“Hold onto that thought, darling, please,” Sirius says, standing up. He was worried how to steer the conversation and here is his Moony, providing the perfect segue.

The cord is in a neat little package in his pocket, so he pulls it out and sets in front of Remus, by the plate of cheese and the bowl of olives.

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

Remus does. It takes a moment, Sirius can see, for it to register, then he touches the cord with reverent, shaky fingers. “Really?” He asks, like it’s a surprise, like he doesn’t know the extent of Sirius’ devotion to him, to them.

“You don’t have to say yes straight away. It’s the anniversary today, of when you waited for me, and I will wait for you as long as it takes. But I’m ready. So if you’ll have me…”

“My love. My star,” Remus stands up, holding onto the cord so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Yes. Yes now and yes forever.”

And Sirius was pretty sure, but still… hearing the response breaks something fragile inside of him right open. “Really?”

“Of course. Always. Mo réalta,” Remus holds his face between shaky hands, cord still in between fingers, “you are the most important part of my life.”

***

They have the ceremony the same evening, just the two of them. Barefoot, standing ankle-deep in the waters of the Bóinne. It’s cool, calm. Laps at their skin like an embrace or like a welcoming.

The sun has set. The crickets are singing. Sirius had enchanted lanterns to float around them, and disillusioned the area against wandering muggles.

Their left hands are clasped, fingers intertwined.

There are tears in Remus’ eyes as he speaks. His accent more pronounced with the emotion.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, ’til our Life shall be Done.”

He wraps his end of the cord around their joint hands. Sirius can feel the bond blossoming, blooming through him like molten honey. He responds.

“You are blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.” The incantation sounds different in his southern english voice, but he can feel it working nonetheless, a link between himself and Remus, between the both of them and the Irish soil. “I give you my body, that we two might be one. I give you my spirit, till our life shall be done.”

The cord glows a soft gold when Sirius finishes wrapping up his end. They reach their right hands across, over the joining, and the cord tightens and dissolves. Sirius can feel it just the same, over his hand and over his heart.

“Mine, now,” his Moony says, closing the distance between them.

“Always.”

He kisses him under the waxing moon.

NOTES

I cried

decided to put the last two into one epilogue because breaking them up just didn’t seem right

thank you SO MUCH to everyone that followed, and especially: @hoje--aqui @moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash and @sweetstarryskies you guys are the absolute best and properly fuelled the writing for this one with all the lovely comments. I honestly did not expect such a lovely response when I decided to start this project so it was just heart warming :):) thank you

as it turns out I’ve been doing tagging wrong (showing my age here) so if anyone has asked to be tagged and wasn’t I’m very sorry

Read on AO3 here

for the last time:

@moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash @sweetstarryskies @alltoounwellll

@hunnybeemarie @hoje--aqui @annaliza999 @hihimissamericanbi @gipitothefrog

@shamelesswolfstarshipper @a-pine-cone @cosmicweeds @cocoabutterandbooks

@bloodoffire @residentdisaster @shamelesswolfstarshipper @ravenwordss

@prancingpony42 @themoonlovesthestars @starving-marauder-lover @weirdtinkerbellversion

@deadcupcakehere @theprettieststarfr @dumbass-gryffindor1960

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Trial & error

The Metatron brings in the demon Crowley to stand trial in Heaven. For tempting an angel. Uhhhh. Awkward.

Length: 15,024 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥

Best for: After Dark, Comedy, Pick-me-up

Triggers: None

Read it here, fic by fellshish

*Minor Spoilers* A little silly, a little sexy, and a little sweet! I had a lot of fun with this story. Crowley finds himself unexpectedly hauled into Heaven and put on trial for seducing an Angel. A trial that is presided over by a fusspot of an Angel with white blonde curls and a glittering gavel. Awkwaard...

There are tons of witty asides here as our mock trail goes on, and I giggled at many lines. I loved the guest appearances by Warlock and sexy fem Jesus. Who wouldn't want Jesus as their lawyer? But it's not all fun and games, there's a scandalous meeting in Crowley's jail cell at night that will warm you right up. Poor Aziraphale is put in a tough spot, I don't blame him for his confidence waning. Don't worry though, they'll figure it out eventually.

Technically it could be rated as a Mostly Safe in Public, since there is just one explicit scene, but I'd just save it for a fun after dark indulgence.

Read it here, fic by fellshish

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

December 11

The next morning broke over a very subdued Arlesburgh yard. While Bear, the station staff, and the engines of the Small Railway were very concerned about the disruption in traffic, the trucks seemed… unnaturally quiet, in a way that Bear didn’t quite understand. 

“You’re askin’ me?” The yardmaster said, as crews from the Works moved purposefully around them. With the line blocked, they were going to try and fix Bear “in situ”, so that he could help with the rebuilding efforts at the tunnel. 

“Yes,” Bear said, somewhat firmly. “It’s your yard.”

The man scoffed. “People don’t get on with trucks, and neither do engines if you’ll remember.”

Bear scoffed. “I’ve found that being nice tends to work wonders - ow!”

“Sorry!” cried a workman from deep in his engine bay.

The yardmaster raised an eyebrow. “And where has that gotten you? Nowhere fast, perhaps?”

Bear glowered. I see why he’s in charge of freight and not passengers. “Quite far, actually. I’ll speak to them myself.”

“Yeah right. Let me know how well that goes.”

Bear glowered at him, but held his tongue.

--

With the rest of the railway inaccessible, the workers had called in a crane to help extricate Bear’s transmission. It was located inside his engine compartment, and accessing it meant removing part of his roof and lifting it out with a crane. 

To do this, the men first had to get Bear into a position where the crane could safely lift the transmission out of him. 

There was a critical problem with this plan… Bear couldn’t move under his own power. 

And the only patch of ground that was both level and firm enough for the crane was near the Small Railway’s transfer platform. 

“This is gripping.” Mike was grinning wide enough to split his smokebox as two groups of workmen, each armed with a large ratcheting lever-like device, slowly inched Bear forward across the yard. The levers were shoved underneath Bear’s rear wheels, and each push would move the wheel a fraction of a turn. They’d started two hours ago, and weren’t even halfway across the yard. 

“I would keep your mouth shut,” Bert advised. 

“Why? It’s good fun!” 

“It’ll be sundown before they finish moving him.”

“Yeah? So?”

“A man can get awfully anxious when his work stretches into the dark and cold. His tedious, long, and manual work.”

“Spit it out already.”

“Oh, would you look at that?” Bert said brightly. “An entire railway, with engines in steam! Surely we could get a long enough chain and have them pull?”

“They wouldn’t.” 

“They won’t if you keep your yap shut and look busy.” Rex hissed from the station platform. “Now go rearrange the coaches or something!”

--

The men finally inched Bear up to the lift site shortly after sundown. It was bitterly cold, the sea air whipping across the ground, and with the crane not due until the morning anyways, Bear was left alone by the chute for transferring stone from the small railway to the big railway. 

Well, he wasn’t entirely alone. 

“Hey,” He whispered to a nearby truck. It was one of the bigger fish vans, long retired from the Flying Kipper with the introduction of bogie trucks. There was a sort of hierarchy in the yard, with bigger or older vans being deemed “leaders” in whatever way the trucks considered such a thing. 

“What’s it to ye?” She whispered back. “Can’t ye see we’s in mourning?” 

Bear blinked several times. “No… I hadn’t. That’s actually what I was trying to ask about.”

“What? You think we don’t mourn the passin’ of our own?” Light but beady eyes looked at him suspiciously.

“I didn’t know you cared enough to.” It sounded cruel, but trucks seemed to appreciate honesty over saving face. 

A scraggly eyebrow raised. “Yeh, I suppose you’d have tha’ impression.” There was a sigh. “Bein’ honest, we’s don’t much care about those bigg-uns. They’s almost coaches really. Proper fusspots.” 

“The siphons?” Bear tried to remember anything about the old milk/mail vans. He realized that he didn’t know a thing about them, other than where they were stored. 

“Yeh.” The truck looked ambivalent for a moment, before a wistful expression crossed her salt-stained face. “It’s the little ones we be weepin’ for. The old dames.”

“They were institutions!” A nearby tanker whisper-yelled. “They didn’t deserve what they got!” 

Murmurs of assent came from other trucks. Seemingly the entire yard could find only good words for the late three axle vans. 

Bear marveled at this, but kept his comments as far from patronizing as he could. “I’m-I’m sorry. I had no idea they were so well regarded.”

“Yeh,” the van scoffed. “None o’ your kind did.”

“They wouldn’t have done it if they did!” A hopper yelped, his voice high and reedy. 

“Ignorance!” Cried a flatbed.

“Carelessness!”

“Forgetful!”

“Blind as a bat!”

“A bull in a china shop!” “A right menace!”

“It was murder!”

One voice was louder than the rest, and its cry of murder lingered over the yard for a long moment. Eyes from across the yard turned to look at the speaker. 

It was a brakevan, although definitely not Toad, who was looking at the speaker with jaw-dropped shock. They were a big Southern Railway “Queen Mary” bogie van, hitched to a low-loader flatbed on the other side of the yard. They’d arrived from somewhere beyond the Island last week, a shipment of farm equipment lashed to the low-loader. Bear dimly remembered seeing them sitting in the yard, waiting for an outbound train - the low loader and the van together were long enough to cause problems with both the holiday traffic and the already long “Truro Trains” clogging Haultraugh station. 

“It was murder!” The brake van yelled again, voice manic and high pitched. “I saw it with my own eyes!”

“No it wasn’t!” Shouted a nearby hopper who was clearly fed up with the brake van, shedding any pretense of preserving the stillness of the night in the process. “It was a mistake! An accident! Idiocy! You think that an engine can put vans that out of order onto a train without notice? People saw and they didn’t care - just like usual! It might be negligent, but it isn’t murder!” He said the last word mockingly. 

“Oh fine!” The van fired back. “Don’t believe me! I’ve only been watching what’s going on! Observing that green and gold snake come in and out of this yard over and over again with the sheer purpose of causing havoc! Just ignore 286, he’s just an old fool!”

“Enough!” The fish van shouted, bringing silence to the yard. “Wha’s all this about then? Wha’d’ya mean it was a murder?”

The hopper started to make a noise, but was silenced with a glare. The brake van took this as an invitation to speak. “I saw it! We saw it! Those vans were in their spot so long that there were weeds growing through the leaf springs! Then one day, out of the blue, that doubletalking serpent comes over and whispers things to them, and shoves them halfway across the yard. Next thing you know, the blue one takes them away; and trust me, he had no idea what he was doing, that much was obvious.”

“And this is murder how?” The hopper shot back. “Things get moved by accident all the time!”

“Oh please!” the brake van cried. “He downplayed ev-er-y-thing! No inspection, no questions, no orders - he just said they were supposed to go someplace else, and someplace else they went!”

“It’s true,” The low-loader added, his voice deep and rumbling like distant thunder. “The green one, the famous engine. He was asked if anything was amiss with those vans, and said they were not. They were to be moved to their appropriate spot, or so he claimed.”

The yard broke out in a chorus of furious murmurs, and nobody spoke up to stop it. The Fish Van stared down at the rails, expression inscrutable. Toad, who had been shocked at the proceedings up until now, looked deeply, deeply horrified. 

As for Bear, her was… well, surprised wasn’t the right word. Curious, perhaps? Or maybe befuddled. He could imagine that Truro had done it, but what he didn’t know was why. 

“Why would he do that?” He asked, after a moment. “Did he not know?” Was this really an accident?

“He had to have known.” Toad said, in a slow and halting way. “There… It… “Weeds betwixt the wheels!” They nearly had a tree growing between them!” He grew more manic, the words flowing out like he couldn’t stop them. “That violates… four different sections of The System!”

“Weeds?” Called another truck. “Betwixt? System?”

About half the stock in the yard groaned. “It’s part of the shunting system!” Said a “Mink” van from across the yard. 

“Miscellaneous 2:1!” put in a “Macaw” flat wagon.

“And Storage 1:10!” said an “Open A” coal hopper.

The rest of the trucks - all of those who weren’t originally built for the GWR or the Western Region, stared in bafflement. 

“Does someone mind explainin’ what you’re all talkin’ about?” the Fish Van barked, glaring at trucks indiscriminately.

Bear cleared his throat, and the evil eye was turned towards him. “It’s an organizational system, from the Great Western. It’s very long, and very detailed, and it is referred to in the same manner as chapters and verses of the bible.” 

There was an incredulous pause. “Is yer entire lot like this?” 

“I’m afraid so.”

A deep sigh. “So, there’s… verses to this shunting system? That mean he should’ve known better?”

“Yes.” The trucks started to chatter again, before being hushed. “What was it, again? Miscellaneous two, and what else?”

“Storage!” Several trucks shouted at once. 

“Ah yes.” Bear dredged deep into his memory. “Miscellaneous 2:1, “If there are weeds betwixt the wheels, speak to the oldest shunter.” Storage 1:10 is, “If it looks like it belongs, leave it.””

“And he’d know this? Isn’t he some prissy express engine?” 

“He’s City of Truro, the Greatest Westerner. He knows.”

There was a deep exhalation of breath. “Jesus Wept. He really is doin’ this on purpose, ain’t he?”

“It fits. I just don’t know why.” We’re going in circles, but it’s like accusing God of murder. What reasoning does he have?

“You can’t see it?” The Van asked him. 

“See what?”

“Why he’s doin’ this. He’s got all the reason in the world.”

“What reason is that?” Bear, and most of the yard, were listening intently. 

“It’s like what all those diesels said, back in the bad old days when the steamer’s asked ‘em why.” A momentary look of apology was pointed at Bear. He didn’t notice, his mind suddenly racing with dozens, hundreds, of encounters with those kinds of engines. 

“Why?” he interrupted. “Because they could, that’s why.”

-

December 12

The next day was cold and gloomy, but with very little wind, and the crane arrived promptly at nine in the morning. London had authorized the hiring of an enormous crane, easily twice the size needed and capable of lifting Bear himself, so it was somewhat anticlimactic as it lifted away one of Bear’s roof panels, the broken transmission, and then lowered in a replacement that the works had sent by road. It was work of maybe half an hour, and then the crane was pulling in the stabilizers and readying to go back from wherever it had come. 

“Now all that’s left is to put humpty dumpty back together again.” Leigh Hunt, the Works’ diesel foreman, said to Stephen Hatt as men began pulling tools from the back of a van. 

“How long should that take?” 

“‘Bout three days, with testing. Gotta make sure that nothing else broke when the gearbox went.”

Stephen mulled that over. “I see. Hopefully we’ll be able to use him on the tunnel repairs, after that.”

“Don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t. S’not the worst failure in the world, just more difficult considering we’re working in the field.”

There wasn’t much else to say at that point, and Stephen excused himself. Making his way into the station building, empty and desolate with no trains or passengers, he placed a phone call at the vacant porter’s station. 

-

The phone scarcely had time to ring before Charles Hatt answered it. “Speak.”

“Everything is proceeding apace.” He never put much stock into unnecessary pleasantries on phone calls, much to the annoyance of his wife. 

“Excellent. How goes the tunnel?”

“Better than expected. It seems that the heat damaged the masonry of the portal itself rather than the tunnel lining.”

“I see. How does that effect the engineering work?”

“That is going to come down to you.”

“Elaborate.”

“From what I’ve been told, if the decorative structure around the portal is torn down, that will solve the structural instability concerns. Apparently it won’t compromise the hillside around it. Our other option is to repair the structure, which could take some time.”

“How much time?”

“They’re not sure, but presumably longer than a teardown.”

Charles paused for a moment. “What do you think? Is it worth saving?”

“An ugly hole in the rock is still a tunnel.”

“I understand.” Another pause. “Bring me firm time estimates for both options. We’ll discuss them tonight.”

Stephen was about to say something else, but it was obscured by a cacophonous noise from the platforms below Charles’ office. 

“What was that?” 

“I believe I am about to have to relitigate the second world war,” Charles looked out the window at the exact culprits. “I shall call you back.”

He hung up, taking one last look out his office window before making haste to the stairwell. 

He emerged onto the platform, now a scene of chaos. The German “musicians” had been attempting to “tune” their electric pianos and other piano-like instruments (one was being worn around the neck like a guitar), in the process producing sounds that couldn’t quite be called music. 

City of Truro, still relegated to shunting duties, had spotted the coaches for the Limited directly next to them, and had decided it would be an excellent time and place to tell them exactly what he thought of their music. 

The Germans had responded by playing louder. 

-

“- THAT INFERNAL SOUND!” Truro bellowed, as the door to the station offices swung wide. The Fat Controller, coat billowing behind him, emerged with a frown that rapidly turned into a grimace. 

The leather-clad “musicians”, who had been using a synthesizer to make jingle bell noises at increasing volume, stopped abruptly, their faces impassive but still recognizing that Charles was a man of Stature. 

Truro, on the other hand, was both distracted and pompous (a dangerous combination, as Gordon long ago learned), and continued raving about “common musical decency” and “soothing sounds of a building site” long enough for Charles to find a stool, stand upon it, and clear his throat in a dramatic manner. 

“And another thing! You lost the w- oh hello sir.” Unlike Gordon, who would have acted like he’d just swallowed a lemon, Truro’s entire countenance changed in an instant, the firebreathing dragon subsuming into a well heeled express engine. “What may I do for you?”

“I believe you’ve already done it.” Charles was quietly impressed by the quick change. There are engines who could learn a thing or four. “But for the future, I would appreciate it if your… complaints were made at a quieter volume.”  

“Of course sir.” Truro even had the grace to look contrite. “It shan’t happen again sir.” 

It was at that moment that the band began to play again, this time with an un-melodic sound that could only vaguely be construed as “jingle bells”. Truro’s face contorted, and an eye began twitching. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” Charles quickly brought the “music” to a halt. “Perhaps you could play at a later time? Thank you.” It wasn’t a request, and some of the larger and burlier porters were summoned to make sure that the band took a tea break. 

Truro looked faintly relieved, a feeling that Charles shared. “I must admit that they are already trying my patience.” He said quietly to the engine. 

“I completely agree, sir.”

Charles let the next moment drag itself out, slowly polishing his reading glasses with a handkerchief. “Truro, if I may?”

“Yes sir?”

“I’m sure that you’re aware of the derailment on Monday?” 

“Yes sir. I was wondering if you would speak to me, sir.” 

That brought Charles up short. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Truro’s face was impassive. “From what I’ve heard, the derailment occurred when some out-of-service vans were accidentally put on a train. If that is correct, and it was the train and vans that I’m thinking of, then I made a mistake in judgment and shunted those vans out of their siding.”

Charles blinked, slowly. This was not going how he thought he would. “Is that how it happened?” 

“Yes.” Truro looked… genuine, in a way that made Charles suspicious. None of his engines would admit to anything that readily. “My mind was elsewhere, what with that diesel’s gearbox failure and all. I assure you that it won’t happen again.”

“Yes,” Charles said, suppressing the reeling sensation he felt. “See that it doesn’t.” He stepped off the stool and walked back to his office. “And Truro,” he turned at the last moment. “I appreciate your honesty on this matter. It speaks volumes to your character.”

If there had been any doubts he had about Truro’s sincerity, they ended with the broad smile the engine gave him. “Thank you, sir.”

--

December 15

Bear spent the rest of the week being repaired and thoroughly tested by the works staff. He felt like an animal afflicted with fleas, there were so many men crawling about his engine compartment. It was a most uncomfortable feeling, not helped at all by the small railway engines being… themselves. 

“Oh! Lookit that one! He’s carrying something with tubes and wires!”

“Mike! Will you shut up and shunt your trucks already?”

“Who asked you, Bert?”

Eventually, the men finished their work, and declared Bear fit to operate once again. Without a moment to spare, he was sent up the line with a train of empty hoppers

“Goodness me,” he exclaimed as he reached the site of the derailment. “What a mess.” 

The tracks between Bulgy’s Bridge and the tunnel mouth were a haphazard mess of jointed rail resting on loose sleepers and disturbed ballast. They creaked and groaned ominously under Bear’s weight, and a decision was made to go back to Haultraugh station, run around the train, and push the trucks from behind. 

The trucks didn’t like the damage any more than he did, and it was a quietly nervous train that edged up to the ruins of the tunnel. 

It looked quite different than before. The decorative stone of the tunnel mouth was being chipped away by teams of men with jackhammers, block after block falling to the ground like stone rain. Soon all that would be left was the tunnel walls, framing a gaping hole in the side of the hill. Above them, men with surveying equipment and shovels were poking around, driving spikes into the ground for soil nets, to keep the ground from shifting. It was a surprisingly hand-done operation, with few machines bigger than a portable generator cart. A steam shovel and bulldozer seemed to be the exceptions, and they sprang into action once the trucks’ brakes had been set. 

“Damnit Ned!”

“Sorry Byron!”

Well, sprang was perhaps too broad a term. The bulldozer was quick on his treads, and soon had a pile of rubble ready to be loaded, but the shovel seemed to be swinging his bucket anywhere but the intended location. Stone and dirt flew everywhere, and only after some very stern instructions from the bulldozer did anything seem to get done. 

And even then, it was a slow and tedious process. The steam shovel, whose name seemed to be “Damnit Ned!”, was very slow with his bucket, and yet somehow was still dangerous with it. Men jumped out of the way as stone flew from wherever he dropped his arm, and then once he’d filled the bucket, he would swing slowly towards the trucks with the arm at whatever height and angle he felt like. Oftentimes this was lower to the ground than the sides of the hoppers, and it would be only at the last second, after some shouting, that he’d bring the bucket high enough to actually clear the tops. 

The trucks were very displeased about this, and “Sorry Byron!” the bulldozer soon had to run interference between the trucks and their desire to not be physically hurt, and Ned, whose feelings got more and more hurt with each round of yells. 

“Oi!” He eventually called to Bear, who was waiting for a brick to come flying his way, as the trucks started up a very insulting and ribald rendition of Drill, Ye Tarriers Drill. “Can’t you make them shut up?”

“Can’t you make him do his job right?” Bear retorted. “Or get someone competent? That sounds like the easiest option.”

The trucks burst out laughing, Ned looked even more offended, while Byron the Bulldozer growled menacingly. “Now don’t you get snippy with me, mate!”

Bear, quite fed up with people speaking rudely to him, growled very loudly in return. “I think that I will get as snippy as I want, thank you,” he said to the now pale-faced dozer, before turning his attention to Ned. “Mind my trucks, understand?”

---

With Bear now actively intimidating the workforce, the rest of the loading went much more smoothly. By the end of the day, Bear had made four more trips with seemingly every empty hopper wagon in the yard, much to the relief of the workmen. 

“Now, we can lay the rails.” Said the foreman gratefully. “You’ve put us at least a day ahead of schedule. Imagine if we’d had to haul everything out of here by lorry!” 

Bear smiled. “I only wish that I could’ve been ready sooner.”

“Ah, there’s that Great Western work ethic at it again! You’re a good ‘un, Bear.” The foreman didn’t notice how Bear’s smile grew strained at the mention of the Great Western. 

But the trucks did. 

“Hey,” said the hopper closest to him, as the train reversed away from the work site. “You alright? You got a look when ‘e mentioned the-”

“I know.” Bear said quietly. 

“Thought that was all your thing?”

Bear looked down, at the sleepers whizzing beneath him. “It was.”

“Was?”

“The Great Western is an idea, a dream.” He said slowly. “And I always thought that it was one of hard work, and perseverance. Doing the job the right way, even if it’s harder that way. We all worked towards that.”

The entire train was now quietly listening, their anticipation and interest flowing through the brake line. 

“But,” He continued. “I don’t think it is. At least not anymore.”

“What is it?” A truck further back in the train asked. 

“It’s a memory. Of what used to be.” The train slowed as they neared Haultraugh station, and they slid past the Western-styled station canopy, the benches with GWR inlaid into the metal, and the hand-lettered sign that said “GREAT WESTERN RLY” on it. “It’s what they had, back before the grouping. Before the war, even. When you had Kings, Castles, Manors, and Paddington.”

“And the world ended in Cornwall.” Another truck said, the west country accent giving away which railroad they’d been built by. “And had Swindon at the centre.”

“That’s right.” Bear looked sad. “And do you know what that world didn’t have back then? Me.”

The trucks digested this. Quite a few of them were old enough to remember those times, and those that weren’t remembered the bad old days of modernization, where that time period was dragged out back and cut up on the spot. “You think that they don’t want you in their little club?” A truck near the back asked, his voice echoing down the brake line. “Sounds a bit out of character for Ducky and Ollie.”

“Maybe for them,” Bear agreed. “But not Truro, and he is the Great Western. If the Greatest Westerner acts like I’m not, then…”

He trailed off at that point. The trucks wanted to say something comforting, as they were quite uncomfortable with this quiet and introspective sorrow, but at the same time, they couldn’t help but agree. They’d seen how Truro had treated Bear. It made sense now - the Great Western was a Victorian idea, one of steam and steel, polished brass and crack expresses to the west country. 

A diesel had no place in it. 

“That’s alright,” A voice spoke up from somewhere in the middle of the train. It was an unexpectedly perky voice, and the rest of the trucks wondered if they were going to have to bump someone severely. “You don’t need those rotters anyway. You’ve got us, and the rest of the island. Who needs the Great Western when you’ve got British Rail?”

It was such a shockingly naive statement, from such a young truck, that a laugh was forced out of the rest of the train as if by magic. What a stupid idea! BR, being the better option! Ha!

However… as they kept rolling towards Arlesburgh, everyone had much the same thought:

Hang on, he might be onto something. 

British Rail wasn’t perfect, or even good, but it was… home. It was their home. Their family. It was what they had, and sometimes that’s all that could be asked for.  Bear’s thoughts were slowly spinning into a whirlwind of ideas. “That’s right. I do have you all.”

[masterj]

So, @lomotunes2008 , I haven't got around to designing Margot yet, but dammit, I couldn't wait any longer to post these facts about her story I came up with:

On the other end of Chug Town Trackside Towers is Chuggington Airport, a new location I will introduce in my headcanon (loosely based on what I saw in my dreams once or twice lol.)

Speed Fleet are the most common chugger here. It has a big station where passengers and parcels are transfered, and is the terminus of a newly built monorail line that goes all the way to Buffertonia.

Margot is one of the monorails on trial. Only up to four would be chosen to by Vee to stay.

Poor Emery was very hurt by Margot's mean words - but it wasn't Margot saying he was bad at his job that broke him - she also said his face looked like a pig, his swaying horns and buffers make him look like a ugly caterpillar, (Ooh, deja vu...) and that his eyes make him look like an ugly alien, because he has heterochromia. (Emery's left eye is green, and his right eye is blue)

And of course, he wasn't the only chugger she tormented; she called Chatsworth a wimp when she honked as loudly as she could at him, causing him to jump and overturn his hopper car.

She called Olwin a fat old fusspot because of her large streamlined body, and how upset she was when she got covered in sand from Chatsworth's car tipping over.

She called Old Puffer Pete a rusty, weak piece of junk and that he was the most useless, pathetic, and ditzy chugger she had ever seen, because he is the oldest in Chuggington and always gets the youngster's names wrong.

She finished off with I quote: "What's a smelly steamer like you still doing around?😒 Go find a scrapyard!😈"

Pete: 😨

What a bi🤬🤬🤬.

She then passes Hodge and Eddie and calls Hodge similar insults, due to the fact he is a 'hodge-podge' of scrap metal. Eddie, with his wrench clutched in his fist, shouted just what he thought of Margot insulting his faithful work companion, but alas, she was already leaving them far behind.

Margot is also very impatient and honked at everyone yelling at them to work faster, whether they were in her way or slowing her down in any way, shape, or form or not, kinda like Emily when she was bossy little b🤬tch in the S8 episode "Emily's Adventure."

Margot literally yelled exactly this at the start of her journey at The Airport, when the station porters were loading up her passenger's luggage, and honks at them, which only caused them to bump the trolley and drop everything, and the passengers, disturbed by her horn, were very angry; monorails are supposed to be quiet!

She then honked rudely at Wilson and Brewster hauling a heavy stone train from the quarry, telling at them to hurry up, even though they were not in her way or anything whatsoever because she is a monorail so they don't run on each other's tracks at all. Brewster thought Margot was the rudest monorail he'd ever met and Wilson was very cross.

But Margot thought 'it made them work harder'.

What a f🤬🤬🤬ing stupid 🤬🤬🤬🤬.

She even insulted Koko's speed claiming she could go three times faster than Hanzo, let alone her. Koko was fuming.

So yeah, she was indeed just being an absolute menace to society and causing confusion and delay overall lol, and Emery was especially miserable. He meets up with the main trio (and my yet-to-be-revealed main oc) in The Depot later and told them what she said to him. Already angry with Margot, they convinced Emery they need to tell Vee about her appalling behavior and overcoming the pain, he agrees.

But of course, they weren't the only ones to complain to Vee about Margot, and long story short, Vee was not happy, and indeed, there was nothing for it but for Margot to be sent away in disgrace. All the other chuggers and monorails went off back to work as normal, and Margot was put back on the wagon, and taken straight back to the Buffertonian production plant she came from by Dunbar. Did she ever change her ways? We may never know...

[sayhwaet]

this is so sad. this is really just so sad. first balthus, now mr. beowolf? what kind of economic injustice is this? how many more people will be unable to afford even the clothes on their backs? do better, fódlan.

bernadetta's heart breaks for him. that alone is what gives her the resolve to trudge up to him, in small bursts of anxious movement, without a single word. she pokes his arm with a shaky finger just to throw up her arms in the next moment, simultaneously hiding her face and presenting him with her own little cape. folded and fluffy, perfect for a chilly night such as this.

on a man like beowolf? it...is not going to cover much. if anything.

but the thought is what counts, right?

Oh, here we go again.

It didn't get old, and he meant that shit - funnier and funnier with each rich little fusspot that approached him about what he was supposed to look like or behave like, as though this party hadn't enough of -

Oh.

"Ah, hey there, little bit." Beowolf plopped a palm atop Bernadetta's head fondly, mussing her hair a tick. He hadn't really expected to see the skittish student out and about, especially for an event as high energy as this.

Noble expectations were truly wild, hey?

"Whatcha got there?" Gently, he took the extended item, felt the soft of the fabric in his fingers and had to chuckle. "Ah, kiddo you ain't gotta do that, I know what I'm about."

But then he saw the look on her face, the wetness of her eyes and the tight line of her lips - and the color, matching every other part of her ensemble, and it dawned on him.

"Well, hell, ain't gonna deny the kindness of a friend givin' me the clothes off their backs, am I?" With an exaggerated flourish, he filcked the capelet - thing barely covered his shoulders, let alone drifted any further south - and secured it overtop the neckerchief he'd also been give.

A tiny pose, entirely unself-conscious, and a wide grin. "Now, we're stylin', hey? Saved my bacon, didn't you? You got my thanks, little bit."

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera Ch 3 - Shoes

In which Scott deals with some Situations. All of which can be considered “light duties”. Honest…

(Prologue, Chapter 1 & Chapter 2)

(Given this is basically a fanfic of it, you should definitely read Recrudesence by @sofasurf first because it’s AWESOME)

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The little life signs, initially green and wriggly had grown still and shifted to amber. He knew what that meant and there was no way he was wasting a second in getting the oxygen through to them. It was the right thing to do. And he *was* still the Commander, even if his presence on rescues was still probationary according to IR’s Medic and Chief Fusspot, Virgil. 

Ok, sure, his stamina wasn’t yet back to what it was and, yes, his muscle tone required some work. He subtly stretched out a slightly twingey trapezius. Ok… quite a bit of work. But he could climb through a hole and assess the situation perfectly well, thank you. More’s the point, he could do so much quicker than his broader-shouldered brother could have. 

So, he did. It was the right thing. 

And also, Commander.

It really wasn’t fair that Virgil had to be proven right *quite* so quickly about the structural integrity of their hastily-dug tunnel.

As in, literally the-moment-after-he’d-slithered-his-way-out-of-it quickly. Slightly embarrassing, but he’d styled it out and the kids were definitely pleased he was there. As was the teacher who had obviously been having a nightmare of a few hours and probably needed some adult back-up. 

And they could all breathe now which was the important thing.

His tapped his comm unit and sent a concerned-brotherly enquiry as to Virgil’s health.

“I told you that would happen you absolute…”

He coughed loudly and started talking over his brother “We’re all ok in here, Virgil, including all of the many children that are here… listening and uh, being impressionable.”

The line went quiet. Possibly mutinously quiet.

“Get a stable exit route in place. I’ll close comms for now. Ping me if you have any updates.”

He didn’t need to see his brother’s face to know the eyebrows were likely to be in full apocalyptic mode. He considered contacting John to warn him to watch out for gravitational anomalies in the area.

Who was he kidding, John was probably Concerned already what with Oh-So-Fragile-big-brother-who-must-be-watched-at-all-times now being stuck the wrong side of a cave in. He’d be leaping into the elevator any minute…

Ahh, he was being unfair - both of them had been an incredible support the last couple of months and he was more grateful than he could express. But he was also so… SO tired of feeling caged by their caution, of his wings being clipped. Light duties, indeed. Well his heart felt lighter now, and he was more than ready to move on from being an invalid and be Scott again.

If he was honest, the next however-long of being in the company of people who solely viewed him as protector rather than protectee was going to be a blessed relief. Speaking of which, less thinking more rescuing, Tracy!

“Is anyone hurt?”

There was a chorus of “Noooooo” and then:

“Alex’s leg is stuck, Mr Scott!” a small red-headed child grabbed him by the arm and pulled “It’s not hurty but you hafta rescue him because the floor is hard and he’s annoyed and he really really really needs a wee”.

“Reuben, Alex might not want you to give ALL those details you know” the teacher chided in a slightly embarrassed tone.

“It’s true though Miss!” groaned the small child lying on his face in the corner, presumably stuck-Alex.

“And that’s a very serious matter” Scott knelt down next to the lad and patted his shoulder “We’ll sort that out in a minute but first I’m going to have a look at what’s pinning you, is it ok if I touch your leg?” Having received a vigorous nod of consent, he prodded cautiously at the debris around the trapped foot and then worked his fingertips in between the fallen slab and Alex’s ankle and smiled to himself. An easy fix for once! Having worked the Velcro fastenings of the shoe loose he sat back on his haunches.

“Alex, I think you can finish this rescue off all by yourself.”

There were literal gasps from a rapt audience and he grinned. Little kids were easily impressed and, to be frank, that was exactly what he needed right now. And if he was hamming it up just a little… well, none of his brothers were here to see…

He leant down and whispered an instruction and watched the kid’s eyes widen as he pointed his toes and slipped his foot out of his shoe and through the gap in the rubble.

Scott helped him to stand, whereupon he threw his hands in the air and did an exuberant victory dance. 

Then looked down at his feet and burst into tears.

Okay, did not expect that one.

The teacher who had materialised, ninja-like, at the child’s side patted Alex’s shoulder and looked up at Scott apologetically whispering “Brand new shoes, quite a big deal at their age, don’t worry he’ll be ok”. She turned back and made an array of comforting noises as the little boy cradled his remaining red rocket patterned trainer and sobbed his heart out.

Well, that wouldn’t do.

He nudged his comm and quietly requested an update.

“…Yes I’m Fine, John.” 

It turned out Virgil had gone back to Two to configure a pod, the rock being too unstable to make a safe passage through from the service tunnel they’d started out in.

“Just as well I got in with the O2 while I could then huh, John? Who knew? Oh… hi, Virgil. Yes, yes you knew. I’m fine. Yes, actually fine.”

They had to come in at a different angle. How long? Maybe half an hour? He squinted at the display on the oxygen tank, trying not to draw attention to it. Should be ok.

“F.A.B. See you when you get here.”

Back to the more immediate problem. He took out a small pocket knife and an unused grapple pack and started chiselling away at the fallen slab. Fortunately it was some kind of cement composite rather than natural stone so it crumbled away fairly easily. Another stroke of luck! Looked like today was his day. As he worked he found his mind drifting back to how excited Alan had been the first time he’d got light up shoes. Come to think of it those had probably had rockets on them too. A sudden sense of loss sidled by and nudged him. Time was beginning to race by. He tapped the knife slightly harder than he intended and a larger chunk came away. Bingo.

He approached a sniffly Alex and his teacher with his latest rescuee hidden behind his back. Squatting to approximately 7 year old height and resolutely ignoring the creaks in his knee and ankle joints, he slapped the bottom of the shoe to activate the flashy lights and presented it with a flourish. And a “TaDah!”

And maybe a touch of jazz hands. Because today felt like a jazz hands day.

The resulting hug nearly knocked him over.

A muffled voice emerged from his armpit 

“Where’s the toilet?”

Oh yeah, That Situation.

Fortunately this was not his first school-kids-in-a-cave/mine/collapsed-building rodeo. The small cubes of highly absorbent powder designed to neutralise small chemical spills had an unintentional but actually way more frequently employed secondary use. A couple of those crumbled in a corner and a swiftly organised human privacy wall later, Alex and several of his classmates were looking a lot more comfortable.

As he stood in the one spot tall enough for him to straighten out his back and tried to explain hygroscopy to a couple of rapt Science Fans who introduced themselves as Xanthe and Rozi, Scott noticed Reuben and Alex walking around him, carefully appraising his suit. The pair huddled in the corner for an intense discussion followed by rock paper scissors which Reuben apparently lost because he shuffled over and looked up at him, wringing his hands while clearly pregnant with a question of great importance.

Scott crouched down to his eye level and waited. The little boy blushed and looked at the ground and mumbled “Me and Alex were wondering how… how you and the other International Rescuers um… how you…” he trailed off and gestured vaguely at Scott and then the corner and back at Scott again. OH. Scott’s eyes widened and he let out a short burst of laughter.

“Sorry, that’s top secret information. If I tell you, they’ll fire me.”

Nodding seriously, Reuben returned to his conspirator and the speculation clearly continued in hushed tones.

His knees began to object vigorously to the prolonged crouch, so Scott sat himself down and stretched out his legs, focussing on not letting out the kind of old man groan Gordon would mock him relentlessly for. The teacher, cross-legged beside him, tilted her head and raised a skeptical eyebrow he found himself unable to resist and so he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially:

“Borderline pathological level of bladder control” and gave her a mock salute.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Estera snorted in a most unladylike fashion and covered her face with her hands in an attempt to stifle the giggles, her shoulders shaking as some of the tension of the last few hours escaped. 

He chuckled, clearly pleased to have amused her. He stretched and sagged against the side of the cave in a way that hinted at more fatigue than his demeanour would suggest.

“Long day?”

“Something like that.”

She leant back against the wall and pulled her knees up to her chest. Was that more vibration she could feel through her shoulders? Hopefully just the rescuers doing their thing. Trying to shut out the sensation that the walls were getting closer she relaxed her shoulders and took a deep breath. It was shakier than she’d intended and she found herself irritated by the fact that she could tell the man sat next to her had picked up on that.

They sat and watched the kids argue passionately on either side of a welly boots vs trainers debate. It didn’t look like she’d need to intervene yet, thankfully. She did a quick tally of the ratio of wellies to trainers in the room and tapped the result as a rhythm on her knees. A slight tilt of his head revealed he’d noticed that too.

Not taking his eyes off the impending civil war he murmured:

“You doing ok?”

“Yeah. I’ll admit it’s been a bit of a trying day and I’m… not great with confined spaces at the best of times.”

The confession tumbled out of her mouth before she was consciously aware she’d even thought it. Appalled, she tried to claw the words back again - you don’t just admit things like that to complete strangers!

“I mean, not that it’s very confined down here, we were lucky with how things fell and there’s actually quite a lot of space given the circumstances and nobody was hurt which is brilliant and you guys will get us out and…”

Brilliant, now she was rambling. Too many “ands” Miss Hermaszewska, need to think of some more interesting connectives.

Fortunately she was prevented from any more demonstrations of her linguistic inadequacy by the more verbally competent Jeff who yelled over “Miss, what’s your favourite type of shoe?”

At least she could answer this one without any too much controversy.

“My running shoes from a special shop in London. I love them because they are decorated with stars, have bright blue laces and are so comfortable they feel like clouds. I’m also quite convinced they make me run faster.”

Identify, describe, impact, interesting fact. A classroom-quality answer. The questions didn’t *always* take her by surprise.

“Sounds like I need some of those” Rescue Man lifted a leg and let it drop again “these have many qualities but cloud-like is not one of them.”

“Not wellies then, Miss?”

“Not wellies, no. You can’t run in wellies but they are good for muddy walks with Bez.”

“Awwww I love Bez!”

“He’s the hugest cutest floofiesf!”

“I love Bez the most!”

“No I DO!”

She chuckled and went to explain “Bez is my…”

He wasn’t listening but was frowning at the ceiling intently with his hand raised to the radio unit near his shoulder. “Virgil… what’s your status?” She could only hear static in response. He stood.

The vibrations had definitely became more noticeable. She got to her feet and did a quick assessment of where each of the children was and felt her heart leap into her throat as an entire section of the cave wall opposite shifted downwards by half a metre. 

Astra and Bee lay on their bellies just in front, fully engaged in a thumb war.

There wasn’t time to get them off the floor and out of the way! Acting on instinct, she threw herself over them and pulled their heads in under her body, bracing herself for the bone-breaking impact of cold unforgiving stone on her back. 

It didn’t come. 

There was an impact but it wasn’t a rock. It was warm and wrapped tightly around her as the wall disintegrated above her and debris rained down.

Panic seared through her veins and the whistling in her ears drowned out every thought but 

NO.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[Link to Ch 4]

[AO3]

[dominickeating-source]

Cult Times - Issue 77 (2001)

Reeding Between the Lines 

Enterprise star Dominic Keating unzips his flight suit and slips into something more comfortable to chat about his role as Lieutenant Malcolm Reed in Star Trek's new, exciting fifth series!

The year is 2151 some while before James T. boldly went where no man had and a few bright, inquisitive souls are paving the way for he illustrious Captain Kirk aboard their very own Enterprise. British-to-the-core actor Dominic Keating is one of the intrepid crew members striking off for stars unknown in Paramount's latest addition to the Star Trek universe.

"When I first read the breakdown for the part of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, I thought I wouldn't be in with much of a chance," he begins. "Malcolm was written as a very buttoned down, by-the-book, tight-arsed Englishman and personally I'm not like that at all." Certainly when we speak, Keating couldn't appear further from the quintessential stiff-upper-lipped fusspot he portrays. It's American Thanksgiving and he is bursting full of the joys of the season. As well as shouting advice to his girlfriend on the best way to baste a turkey, laughing uproariously when she yells back what he can do with his instructions, at the same time he's bawling out an apology to a friend who turns up unexpectedly to invite him to trek to the infamous Hollywood sign for a bit of fresh air. "I can't, love! I have to do the veggies and talk to this nice woman from the UK. They want to hear about the show. It's very exciting."

Clearly delighted that the series is generating as much interest in his homeland as it has in his adopted land, Keating reins in his excitement enough to explain, "Given that it's an American television show, the producers had quite a strong picture of a certain type of Englishman in mind, which is why I first thought that perhaps it wasn't really my bag. I do come from 'that sort' of background and had the classic kind of public schooling but I've never wanted to be seen in that stereotypical sort of way. I was pleasantly surprised when the word came back after the first audition that I was the only guy in the frame for the role. I think they felt that because Enterprise is set in the next century they probably wanted someone a bit looser that the stereotype but with enough of that public school image still evident. I've been in the States for years but I guess that persona has stayed with me." He laughs. "It's like being Catholic. You never lose it. However, almost everything else is a real acting challenge for me."

Sarcastically, he adds, "Take this shyness with women for instance. When I read that in the breakdown, I went, Aw, s**t. I'll walk through this one then. Even my girlfriend would agree that I am at my most relaxed around the female contingent in this galaxy. Then there's the munitions thing. Malcolm is supposed to be obsessed with weaponry, but that's not me at all. Truth be known, when I was 17-amd-a-half I was considering joining the Army. My mother's side of the family is army and my grandfather fought in two World Wars; would have been knighted but he didn't get on with King George and got the OBE for his services instead. I was even an under-officer in the cadet force at school and was part of a special force called 'Tactics', so I know quite a lot about the military background from which Malcolm stems. But now, in later life, I've never fired anything other than the weapons I use in Enterprise." Bursting into laughter again, he splutters, "I get asked all these questions about guns and other weapons at conventions and all I can do is look at the fans and shrug. "Look! They're grey! What can I tell you? I have absolutely no idea."

Pretending to hang his head in shame, Keating does admit that he shares some of Lt. Reed's character traits. "I am a bit of a neat freak! Always have been. No amount of therapy seems to be able to correct the balance that is so very in keeping." Reverting to hushed tones, he whispers, "I don't like to use the words anally retentive but some ex-girlfriends might," before yelling out, "Don't print that or I'll kill you." Oops.

Keating also feels that his BA (Hons) Degree in History "came in handy because I knew how to effectively undertake the research for the character. One thing that I am always grateful for," he confides, "is my good education. I really have to thank my mother and father for giving me that. They really sacrificed a lot to make sure that I got properly schooled and I'm always indebted. As an actor, the one thing you can't learn at drama school is the years of training to make your mind work in an academic way."

Changing topics for a moment, the mercurial Mr. Keating expounds, "London was fantastic during my university years. I adored my three years as a student. I was on full maintenance grant because my father had passed away and it gave me the freedom to know the city. I ended up living in London after uni and eventually became an actor there. I still have an apartment in the Portobello Road."

Keen to go wherever the work takes him, Keating has lived all over the place, loving every minute of the nomadic life. "I spent quite some time in Vancouver and have a great relationship with that place. I went up there originally to do Poltergeist: The Legacy and liked the place so much I lived there for a little bit. The funny thing about Vancouver is that you've got to live in Los Angeles to get cast in shows in Vancouver. It's a weird conundrum. When you go for a job they'll be like, 'Oh, you're a local actor? no, we're not interested'. Then they cast in LA. So I went back there and was immediately sent back up to Canada to do The Immortal."

Just a wee bit sad to be leaving the role of malevolent madman Mallos, Keating smiles. "We shot off to Prague to film two episodes of The Immortal and it was crazy. I had my own castle, got to wear all the medieval gear and got to throw peasants to wild boar. Real ones." Wickedly insisting that no mammals were harmed during the making of the episodes, Keating goes on to say, "Actually I had a wonderful end of last year. I went to Eastern Europe with The Immortal and spent some time in Spain making 13 episodes of a show called Chromium Blue.com." In keeping with the actor's irreverent approach to life, Keating exclaims, "It's Zalman King's new gig and I play a bisexual ghost. I have no idea what the show is going to look like but it has real elements of Zalman erotica thrown in with some of the zaniest, most bizarre comedy sketches you've ever seen. Ian Abercrombie (Seinfeld) and I were cast together as Sir George, the gay butler and his dead ex-lover, the bisexual ghost. It was hilarious. We camped up a storm." Waving his wrist about, Keating lisps, "By the time I got back to LA it was pilot season again and I thought, 'Oh God! I've got to put my little black dress on and trawl around the networks.' Thankfully, along came Enterprise and put paid to all that."

Manfully accepting remarks that he might not get offered fey parts if he dressed in something other than a little black dress, the actor reels off yet another example of his effeminate experiences. "I did a play up in Edinburgh with a fantastic actor named Tim Spall. It was a comedy called Screamers and I played this apprentice who got a job at the Cut and Cum Again salon. Tim played the chief charge hand who was this deeply unattractive character with the responsibility for taking me in hand, so to speak. We had a whale of a time."

Unperturbed by the fact that he has played a few such characters, Keating is highly amused by reports that Malcolm Reed might be the first gay in Space: "I read that in the TV Guide." With superb comic timing, he chortles. "I was in the supermarket and there we all were in the front cover, so I picked it up to read and inside it said something like 'Dominic Keating, turn to page 56, who reportedly is going to be the first gay character in Star Trek.' I thought, What? I rang Brannon Braga (executive producer), who told me not to believe everything I read in print.

Very sound advice indeed! Now, about this Enterprise show. Can we believe all we read about it being the greatest thing since sliced bread? "Absolutely!" announces the actor. "You just know when something is going to work. Right from the read-through, there was a simpatico and an understanding and a generosity that has not always been apparent in some jobs I've had in the past. Scott Bakula is such a trouper. He sets the tone and makes us all feel valued and very happy. I shouldn't say this but I also have a sneaking suspicion the Rick Berman and Brannon Braga, the two executive producers, are actually extremely well-paid full-on Trekkies. They have to be. They put so much dedication and enthusiasm into this show. They don't have to do it for the money so I truly believe they love the genre and the show they make, which is why Enterprise makes such good television. I've been watching the show religiously since it started because I need to get educated. John Gielgud used to say, 'Know the style of the thing that you're in and act accordingly'. It's very important to me."

As far as the episodes are concerned, Keating has a couple of favourites. "Given the initial brief, I never thought for a moment that Malcolm would turn into an action hero, but it seems to be looking that way and I love it, although we've just finished an episode entitled The Raptor which was great, except I got the you-know-what kicked out of me by a Klingon woman."

The episode that's really dear to his heart is a 'two-hander' currently called Shuttlepod One. "I get the feeling that this is going to be the one I look back on years from now with pride and amazement. It's basically 50 pages of Connor Trinneer and me in a shuttlepod with 10 hours of air left to breathe. The script is extraordinary and it will be the first time in my acting career, in front of a camera that is, where I get to do some no-holds-barred, playing from the hip, straight talking, intense acting."

Shuttlepod One comes midway through Enterprise's first season, so we'll certainly have a while to wait as the show only started airing on Sky 1 in January. In the meantime, our beloved Mr. Keating was planning to make a triumphant return to the UK in late December. "We're coming on a press junket and I have to admit I makes my tummy go funny to think about it. One of the reasons I came to America was because I always dreamt of coming back home as part of a hugely successful television show. Returning in Enterprise is like my dream come true."

Source: www.dominickeating.com

[collectively-kyrit]

Finally finished coloring up this piece after putting it off for a long while (month and a half?) because of the dreaded hat. Lines are a Buss Rush from Fusspot, who is such a wonderful artist!

I am at least happier with the hat than my last attempt at coloring it (which I don't actually think I've posted here yet, so I should remedy that some time soon.

The poor tortured bean in the front is @earthnashes, may her wig rest in peace.

[tiredpandaportfolio]

Dante trying to make pizza at home for the first time would be a nightmare. RIP the poor kitchen

It takes me way longer to get these out than I like.

It was the closure of his favorite pizza joint that really pushed him over the edge. Financial troubles, they claimed. Dante could maybe understand that. They had the perfect balance of cheap and quality pizza in that part of town--and they were willing to deliver to his alley, something most pizza joints balked at.

With good reason, perhaps.

Still, he told himself. Wasn't the end of the world, was it?

He tried a few other pizzerias. Some did not want to get their delivery crews anywhere near the whole neighborhood. Of those that did, their fare was either way too expensive for his wallet, or some kind of disgrace that should be ashamed of calling itself pizza. He was very particular about his pizza. He hated anything too greasy, or that was all bread and not enough toppings, or when the cheese had a funky smell, or when the store was stingy with the meat. 

He struggled through the first two weeks. Just when he thought he’d found some hopefuls, he also found out that they were a lot less forgiving than his old usual about being owed money. They cut him off at once and even spread the word.

“Aaah… what’s a man gotta do for some decent pizza around here,” Dante grumbled as he sat back against his large chair, frustrated.

He knocked the last of the fliers into the wastebasket where others lay crumpled. Every last one of these stores among them had let him down. Sure, he could go out to eat but he’d much rather have it brought to his doorstep so he could enjoy his pizza in peace. The frozen pizzas he’d gotten to tide him over were not cutting it anymore. They were too small, too thin, too stingy with everything. He needed something with substance.

As he glared at the ceiling fan, a dreadful thought came to him. He would have to seek advice. He carefully considered who he could entrust with this secret. Trish was out. She would purposefully just tell him to eat something else, just to amuse herself at his frustration. Lady would make it about money, like she always did. He grumbled. No, there was only one person who’d give him a straight answer… for a price. He sighed. He hated this, but he’d have to bite the bullet. 

He sat up and dragged his phone close, wedged the receiver between his ear and shoulder and irritably dialed the number, his finger dragging the dial round and round with practiced speed and mindfulness not to actually break the damn thing. The crackly dialing tone made his leg bounce with frustration.

“C’mon… c’mon…” he muttered through his teeth. 

She took her time answering. He heard the click of her answer and then the soft, tired voice: “Hello?”

“Hey Twig,” Dante said, leg still bouncing. “Still sleepin’ in? It’s 5 in the evening.”

“No,” Tess sighed from the other end of the line. “That’s you, ‘till someone walks in and gives you a load of trouble. Or scarfing down another pizza.”

“Funny you should say that,” he said.

“Anyway, what’s happened now?”

Dante smirked tartly. “Now why would you say that, Twig?” 

“Because you never call just to chat,” Tess replied in a similar tart tone.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckled. “Listen, I need a tiny favor.”

“If you’re gonna ask me to ‘magic your coat clean’ again I’m going to hang up.”

“Wait, wait, wait–” Dante said quickly. “No, I just wanna ask you something.” 

“Oh,” Tess said sheepishly. “What’s up? Ghost stuff?” 

“No, no, it’s something dumb,” he admitted. “Listen, this stays between us, alright? I’ve got dirt on you too, don’t forget.” 

“Yeah, yeah, just out with it, you fusspot.”

Dante braced himself and breathed in. “Alright, listen. I need your unbiased opinion, as an Italian.” 

“Oh boy,” Tess said and he heard her smirking.

“So… what’s the best pizza place in town, right now, in your expert opinion?” he asked quickly. 

“The what now…?” she echoed. “Dante… did you call me to ask about a pizzeria? Is this about your usual place closing up?” 

Dante grimaced. “Who told you that?” 

“Morisson, he saw it closed and predicted you’d lose your mind,” she chuckled. “What, are you gunning for your fix?”

He resisted the urge to hang up. “Please just give me something, I’m so done with this.” 

“I’m not some kinda pizza oracle, Dante,” Tess sighed, but he still heard her smiling. “I don’t know man, have you tried Rossellini’s? Oh but they wouldn’t deliver to your end of town, would they…”

Dante growled. “No, they don’t and it bugs me. They have good pizza.”

“Well… not sure what to tell you then, I don’t really do take out,” Tess said. “Unless you want to take a crack at making pizza.”

“Real funny–” Dante started to snark but then he blinked. Really, why didn’t he try that? He might be lazy but this was a matter of his peace of mind. If he just made his own he could have pizza whenever he wanted! And he’d make it the way he wanted! 

“I might just do that, Twig,” he said, feeling smug. 

There was a weighty pause before she replied. “Ok, just don’t burn your house down. I don’t want to think about what you’d do if all you had left were the clothes on your back–assuming you haven’t pawned them off.”

“Your confidence in me is breathtaking, Twig,” Dante snarked and hung up the phone. 

He stood up and stretched. Right. Making pizza should not be that hard. 

But it was. 

Two days later, Dante stood over his oven, fumbling with a fire extinguisher, covered in flour and his shirt stained with tomato sauce. His oven was open, spewing out a thin wisp of really smelly, dark smoke and he could barely see what was going on inside. Finally he tossed the old handheld extinguisher aside and with a grunt just grabbed the rack bare handed and pulled it out. He winced. What he was holding was a blackened oven rack with what looked like pieces of charcoal stuck to the prongs. He blinked. 

“Where’s the rest of it…?” he muttered and then cast his eyes around for a place to put it down on. 

To his dismay, the sink was full of dirty bowls, the counter was covered in flour, spilled pizza sauce and the aftermath of a carnage of chopping vegetables and meat. Even the table was covered in dirty pots and kitchenware, except for the one spot where a ratty-looking recipe book was open, its pages stained. He awkwardly elbowed aside some stuff on the small counter and tried to put the hot and charred rack down, having to quickly drop it and move to catch a falling bowl with his foot, resulting in splattering his boot and pantleg with the first, utterly failed version of his pizza sauce.

He hissed out a cuss and picked up the bowl off his foot and put it in the sink with a sigh, grabbed a grimy rag to wipe his boot and clothes down, then stooped to look inside the oven. 

“What else was I expecting…” he sighed, staring at the pile of charred remains at the bottom of the oven.

He had stupidly placed the awkwardly shaped hunk of dough straight onto the rack with just some baking paper, because he’d managed to ruin the only baking sheet he had. The previous attempt was welded to the sheet. The kitchen stunk of charred food and Dante straightened up, rubbing his back and looked around. His attempts to cook usually produced a mess but this was beyond even his greatest culinary disasters. He’d stubbornly been trying for the last two days and every time he thought he was making some kind of breakthrough, he’d stumble onto another problem. He’d gotten close a couple of times but the two that looked safe enough to eat were just terrible. Looking at the sad pile of charcoal at the bottom of his oven, Dante sighed. 

He shut the oven and then shut his eyes, tilting his head back towards the ceiling. The taste of defeat was so much worse than anything he’d eaten from his attempts and he was starting to just ruefully accept it.

“Haaaah… she’s never gonna let me live this down,” he sighed.

He trudged out of the kitchen and straight to his bathroom to peel the sweaty, dirty clothes off him. He wasn’t attached to these particular ones but he was almost impressed how he’d managed to make more of a mess on them by trying to cook than he’d ever manage by fighting demons. He would’ve been laughing at himself if he wasn’t at the end of his rope and tired. He managed to shower, only to find that there was so much flour and bits of dough stuck in his hair it took work to get it all out without it turning glue-like. When he finally dragged himself out of the shower, the office no longer smelled of burned food and he changed into fresh clothes and tried not to think about what he was going to do about the utter disaster in the kitchen.

He sat heavily into his chair with a groan and leaned back, resting his legs on the desk and stared at the ceiling. He was never good at stomaching defeat and even something as minor as this–which to his mind was not minor at all–was going to really get him down in the dumps for a good while. The last thing he wanted was someone to bother him now. 

So of course the phone rang. 

Dante grunted, almost wanting to kick the hoarse-sounding machine off his desk but instead he knocked the receiver off the base, with practiced care, and snatched it out of the air to bring it to his ear.

“Devil May Cry…” he grumbled. 

“Ah, sounds like someone’s having a bad day,” Tess said. 

Dante almost hung up and blurted something vague about her timing.

“Alright, alright, don’t get worked up,” she said, and he frustratingly could hear her grin. “Just wondering how you’re coping. Did you actually try making pizza?”

He almost snapped at her but frankly, it wouldn’t amount to anything and he was too tired to get into a fight. He sighed and leaned back into his chair. “I did.” 

There was a pause and he could easily imagine her looking amazed–or horrified. “And? Building still intact?” 

He grunted again. “It’s fine. But I sure as hell burned a couple of pizzas.”

“Guess the experiments failed,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Big time. I’m left with a bomb-zone of a kitchen and an empty stomach,” he confessed.

“Mmm, sounds like it. I take it you’re running on fumes now, huh?”

Dante didn’t want to admit it, but he really hadn’t eaten much since yesterday and he was already feeling like his stomach was sticking to his back. “Kinda,” he grunted. “Why?”

“Well… I haven’t had lunch and I really don’t feel like eating by myself so why don’t you pick your sorry ass up and come over here,” she said. “And before you get any ideas,” she added, just as he was about to protest, “this is not pity. You’ve probably committed unspeakable sins against pizza over the last couple of days and the less we speak of that, the better. Consider this a re-education. I’m going to teach you what good pizza is.” 

Dante let out a barking laugh. “You didn’t. You can just make pizza?”

“Dude, I lived in Italy,” she said smugly. “If you can’t make pizza you get deported.”

He sat up properly. “And what, you’re willing to share?”

“Yes. Rejoice, dumbass, I’m gonna feed you. And then teach you how to make a pizza without burning your office down,” she said.

He chuckled. “Careful, Twig, I might have to propose.”

“You’re so funny. Just get over here, I have some dough ready to go. Bring some beers,” she sad. “And before you ask, no, I cannot ‘magic your kitchen clean’. Your mess, your problem.”

“You’re such an evil bitch sometimes,” he grumbled.

“Mmm, yeah, I’m so evil I’m offering to have home-made pizza with you. Now get over here, I can’t wait to see your face when you try my pizza and love it.”

“Don’t get cocky Twig, I might just say I hate it just to spite you.”

Tess laughed loudly. “Hah! Good one. I’ll have you know my pizza makes gods weep.” 

“We’ll see about that,” Dante chuckled. “Alright, save me a seat, I’ll bring the beer. I’ll grab one of those tangerine schnapps Roy likes and try and bribe him to rescue my kitchen, or something.”

“Be prepared to be reeeeeally nice to him, then,” she cackled. “See you.”

Dante grumbled and hung up after her, then stood up and stretched. Actually, he really should gracefully take this defeat and make the best he could out of it. Having pizza and some beers with Tess did not sound all that bad… her mockery aside, anyway, because she was never going to let him live this down.

[damistrolls]

🍼 ➗ 🎭 🔎 for caelum. IS THE WRITING PROFESSOR GOOD AT MATH

🍼 — taking care of children

he's actually very good at looking after kids. he's a little bit of a hard-ass, but its only cause he's concerned. kids make him sooo nervous he just wants to protect them. and yeah he can be a fusspot, but a kid wont get hurt on his watch, no sir

➗ — mathematics

he's passable? like hes not bad at the stuff he actually has to use practically, but dont look at him for complex math problems

🎭 — performance art/acting

he'd be so good at remembering his lines, but i dont think he can act well. like this bitch can give an impeccable speech, but dont ask him to get into a character and be animated on a stage. well, unless u tell him to be a strict professor, in which case, yeah he's got that role down pat

🔎 — investigating

honestly pretty good. not much gets past him. he's got a keen eye for details, and its kind of hard to get away with lying to him too. he'd make for a good investigator i think

[swevenfox]

👺Personal work - Shiratori Isamu 👺

[johnny-kobayakawa-television2015]

Thomas and Friends: Sodor Online Journeys, Starring Trainz Railroad Simulator 2022 (Story 66): Passengers and Polish

Nancy is a guard's/conductor's daughter. One day, she was working on Skarloey with some polish and a rag. Skarloey was snoozing happily but Nancy wanted to talk. "Wake up, lazybones. Your brass is filthy. Aren't you ashamed?" "No." yawned Skarloey. "You're just an old fusspot." And Skarloey closed his eyes.

He was thinking about his friend Rheneas, and all the good times they had shared before Rheneas went away to be mended.

Nancy interrupted again. "Don't you wanna look nice when Rheneas comes home?" Skarloey wasn't sleepy anymore? "What? When?" "Soon, daddy told me. I'm going now." she said. "Nancy stop. Do I really look nice? Please, polish me again." "Now who's an old fusspot?" laughed Nancy and set to work once more. Duncan was jealous. "Aren't you gonna polish me too?" "Sorry not today. I'm going now. I'm helping the refreshment lady this afternoon. We must get the ice cream ready for the passengers. Never mind, Duncan." But Duncan did mind. "It isn't fair!" he complained. "Peter Sam gets a special funnel, Sir Handel gets special wheels, passengers get ice cream, but I'm not even polished."

Of course this wasn't true, but Duncan enjoyed complaining. He became sulkier still.

That afternoon, there was bad news above the line. "One of Skarloey's coaches has come off the rails." called Duncan's driver. "We'll have to take workmen here right away." "All this extra work!" grumbled Duncan. "It wears an engine out!" "Rubbish!" said his Driver. "Come on!"

The derailed coach was in a middle of Skarloey's train, so he had gone on to the top station with his front coaches. Duncan shunted the work's trains into the sidings and left the workmen to sort out the mess. Then he brought the passengers and rear coaches home. He sulked all the way. "I get no rest, I get no rest." he muttered. Duncan had made the journey very difficult. He was short of steam so his driver waited a while in the hope of raising more. But Duncan wouldn't try. "We'll keep our passengers waiting." said his driver. Duncan was cross. "You always think about the passengers and never about me!" It wasn't long before Duncan built up enough steam and set off again. But he was still very grumpy and cross. "I'm overworked, and I won't stand it!"

At last, they reached the viaduct near the station. "Come on, Duncan!" called his driver. "One more effort, and you'll have a rest and a drink in the station." Then Duncan was very rude. "Keep your old station! I'm staying here!" And he did too. Skarloey had to haul Duncan and his train all the way to the platform.

The passengers were furious. They told everyone what a bad railway it was. (Passengers arguing) "We're losing money."

That night, The Thin Controller/Mr. Percival spoke to Duncan. "No passengers means no polish." "And no polish means no passengers." Duncan muttered to himself. He still has a lot to learn, doesn't he?

Story End

[welcoming-elanor]

Children can be such incredible conduits to self awareness.

My partner finally admitted that they are a finickety, pedantic, opinionated, neurotic fusspot (affectionate) AFTER realising why they clashed constantly with our first kid (because she too is a finickety, pedantic, opinionated, neurotic fusspot whose favourite line is No, no no, Daddy). And why they got along superbly with our second kid (because he's chill like me).

Well my dear second child, stick with me and I shall guide you through the thickets of wrangling a lovable pedant in your near future.

[bilgisticallykosher]

Hardly Even Yearning At This Night

The original How Easy You Are To Need and on AO3

Masterpost | Previous Chapter | AO3

Word Count: 1887

Warnings: None

Of course, while he was still protective around the full moon, it didn't mean he was always as intense when it wasn't the night of. Some of the nights surrounding it, while he still needed to watch over them, there was a little more leeway for fooling around, and enjoying each others' company. 

Oftentimes Patton and Roman would give him pets, scratches, and nuzzle him back as Virgil nuzzled their faces. Logan would scoff, rolling his eyes at the overt displays of affection, but when he believed the other two, and Virgil, were asleep, he'd stroke Virgil, looking at him with something close to reverence. 

Tonight they'd been in the same arrangement. Virgil had taken to giving an extra lap around the perimeter, moon closer to full than it had been the previous night. All this was fairly normal, which is why he was completely blindsided when he entered the returned. 

He entered the house through the slightly ajar door, which they left open for him, and he heard the distressing sounds of an argument coming from the bedroom. 

"...don't see why!" Roman was yelling, "You said the same thing last time!"

"That is because the facts on it haven't changed, Roman, so my argument has remained the same. Loathe thought you may be to admit it-"

"Oh, please! Do you even know if it's relevant? It's not like werewolves have greatly studied-" Virgil's stomach turned. This was about him? Oh, no, no, no. This was his fault, he caused this. They were arguing about him. He swallowed, and started to slowly trudge through the cabin, ears folded back and tail down. 

"And that is exactly why my point stands, unless you're implying that I am fabricating statements out of my own desires and claiming them truth." What were they upset about? Were they upset at him? Was it something that he did? 

"Oh, no, Logan, I'd never imply something like that, I'm outright saying it!" And it was that moment that Virgil entered the bedroom, Logan with his arms crossed, Roman pointing at him, both of them glaring at the other. 

Were they having second thoughts about everything? He whimpered. 

Immediately all heads turned towards him. Patton, who oddly seemed to have been watching them go back and forth with nothing more than fond exasperation, clasped his hands together in what Virgil recognized as a suppressed squeal. Logan and Roman both unfolded, and relaxed into something that looked almost normal. 

"Ah." Logan adjusted his glasses. "Virgil, you've returned. Roman and I shall continue our discussion as we lock the doors." He gave him a nod as he and Roman left to do just that. Roman gave him a warm smile, reaching out to give him a pat on the head with a little ruffle to his fur, before he headed out after Logan. The sounds of heated, whispered discussion carried throughout the house. Virgil turned towards Patton, who smiled at him. 

"Don't worry," he assured as he made grabby hands towards Virgil, who immediately went to him. "They were just fighting over who got to sleep by your head."  Patton made a soft cooing noise as Virgil started leaning into him, petting him all around his face, and he relaxed a little bit. "You know," Patton whispered conspiratorially, "Logan says it's because Roman moves in his sleep too much, and that dogs sleep better on someone more stable." 

Virgil considered this, and that did feasibly sound like that could have been the argument based on what he heard. "But I think he just likes rubbing your nose." He scratched behind his now perked up ears as he said it. Virgil gave a soft noise in agreement as he nodded, and Patton laughed. 

He heard the other two returning, and Patton stood up, waving for him to follow as he headed towards the bed. Virgil broke into a slow trot as he realized his plan, and they managed to get situated with Virgil laying his head on top of Patton just as Logan and Roman stepped in. 

"Hey!" Roman sputtered. "This was supposed to be my night by his head!" Logan merely strode past him, sighing as he rid himself of his shoes and socks.

"Sorry, Ro. We'll have a schedule set up after tonight. For now just come on up here and let's get to bed." He patted the space next to him. Roman huffed, crossing his arms as he turned around. Virgil whined. Patton resumed his affection as he tried a different tactic. "Oh, no," he put on a fake distressed tone that nonetheless made Virgil tense up and look around for danger. "I'm being held captive by a vicious werewolf!" Virgil calmed slightly, and gave an amused snort despite himself. "Whatever shall I do, how shall I ever escape from his fearsome clutches?!" He looked expectantly at Roman. 

He lasted about three seconds before he caved. 

"Fear not!" He pointed towards the sky, turning around in one smooth movement. "I shall rescue you from the fearsome beast!" Virgil turned his head to meet Roman's eyes. 

"Grr," he blandly contributed. He couldn't help the way his tail thumped against the bed happily. Roman gasped, puffing himself up and looking pretty brave for someone wearing soft pajamas. 

"Fiend! How dare you take such a handsome prince hostage!" Logan swept past him, evidently finished getting ready, and shimmied his way into the bed, getting underneath Virgil's weight. Virgil stood on all fours to give him some room to adjust, which he did quickly. 

"Patton, my glasses, if you will," he plucked them off of his face and held them out to him to put on the bedside stand. Patton took off his own glasses, and put them both folded on the side. Virgil got up, and turned around to face Roman.  

"Foul beast! You've taken a second handsome prince for your hoard? And you've blinded them!" Roman stomped over to the bed. "Where shall your reign of terror end?"

"If he's a werewolf, why are you attributing qualities of a dragon to him?" Logan rolled his eyes again, but he couldn't quite hide the smile on his face. Virgil's tail was wagging heavily. 

"Fear not, handsome, brave princes! This handsome, brave prince-slash-knight is here to save you from your captor!" He leapt forward towards the bed to grab a pillow, holding it in his hands threateningly above Virgil. And that's when Virgil launched his attack. 

He gave Roman a big, long, wet lick from his chin up, before ending it with a firm press of his nose onto Roman's forehead. 

Virgil, Patton, and Logan were then given the pleasure of watching Roman turn an attractive shade of red which quite matched the striping on his pajamas. He dropped his pillow. Virgil was grinning the best he could in this form. Patton giggled as Roman began stammering over nothing in particular. 

"I think he defeated you," Patton grinned. Roman puffed himself up again, frowning with his finger up in the air, ready to argue. Virgil let his tongue loll out slightly; if he were in his human form, he'd be sticking his tongue out. 

"..........I concede," Roman admitted, looking down. "I suppose that I have no other choice but to be taken hostage, too." He trudged over the few steps to the bed, torso hanging forward in over exaggerated defeat, feet dragging along the wooden floor as he rolled into bed. "But." 

He let his head rise back up, smirking up at Virgil. "Don't you believe for one second that I'll go easy on you tomorrow," he began, voice low with the promise of retaliation. Virgil's heart rate increased with what he would later insist was anticipation, as opposed to Roman's voice coupled with the gaze in his eyes. "I'll study your tactics, your weaknesses, and I'll come at you harder tomorrow. And I," he raised his hand, "will," he placed it on top of Virgil's head, "win," he circled his hand around from where it was down and around to his muzzle. 

Fortunately, his wholly embarrassing reaction was interrupted by Logan clearing his throat, wearing a highly amused expression. 

"That being settled, perhaps we can go to sleep?" He raised an eyebrow at the two of them. 

Unfortunately, the line of sight they had when looking at him gave a great view of Patton getting assaulted by a heavily wagging tail. He seemed to not mind it, at least. Roman graciously said nothing about it as he finally clambered into bed, smug grin on his face as he bounced on the mattress, settling in. Virgil quickly turned around, and plopped back down, shielding the three of them. Patton idly wiped the fur from his face, spitting a few hairs from his mouth with a Pffffffffftht-tht-tht-tht. 

Once he managed to calm his tail down enough that he wasn't hitting Roman, he laid his head down on Patton's chest. He felt the others settle. Patton gave a contented sigh as he snuggled in deeper. Everything was as it should be. 

Except…

"My pillow is on the floor!" Roman complained. "I dropped it when Virgil retaliated-"

"Don't you mean retailiated?" 

"And I didn't pick it back up when I got into bed!" Roman finished, not even reacting to Patton's interruption. 

"So just pick it back up." Logan huffed. "Surely you can reach the floor if you angle your body correctly." There was a semi-long pause, after which Roman mumbled to himself so quietly that even Virgil's hearing couldn't pick  it up. "Care to repeat that?"

"... I'm warm and comfy, and I don't wanna move," he spoke softly, barely loud enough for Patton to hear, and Virgil heard him shift the blankets over his face. Logan sighed, and grabbed the pillow between himself and Patton. 

"You may use this one, as Virgil won't be using it tonight."

"Ah, thank you, I'll-" THWAP! And then the rest of what he said was mumbled into the soft fluff of a pillow.  Logan turned over, smirk almost audible in his voice as he bade Roman pleasant dreams. Roman arranged the pillow under his head. "Nothing but a gentle night to you, Patton. Sleep well, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Logan, you're dead to me." Patton tried to hide a giggle. "... But good night, fair fusspot."

"To you as well, Roman. Good night, Patton, Virgil." In his tired state he let his arm drift forward, leaning against Virgil's jaw, a slight pressure. 

"G'night, Lo!" Patton patted Logan's shoulder, "G'night, Ro, I'm sure you'll defeat Virgil tomorrow." He ruffled Roman's hair as best he could from the angle, "G'night, Virgil, thanks for keeping us safe and warm." He stroked his thumb over the top of his head, and Virgil nuzzled his nose over his forehead in response until he slipped back completely under the covers. 

Virgil, for his part, couldn't respond to their well-wishes in kind, due to his current lack of human vocal chords, but he settled onto them that little bit more, hoping that would be enough to convey his meaning. As he felt their bodies through the quilts and his fur, he fell into an easy sleep.

---

Discord link!

@katelynn-a-fan @dwbh888 @royal-stormcloud @thefivecalls @awkwardjester @ollyollyoxinfree @intruxiety @brain-deadx0 @the-grounded-raven @just-your-typical-trans-guy @grouptalekindnesssoul @the-hoely-bleach @anvil527up @fanficloverinthesun @callboxkat @legendsgates @nonasficcollection @rainbowbowtie @10moonymhrivertam @somehow-i-got-an-account @idont-freaking-know @aceawkwardunicorn @enby-ralsei @cottonwoolsocks  @silverobsidion-speaks @robinwritesshitposts   @a-fandom-trashdump @averykedavra @demoniccheese83 @drarrymalecsolangelo

[heroofthreefaces]

Preview panel only. Click here for full cartoon. Or see the on-site navigation tutorial. Cartoons may contain unmarked spoilers. Cartoons linked at 10:00 Central US are new. Cartoons at 22:00 are from the archive. Thanks for reading.

[Image description: Preview panel of the cartoon at the link. The meddling Monk, Susan Foreman, and the Doctor, first incarnation, of Doctor Who are sitting at a diner counter each with an ice cream soda of some kind. The Monk is saying, “…so I told the old fusspot, ‘Well, I’m sure you’re right,’ and then I defeated his new security measures with the first algorithm I wrote and made off in one of the latest-model line of TARDISes.” The Doctor is saying, “Hm! I’d already been gone sixteen hours by then! Why do you think they’d increased the security?” Susan is muttering under her breath, “It’s not a contest.” Unfortunately there are not image descriptions at the main Hero Of Three Faces site. End description.]