#no seriously what does later this year mean be more specific

[benoits-neckerchieves]

Oh my god !!!!!

Well that explains this then

[kjthenbee]

The more I think about the Nandermo interview scene at the end of S6E3, the more I realize just how significant that entire scene is for Nandor as a character.

These first three episodes have told us multiple times that Nandor is not the person he used to be - he is no longer a purely violent, apathetic, selfish man (though he obviously retains some of those qualities). He's changed - he's softer. And Guillermo is the reason for this change.

We've seen how Nandor used to treat Guillermo early on in the series. I can imagine that when little 19yo Guillermo first came to him, Nandor was dismissive, thinking of him as nothing more than another familiar that he was going to string along for years - and, of course, bright-eyed young Guillermo, who was willing to do whatever it took to become a vampire, wouldn't have cared how he was treated.

But now, 15 some years later, everything is different. Guillermo isn't his familiar anymore. They aren't bound by the power imbalance of that relationship any longer. Guillermo has become someone important to Nandor, possibly more important than anyone has ever been before. No matter how much shit they've gone through, or how much Nandor has fucked things up, Guillermo has always stayed, and he has always cared. Even when he does leave, he never stays gone for long. Nandor has never experienced this type of a relationship with someone before - a relationship with someone who loves and cares for him unconditionally.

In the interview scene, Nandor totally could have messed with Guillermo, could have just... not taken him seriously. He could have done the interview in the main room with all the other vampires and had a laugh about the whole thing, but he didn't. He specifically took Guillermo to a private room to conduct the "interview". And the entire time, he treated it with the utmost sincerity- and you can see it in the way he looks at Guillermo with such attentiveness, such fondness. He lets him talk, and just listens. When Guillermo talks about not having many friends as a child, Nandor sympathizes and tells him that that must have been hard even if he himself does not know what this is like. He smiles with him, and laughs with him.

On top of all of this, Nandor very much could have left Guillermo hypnotized - he could have had his former meek, obedient familiar back by his side. The Nandor from just a couple of seasons ago might have done just that. But now, he's learned. He knows that he can't do that to Guillermo. He can't do that to someone he genuinely loves cares about deeply. The Guillermo that he knows now - confident, competent, and sure of himself - is the Guillermo he loves. Nandor does not want to take that away from him for his own selfish reasons. So, he just lets himself have one thing: Guillermo can sleep under the stairs one last time, then he'll unhypnotize him, and things will be back to the way they were - with them at a distance. But at least Guillermo will be himself.

Soooo yeah. I really hope that this is not just fanservice or whatever and that the writers are actually setting something up between them this time. I want so badly to believe that we might actually get some payoff to this 5 season long will-they-won't-they setup. I mean, seriously - what do the writers have to lose with this being the final season?

I'm trying not to keep my expectations too high just because of how many times we've been burned in the past, but this scene (along with the shed scene where Nandor was still talking like Nixon lmao) have gotten me hopeful again...

So here I am, back in Nandermo hell, one last time...

[district4loading]

The CEO (WLW)

Twice Sana!Dom x Female Reader!Sub

6K Words

Content Warning: smut, some angst cause why not, a bit of an age gap, mentions of cheating, fingering, oral, strap

Minors DNI

A/N: There aren’t many times where I can see Sana being dominant but goddamn when I saw these pictures I doubted myself.

I started writing this last night and just finished today (It's 10 in the morning). I hope you bottoms enjoy!!!

Anon - "i know you said in your intro your mainly going to write bottom sana… but any plans of a top sana fic soon for the girlies >< love ur writing btw!"

-

Maybe this was like you

-

"How the hell did I end up here?"

That's what you ask yourself as you stare at the ceiling in this unfamiliar bedroom. You're on the bed half naked and there's this breeze coming from the vents that's got goosebumps forming on your arms. You contemplate getting up and putting your dress back on. It's frankly too expensive to be on the floor anyways, no matter how clean the porcelain tiles are.

But you stay there, trying—then giving up in the same instance—to hear what's being said on the other side of the door. Everything was going fine, she was kissing you and touching you everywhere you needed her to. Until her phone rang, then she muttered "I have to take this" and left you, in your panties in her enormous bed. Seriously, no single person needs a bed this huge.

Well, that's what materialism does to you.

You start to blame yourself, regretting coming here in the first place. It's the fact that you're a college student, the fact that she's got maybe eight years on you. Oh yeah, and maybe also the fact that you're her intern. Well more specifically an intern at the company she runs.

As an arts and design major, internships mattered. So why not apply for an internship at one of the most popular fashion brands in the country? That was your thought process. In the competitive field, among all the other applicants you were chosen for the position. Two weeks later you met the CEO Minatozaki Sana who you never thought could be so attractive in every way possible. Every time you saw her around--which wasn't much--she'd make your knees go weak with only a glance.

How'd you end up in her bed? You don't exactly know. Well, it was maybe six in the afternoon when you were heading out of the office. Then she stopped you and randomly asked if you'd like to get drinks and of course you agreed. Next thing you knew, you're in her penthouse and she's unzipping your dress.

Now you're starting to get frustrated and you sit up, wondering if she forgot that she had someone waiting for her. That's when you actually get a look at the view outside, through the floor to ceiling windows. "Damn" You mutter, actually getting up from the bed to look at the lights.

Because what else were you gonna do? Leave?

Then after what felt like a millennia, you hear the door open up behind you. "I'm sorry, it was really important..." She trails off, noticing how you've migrated from the bed "Enjoying the view I see" She puts her hands in her pockets and you turn around just in time to see it.

You mean to give her a nasty look because you're upset with her for making you wait so long. However, the moment you open your mouth the words get stuck in your throat almost immediately when you see her. She's got on the same thing she's had on all day, this all black Prada outfit and somehow you're still starstruck about how good it fits her.

She comes closer and gets her hands on your waist like they're meant to be there "Now, where were we?" she asks, dipping her head down to your neck and kissing the skin softly. In the time you were waiting, you nearly forgot how good her lips felt on your body. A soft moan slips from your mouth and you already need more.

This is so not like you, opening your legs for some CEO who'll probably kick you out in the morning. But somehow, you just can't resist her. You pull her body closer to you and you allow her to lead you to the bed. Now you're on you're back again and she's on top of you. "Did.. mm did you turn your phone off?" You ask between heavy breaths and whines, because she's sucking on your neck so hard she'll definitely leave a mark and it feels so good.

"Yeah" She pulls away and nods, looking into your eyes. Your hands gravitate to her face and you begin to feel her soft cheeks, you still can't believe she's real. You pull her down, in an attempt to put her lips on yours but she turns away before any of that could happen "I don't kiss, remember?"

You scoff and roll your eyes, having half a mind to push her over "Yeah but you'll give me hickeys, right? And you'll eat me out but kissing is too intimate i guess"

Sana sighs "If you're going to act like that then you can go" Is what she says, but she doesn't move. She stays there with her body on you, face just inches away from yours.

"Then get the fuck off of me" You try to get up but she holds you there and she gives you this look. Her eyes widen a bit and her eyebrows furrow as if she wasn't expecting you to actually challenge her. Then she scowls as she holds you still.

You swallow and you give her the same testing look but you stop squirming, figuring that you'd let her figure out what the hell she'll do next. Unexpectedly, Sana leans forward and connects your lips. It's almost embarrassing how fast you fall into it, into the butterflies and the hot feeling of it all. You kiss her back, she shoves her tongue into your mouth and you whimper when you feel her hand snaking its way down your body.

Sana chuckles into the kiss as her hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. She breaks the kiss "Happy now?" She asks as her fingers come into contact with your arousal. The truth is, you're soaked, and you've been soaked ever since she got her phone call. So you buck your hips into her hand.

"Very happy" You respond with a broken gasp, your cheeks burning red as you feel her begin to circle your clit ever so slowly. She kisses your lips again, but it's only a short peck this time before she goes back to your neck.

She takes a deep breath in and sighs hotly into your skin, causing a chill to run down your spine "I hope you know... I don't normally do that, especially for a girl I barely know" She hums, putting more pressure and speed in her movements. Usually you'd say something clever but you can't, there couldn't possibly be anything clever that comes to your mind when all you can think about are how good her fingers would feel inside of you, rubbing against your walls and stretching your cunt as you cum over and over again.

Maybe this was like you

Instead of saying anything at all, you grab her shirt with one hand, then use the other to keep a firm grip on her wrist. It feels too good and you need to make sure she doesn't move or slow. Sana holds back a laugh as she realizes just how fucking needy you are. "Easy on the shirt, do you know how much this costs?" She mutters into your neck but you don't really care about that right now.

Sana starts rubbing up and down your slit in slow, deliberate movements and you nearly cry out in protest. That is, until you feel her long, slender finger prodding your entrance "Fuck.. please Sana" You whine, raising your hips into her hand "Please" You beg again and it actually sounds like you might sob if she's not inside of you in the next second.

"I was going to start off with one... but jesus baby you're so fucking wet for me I think you can take two" She takes your earlobe between her teeth and bites down gently, her tongue only grazing against the skin as she slides two fingers inside.

The stretch is immaculate, perfect even and her fingers fit so snug inside of you that you just might think you were made for her. "Oh my fucking god" Your jaw goes slack and your eyes squeeze shut. You can't even control it when you clench around the digits. You need them deeper. When she curls her fingers you allow a strangled sob to escape your throat cause it's been stuck there for a while and after that you start to let everything out.

She's doing it so well, like she's experienced. She's older so obviously she'd be good at this, you just weren't able to actually conceptualize it until now. You can feel your slick dripping and it's getting everywhere, seeping through the sheets and into the mattress. "Please don't stop... don't fucking - Ah!" You cry out, your hand still firm around her wrist.

Sana lifts her head a bit, her face is right in front of you and even though your eyes are shut, you can feel her gaze on you. She's breathing out of her mouth and before you know it, her lips are on yours again. Heat spreads throughout your body as you try your best to keep up with the kiss. The thing is, it's just too good. She's just too good. You couldn't even dream of making yourself feel this good with your own fingers.

As if she can read your mind, she begins to fuck you faster. Now you can't even kiss her back. You're just moaning into her mouth, your lips parted as she licks and kisses all over them. Soon enough she pulls away and kisses your cheek "You're falling apart baby, I wish you could see how pretty you look right now." She stops for a moment, then all you can hear are the sticky sounds coming from in between your legs "God, just fucking listen to that" You already know she has that fucking smirk on her face when she says it.

For a split second you think about how your panties are still on, and how badly they're ruined right now. Then you stop caring because the praise is driving you crazy. You know she must say this shit to every other girl she fucks, it's so obvious but you can't help but feel special when she says it to you. "I.. can't fucking.. believe.." You choke the words out like you've forgotten how to speak. You're a thousand degrees and Sana's making everything even hotter.

You don't know why, but you decide to open your eyes and the sight above you only makes you want to shut them all over again. She's so hot, almost too hot right now. She stares directly into your eyes "You're going to cum aren't you" You nod frantically as your legs begin to tremble "There you go, be a good girl and cum on my fingers, darling" and her voice is so perfectly raspy when she says it. You bring your hands up, then you wrap your arms around her to pull her as close as possible. Her mouth is near your ear again and all of the feelings are too much.

"I'm so fucking close" You whine long and loud and Sana hums directly into your ear.

"Do it" She grits through her teeth and that's when you cum.

Your body arches into hers but she holds you down, her fingers still moving wildly inside of you. "Fuck!" You moan, your body shaking and shuddering on the older woman's fingers. Then you go silent, your lips still parted as the pleasureful waves continuously wash over you and your mind goes completely blank. "Fucking hell" You sputter, finally allowing your muscles to relax.

When your arms loosen around Sana's body she smiles at you and kisses your lips again "I thought you said you don't kiss?" You smile back at her.

"I don't but-"

"But what?"

"But you made a big fuss about it so I did" Sana shrugs, kissing you one more time before kneeling so she can unbutton her top.

"So do you end up kissing every girl who makes a big fuss about it?"

"I don't" She slides the garment off, then tosses it to the side as if she didn't just talk to you about pulling it too hard. "But I don't know, you're different"

"Oh, please spare me the performative b.s. I know for a fact you say that shit to every other twenty year old you fuck"

Sana flinches at your crude word choice, then unzips her pants "For your information, I don't normally do this with college students" She slides them down her slim legs and crawls between your legs. You lean upwards and allow her to unclip your bra. "They're all usually ditzy party girls who don't know how to think for themselves. That's more of a turn off than anything"

"So what about me turned you on, Sana?"

"I've been watching you since you started working with the company. You're smart, opinionated, driven... and sexy. I like how you you're always on time, how you make yourself presentable no matter what, how you know what you're doing. You know what? I'd bet my net worth that you haven't been to a party in months" She reads you like a book, and the only thing you can think of is how sexy her voice sounds while she does it. "You're different, Y/n"

You know it's probably an act, you know she's just saying it to get you attached. But goddamn it, her voice sounds so genuine, so real, so attractive that you start actually believing it. She begins to kiss your body, down your neck, between your breasts and suddenly she's between your legs. You open them for her and she holds each one, looking into your eyes as she kisses your thighs. She leaves marks, sucking and kissing on your flesh and it's obvious that she wants you to beg.

So you do.

"Sana.. please"

She smirks, then hums as if she doesn't know that you want her face buried in between your legs right now. "Want your mouth"

Sana slowly moves closer to your center and she sticks her tongue out. Then she nudges her head just a bit further and you can feel the muscle sliding up and down your slit. You bite your lip to stop yourself from moaning too loudly as her grip on your thighs tighten. It's a bit painful, the way her fingernails are digging into your skin but it turns you on. Only because her marks are going to stay there and in the morning, you'll be reminded of this moment when you see them.

"I'll admit, the first time I saw you, I couldn't wait till I could get my mouth on you" She mutters, then purses her lips to leave small kisses on your clit. "You taste just like I thought you would"

Your legs tremble a little, it's far too much. Her words and her plump lips are doing wonders for you right now. The hot pleasure almost taking your breath away. With a small whimper you say "please" cause you need more. You need her sucking and licking until you're falling apart all over again on her tongue.

"So impatient" She makes a 'tsk' noise with her mouth before taking your clit between her lips. She sucks, moving her jaw in an up and down motion and your vision goes blurry. You gasp and you reach your hand down to run them through her silky brown hair.

"Fuck - how are you so... fucking.. good" You whine, your hips begin to squirm. The pleasure is so overwhelming, but you're raising your hips and you're pushing her head down. You don't want her to move, she can't, not when she has you like this. So you keep her there the best you can. "please please please please please" You chant it like you're casting some sort of spell.

Then Sana fucking giggles, and you feel it. It's like a vibration that sends a shock through your veins and your reactive body shudders in response.

She keeps it up, using her mouth in ways you never knew were possible. Then your body's heating up again, faster this time as beads of sweat start to form on your forehead. You're completely flushed at this point and it's embarrassing but that doesn't matter because if she keeps this up you might actually..

Sana stops, allowing her tongue to lap up your wetness for a moment before she lowers her head. You're breathing heavily at this point, you were right at the edge and she just stopped. A frustrated sigh escaped your lips and you looked at her, about to ask her why she would stop and then you feel her tongue prodding your entrance.

Without warning she shoves it in and you stop breathing for a moment. "Fuck!" You choke, and Sana just tightens her grip on your thighs. She pulls you closer and gets her tongue that much deeper. It feels like absolute heaven, like you're right where you're meant to be.

She has your body fucking shaking and jerking on her tongue and she's smiling the whole time. Sana's turning you into an absolute mess and she's enjoying every single moment. Every single flick of her tongue had a specific purpose that made you see stars.

"Shit, I'm close" You warn and before you even know it, Sana's sliding herself off of the bed. "Where are you going" You sit up and there's a dazed look on your face as you try to figure it out on your own because of course she won't tell you.

You open your mouth to say something but you forget whatever it was that you were going to say when you see Sana walk out of her walk in closet with a toy in her hand. It's pink, and kind of translucent but it still makes your eyes widen.

A smile grows on your face as you watch her put it on carefully. She's deliberately being slow with it too, a smirk on her face as she tightens the straps well.

When it's finally on, Sana climbs onto the bed and in between your legs which you end up opening for her. She leans in and kisses you on your lips, nice and slow and there's nothing that feels better in this moment. Her soft lips make you feel like you're floating in space, the way it eliminates every other thought in your mind.

Then Sana buries her face in the crook of your neck, grabbing the toy with her hand to line it up. "I'll take care of you Y/n, I promise i'll have you screaming my name and cumming on this toy until you're begging me to stop" She almost growls the words into your skin, and you know she fucking means it.

"Please" Is the only word you utter before you feel the head of the dildo push past your entrance. Your eyes widen and you wrap your arms around Sana's body "Oh my fucking god" You try to moan but it comes out silent, like you've lost your voice.

She slides it in nice and slow, with gentle consideration but you're still wincing because it's fucking huge. You try to focus on your breathing and it works for a little bit, until she eases it in deeper and you forget everything. You're sure it's tearing you apart, but you can't help it when your legs wrap around her waist.

"You okay?" She raises her head and plants her fists into the mattress to hold herself up.

You swallow and nod your head, hoping she'll ignore the tears in your eyes because you've never felt so full. "I- Yeah.. just go slow please" 

The look Sana gives you is understanding and a small smile appears on her lips. She leans down and kisses you again but it's only a short peck for reassurance. Then she draws back and then rolls her hips forwards. It only goes in half way but the sound you make is nothing short of pure, raw lust. You grab onto her arms and close your eyes, digging your nails into her skin in an attempt to cope with the overwhelming stimulation.

Now she's thrusting in and out of you in a rhythm, her pace slow and steady. You appreciate that she's taking her time with you because you hadn't realized just how long it's been until now. "Look at me, princess" Sana says it softly but it's also demanding. So you do. She smiles a little "You have the prettiest eyes"

All you can really do is moan and it's embarrassing because she's telling you all the right things and now the monstrous stretch is starting to feel so good. Sana really did know how to fuck and you're already craving more. "Please.. faster" You beg, giving her the most pathetic set of pleading eyes.

She does as you say on command, fucking you faster and deeper. You feel the smooth silicone toy scrape against your walls with each movement she makes and you can feel yourself getting wetter because she's just hitting all the right spots inside.

Sana takes a moment to look down at where your bodies meet. "Look at that. You're fucking creaming for me" She announces, referring to the white ring of slick thats forming around the base of the toy. You can't see it, but you know it's a lot.

"Only for you" You say it like you've lost your goddamn mind. It's insane, this is the first time she's fucking you and the first time you've been to her place but you're already letting her claim you. It can't be good and you know it, but how are you supposed to think about that when she's eight inches deep inside of you and saying all the right things.

Then she slows down and eventually halts her movements. She repositions herself and leans upwards until she's sitting on her heels. Without pulling the toy out, Sana grabs the backs of your thighs and pushes them like she's trying to bend you in half. You're not even that flexible but she manages to get your knees to your chest. She leans over and holds herself up by your thighs. You can't help it when you squeal because the pressure hurts so fucking good.

You brace yourself as she moves her hips and it feels even better. This new angle allowed the toy to get that much deeper and it's making you feel like you wouldn't mind doing this over and over and over again with her. "You're.. fucking me.. so damn... good" You manage to say the words through your moans because you just have to let her know that she's destroying you.

As if she didn't already know that

Of course she gives you that smile and then she starts actually fucking pounding you. You don't know where all this raw force is coming from, she's a thin woman, slim arms with little muscle mass but somehow she's able to pin you down, fold you and fuck you like this. 

She's got it so fucking deep inside of you that you think you might cry. "Sana- fuck I can't- god you're so... I- please" Your breathing quickens. It's embarrassing how close she has you right now. "Fuck- if you keep.." You can't even finish your sentence, that's how bad she's wrecking you right now.

Sana gets the message, chuckling lowly at your struggles as she continues to fuck the shit out of you. You can hear how sloppy it is, that distinct sticky wet noise that's loud in your ears. It tells you just how wet and fucked up she's got you, it tells you that you'll probably be back at her door soon after this is over. It tells you that you might actually be hers sooner or later.

You gasp, then your hands are frantically looking for something to hold onto as your orgasm approaches hard and fast. "You're going to make me fucking cum" You warn, deciding to grab onto the duvet, because she's too far away for you to reach.

She hums and nods her head "That's right baby, cum for me again" She grunts and that's when your body begins to short circuit. She's using even more force now because your cunt is clenching tight around the girthy toy, making it harder for her to keep the same pace.

"I can't... I-" A loud moan follows your words and you finally fall off the edge. "Cumming" Is the only word you manage to say as it hits you like a truck. Your entire body trembles as she fucks you through it, never stopping her unrelenting pace. You freeze for a moment, eyes slamming shut just before everything crashes down. You begin gasping and gaping and Sana let's go of your thighs.

She spreads your legs open and falls between them, getting her lips on yours as fast as humanly possible. You're finally able to get your hands on her and your hold her close like she's gonna go away forever if you don't. You're eating each other alive, tongues dancing together as your saliva gets everywhere and the distinct flavor of your slick on her lips only adds to your arousal.

Sana breaks this kiss and gives you a smile "Again, i'm very sorry about the phone call. But I think that made up for it"

"Maybe"

Now you've got no clue what to do.

Should you leave? Should you stay? Should you ask her if she wants you to stay? You cringe at the last option.

You try to move from under her but Sana keeps you there "Stay" She asks, in such a cute voice as if she didn't just contort your body in a thousand different ways. So you stay there, and minutes pass and you wonder how long it'll be before she tells you to go. 

It takes a little while but soon she gets up and she leaves you laying there and you feel that cold breeze again. She's taking off the harness, taking her time and then you notice her gaze shift to the bedside table. "Is this yours?" She goes to pick something up.

At first you're a little confused, until you remember that you took your necklace off and put it there when she went to take her call. Now she's got the priceless item in her hand, holding it all wrong as she dangles it in front of her face. "Yeah" You get up and take it from her hands "Be careful, the clasp is broken" You say it harshly, but you don't exactly mean to.

"Sorry" She scratches the back of her head after you take it from her "Why don't you get it fixed?" She asks as she watches you struggle to put it on.

"Because the part is unique, there's only one and... it can't be fixed"

"Oh" She pauses, noticing the change in your relaxed demeanor. Something about you is colder and more tense. She tilts her head "So why don't you just get a new one... I'm sure there are nicer necklaces that-"

"It was a gift from my grandma, this was the last gift she gave me before she.." You can't even bring yourself to say the words as you absentmindedly hold the pendant between your fingers. It brings you comfort. "Sorry for ruining the mood" You sigh, trying to stop yourself from tearing up. Not here, in front of this woman who probably didn't give a fuck about you.

Sana sits next to you on the bed and she touches your thigh "No, don't be sorry. I was curious" You sniffle and nod your head. When you turn to look into her eyes, they look so gentle, so considerate in all the right ways. Maybe it's because you're in a vulnerable position right now or it's cause you just slept with her, but when she asks if you want to stay the night you don't even hesitate to say yes.

What have I gotten myself into now?

-

"Hey, Y/n? You're wanted in Miss Minatozaki's room" Your mentor, Jihyo pulls you aside. You try your best not to wince, keeping secrets was never your thing. Either way, you manage to hum and nod, hoping that she'd walk off but she doesn't "Hey wait, listen you know how she's the CEO of the company and everything right? I feel like she's taken more of an interest to you more than any other intern i've trained. You should definitely build off of her interest in you, show her that you'd be an asset to the company and hey maybe she could get you a comfy position here if you'd like to come back. Or if not, she can put in a good word so your job search goes well after you graduate"

You smile politely. 'Never in a million years' is what you want to say but instead you settle on "I'll be sure to do that"

It's your last week interning for the company and you're happy for that, happy to never have to step foot in this building again and hopefully never see Sana's face again. But you still have to answer to her so you decide to make it quick, taking the elevator to the 60th floor because of course her office is on the top floor.

You take a deep breath before opening the door to step inside. Sana looks up at you from her computer as you close the door behind you. "You know it's really low of you to get my mentor to send me up here to you" You cross your arms and you decide not to sit down, you didn't want to get yourself comfortable with her. Not again.

"Well how else am I supposed to get your attention if you've got me blocked on everything?"

"You're not supposed to. That's why I blocked you, because I don't want your attention" You can't help but lose your temper in front of her. It's crazy how she brings out the absolute worst in you.

Sana just sighs, "Look, you need to stop being so fucking childish and talk to me like an adult" You're at a loss for words, you genuinely cannot believe that you just heard her right. Your eye twitches just a bit and you begin to laugh "Y/n" She calls you, and she's serious about it too, but you can't help the giggles that escape your lips "Y/n" she says your name again sternly.

"I'm sorry" You begin to gain control of yourself "It's just funny to hear the cheater call me childish"

"You really don't have to be so loud"

After the first night you spent with Sana, you started doing things like that casually. Whether it was sneaking around the office or showing up to her place, you always found a way to hook up. Then it became something deeper and more romantic when she started buying you gifts, bringing you flowers and taking you out on dates. Sleeping over became a norm in your relationship and after maybe six weeks she was practically begging for you to get serious.

So despite everything in your living being telling you not to, you decided to try it out. The gifts were nice and so were the dates and not to mention all of the kisses and hugs. You had already fallen for her by then and in the blink of an eye everything shattered when you caught her with her assistant. You didn't stay for an explanation, shit you really didn't need to. The gross ass make out session they were having said enough.

So much for "I don't kiss"

You really beat yourself up over it, shit you were still in the process of beating yourself up over it. The wound was still fresh because it'd only been two weeks since. You should've known she was full of shit.

"Oh really? Which one do you think people would be more concerned about? The fact that you've been fucking the intern or the fact that you've been fucking your assistant?" You say it louder on purpose just to piss her off and Sana only huffs at you "Why did you call me up here?" You get straight to the point, because you didn't like for your time to be wasted.

"I want you to give me another chance"

You stare at each other for a few seconds and you almost laugh out loud again because she can't be serious right?

"No. Give me one good reason why I should?"

"Because I got you this" She opens a drawer in her desk and pulls something out, placing it on top of the wood and sliding it forward.

"Sana, you can't win me over with gifts. It's so disrespectful that you think i'm so easy-"

"Just, open it"

You walk over to her desk, sitting down in a chair as you unwrap the present-like box. "What the hell" You mutter as you go to open the box, there's a necklace in it but something about it is familiar. "Is this.." You gasp then put your hand over your mouth as you look at Sana "You got it fixed? I.. how? The part was one of a kind.." You glance back at the clasp, it looks brand new.

"I had some connections and you seemed really bummed about it, so I took it and I wanted to surprise you but then.." Sana suddenly feels uneasy about finishing the sentence. Your eyes begin to well up with tears as you gently pick up the necklace from the box.

Then she starts her apology "I'm really sorry about everything.. If it makes you feel any better I didn't actually fuck her- well I used to before we made things official but not after that! I swear you just walked in at a really bad time and she kissed me and I didn't push her away immediately but I promise we wouldn't have done anything else.. I was just being dumb"

She stumbles over her words in an attempt to make things better, to at least gain your forgiveness if not your trust. You couldn't even bring yourself to take your eyes off of the necklace, and you barely hear anything she's said but something in your heart softens for her. You wipe your tears and sniffle "Thank you so much" Is all you manage to say before you begin to break down.

Sana finally gets up, she wraps her arms around you and it feels so right. Now what are you supposed to do? Tell her to go fuck herself after she's done this? You can't bring yourself to even push her off of you, on the contrary you actually pull her closer. It takes a while, but she pulls away from the hug and you already miss it. "Sana.. I, I need time to think about everything"

You stand up, and put the box with the necklace in it on the table "Wait, at least take the necklace. It's yours"

Figuring there was no harm in it, you take the necklace and with that you walk out of the door.

To keep things short, it's probably the worst decision you've ever made.

[jazzthatonewriterchick]

Going Half (on a Baby) (Toxic!Toji x Black!Fem!Reader 18+ One Shot)

Pairing: Toji Fushigiro x Black!Fem!Reader (FWB to Lovers)

Synopsis: In which Toji, your fuck buddy for five years and the man you're secretly in love with, "persuades" you to let him fuck without a condom after he exposes himself for his breeding kink.

Warnings: Smutty Smut; 18+; Dubcon; TW: R*PE; Coercion; Toxic!Asshole!Toji; “Baby Trapping”; Coerced Verbal Consent (Later Given); Mating Press; Breeding Kink; Toji Eats You Out Till You Cry; Cum Play; DDLG; Toji Calling You “Mommy” and “Mama”; Marking/Hickeys; Dacryphilia; Unprotected PIV Sex; Doggystyle; Mating Press; One Unprotected Creampie; Aftercare

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!

*IMPORTANT T/W: This piece of writing is EXTREMELY dark. It has noncon/r*pe because Y/N repeatedly says no to and protests Toji's advances, but he does as he wants anyway. In addition, it also has "baby trapping" (Toji not wearing a condom during PIV sex to intentionally get Y/N pregnant). I do not condone any of these acts. This is simply a fantasy and writing. Thank you.

Writer’s Note: I'm a Toji lover. That's my husband. -Jazz 💋💋

********

You don’t know how it happened.

First, you were just sitting with your FWB of two years, chilling on the couch as you usually do before having sex (at least in the later years when you two grew closer).

Now you’re on your back, legs over his shoulders while he devours your puffy, needy pussy as a way to “prepare” you for the deep fucking he’ll be giving you later. Your hands are tangled in his black hair while his own bigger, calloused, veiny ones have your thighs pinned open wide as his tongue lashes mercilessly at your clit. Two of his thick fingers are stuffed in your cunt, moving in and out of your squelching, tight walls and rubbing up against that spot that makes you see stars.

"Toji, please!" you whine, tears pricking your eyes from his relentlessness and evil, skillful tongue. "I can't...take much more!" He made you cum at least twice already. The proof is in the cream coating his mouth and the juices that trickle down to your asscrack, making both of your holes sobbing wet.

Toji's eyes glint up at you from between your thighs, his back muscles flexing as bends down to work your pussy with his mouth. "Uh-uh, mama," he teasingly says. "You still gotta cum one more time before I fuck this pussy deep."

He dives back down into the depths of your pussy and continues devouring it, no matter how much you beg and plea for him to stop. You don't know how you got here. An hour earlier, you were just joking around and he had brought up all the things you two hadn't tried yet in your two-year FWB relationship. "We've yet to try anal," he said, his big hand moving to stroke down your stomach to your thighs. "And I've always wanted to try fuckin' you without a condom."

“Boy, stop!” you hollered, smacking his hand away. “You’re just trying to get me pregnant at this point.” You didn't take him seriously as Toji was always talking about kinks and shit he wanted to try with you. He was just a horny motherfucker like that.

But Toji wasn't playing around. As soon as you mentioned him getting you pregnant, something in him shifted–specifically his cock in his pants. The idea of fucking that heavenly pussy of yours raw and cumming inside you without a rubber, filling you up with all of his kids, tempted him immensely. “Well, if you’re offering…” he muttered.

At this, you turned and blinked at him. “What?”

“What?” he repeated, feigning confusion. It wasn't working.

You squinted at him, unsure of whether you heard him right. “You…wanna get me pregnant?” you carefully asked. He shrugged his big shoulders, putting your feet in his lap. “I mean, why not? We’ve known each other for two years and I think you’d look pretty hot as a mommy.”

You gaped at him. You couldn't believe he was really saying this! “Okay, first of all, yes, we’ve known each other for a long time, but we’ve been fucking for two years; not dating. Second, hell no!”

Toji groaned indignantly like a child being told no. "Why not?” he scoffed. “Shit, then I wouldn’t have to wear those stupid ass rubbers no more. I could finally fuck you raw.” A devious glint sparkled in his charcoal eyes, making your stomach flip. “And risk an STI?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He just chuckled at this, cocky as always. “Baby doll, you and I both know we’re clean…unless you’ve been doing someone I don’t know about.” You slowly shook your head at this. He was the only one you were fucking...for right now, anyway. But he was the only one who could do it the way you wanted (and needed). “Then what the fuck are you complainin’ ‘bout?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow at you.

Now you were mad. You took your feet out of his lap and stood up in your hip-hugging jeans and sweatshirt. “Toji, you’re talking about giving me a baby. A whole child. We’re not even together!”

Toji stood up now too, a head taller than you and very, very big. He was practically a mountain as he stood before you. “Oh, we’re not? Then why am I always here more than at home?”

“That’s not my fault," you hissed. "You have a choice to not come over here, and I told you from the jump what I wanted from you: sex!” And you were right to do so. Toji was too unpredictable and too much of a whore. He was also divorced and already had a child. Why the fuck would he want another one with you, especially since you aren't married?

Despite how Toji made you feel, with the butterflies in your stomach and the way your heart lept whenever he called, you knew you could never tell him how you felt. It would make things too messy. And Toji is a messy motherfucker already. But you didn't mind being in love with his dick. You wanted to keep things strictly in the bedroom and you thought he understood that.

Toji shrugged, giving you a lazy smirk. “Why not elevate that?” he asked, walking toward you. “C’mooon, baby doll. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about me bussin’ in that pretty pussy raw.”

Your stomach flipped at his vulgar words as you backed away from him, not noticing the wall behind you. “Toji, stop,” you firmly told him. “I don’t like this talk.”

When your body made contact with the wall, Toji put his hand over your head and leaned in so you were trapped between the wall and him. “Then let’s not talk," he whispered. "Let’s just fuck.”

When he began kissing you down with those passionate, hot, wet kisses you loved so much, your mind became drunk off of him. "Toji," you whimpered, your hands on his chest. You weren't if you were trying to push him away or just feeling him up. "We can't...your ex–"

"Is my ex," he grunted against your neck. "We've been divorced for years and Megumi is older now. Besides, he likes you." His fingers crept under your sweatshirt, feeling up on your sides. "I think he might even have a crush on you," he chuckles. "Too bad I'm fuckin' you, right?"

His one hand moved to your chin to tilt your head up, exposing your neck to him. He pushed you against the wall as he began to mark up your neck, leaving hickeys in his wake. "But why?" you moaned.

Toji pulled away, an inquisitive look on his face. Then he smirked like he was the devil himself. "'Cause it's fuckin' hot," he growled. "And it sounds funny. C'mon, mama...don't you want me to make you a real mama?"

That was how it happened. Now you're here, about to cum for the third time from Toji's tongue and fingers alone. "Oh, God!" you shout to the ceiling, your thighs quivering and your body shaking. "I'm 'bout to cum again!" you babble. "Please, please, make me cum, Toji!"

His large hand smacks your thigh, making it sting. "Wrong name, baby," he growls into your pussy, lapping away. "Try again or you won't be cumming at all."

God, you hate him! You hate how he can make you do things you don't want to do just because he knows how he makes your body feel. "Daddy," you whine. "Please make me cum, Daddy! I need it!" Toji peers up at you, a grin on his face. "Then cum, little girl," he teasingly says. "Cum for me. Give it all to your Daddy like a good little slut."

He dives back down to lap at your clit in time with his fingers curling against your G-spot. Seconds later, you're cumming hard and you can't stop it even if you wanted to. "Oh, shit!" you scream, gripping Toji's hair for dear life. "Shishitshit!" Your orgasm rips through you, pleasure sizzling across your skin and through your entire body, causing you to buck and grind against Toji's face as he laps at your juices, groaning appreciatively.

When you finally come down from your high, tears wet your waterlines and lashes and your thighs are twitching. You feel absolutely spent. You don't think you can cum again...until Toji stands up on his knees and unbuckles his pants. He only takes off his shirt after his cock is out and bobbing in your face.

"Look at this," he groans. He wraps his hand around himself, lazily stroking it. "You see this, baby doll? This is all for you." A devious, devilish smirk stretches across his face. "And all that's inside it is gonna be for you too."

You can't look away from the impressive appendage hanging between his thick, muscular thighs. It is so big; so thick; so veiny; so wet with the pink cockhead dripping with pre-cum. It's your addiction. The very thing that caused this 2-year relationship with this asshole. And he knows it too.

He stalks toward you on his knees, but you stop him from coming any closer by putting a foot on his chest. "W-Wait, Toji," you protest. "Just put a condom on. We can't do this!"

Toji's expression grows dark and it scares you out of your fucking mind, but also...excites you? Is that what this flip in your stomach is? What kind of fucked-up mixed cocktail of emotions is this that you're feeling right now?

"Don't act like you don't want this too, baby," Toji chuckles. "You can't tell me you haven't thought about how this dick would feel without a rubber, stretchin' out that pussy..." He tosses your foot away from him effortlessly, pinning it to the mattress so your legs are open. "And cummin' deep inside you," he finishes on an exhale.

He then takes your ankles and roughly pulls you toward him as you squeak in surprise. "I got you all prepared to take all of me, mama," he tuts. "You wouldn't want all of that to go to waste, would you? Just look how soaked n' sloppy you are for this cock."

He takes his cock in his hand and begins to slide it against your twitching, sensitive slit. Your back arches in reaction and whimpers leave your lips. "T-Toji, no," you whine. "Don't do this."

"Shhh, mama," he hushes you, pressing a finger to your lips. "Don't deny yourself. Don't deny your body what it wants." He nods down at your hips that have instinctively begun to roll against his, causing his cockhead to nudge open your pussy lips. "You want this shit," he growls. "Don't play like you don't. You wanna feel all of me...want me to give you a baby..."

Without warning, he pushes himself all the way inside you, right to the hilt so his balls slap lightly against your asscheeks. "Fuck!" he shouts while you gasp at the feeling, your hands gripping his forearms and digging your nails into them.

The fucker looks down at you, strands of his black hair hanging in his face and a crude smile on his lips. "How's it feel, hm?" he chortles. "You had so much to say before, all that protestin' n' shit. Where's all that now, huh?"

He begins to rock his hips roughly into yours, filling your pussy to the brim with cock. Your eyes are blown, your lips open as moans and gasps fall from them. You've never felt anything like this before. You feel so stretched. So full. So warm. You can feel every ridge, bump, and inch of Toji as he fucks you into the mattress raw.

"Goddamn, you feel so good, baby doll," he groans, tossing your legs over his shoulders. This causes his cock to sink deeper into your cunt so he is just touching your G-spot. You whine loudly at the feeling, gripping his shoulders. "T-Toji!" you moan, your words like a plea.

At the sound of his name on your lips and how pathetic you look writhing underneath him, Toji grips your thighs and fucks you harder, causing the bed to move underneath you. "All that shit you were talkin' earlier," he grunts. "All those "no, Toji"s just to go right out the window. You seriously wanted to act like you ain't want this too? Your pussy is tellin' me different."

You want to tell him you can't help that. You want to argue and tell him that your sobbing wet pussy squeezing around his cock is a natural response of stimulation; a primal instinct. If your body is stimulated in such a way, it's going to respond. You don't want this. You can't want this.

Yet when Toji suddenly stops fucking you, slides out of you, and tosses you onto your stomach, you can't deny how hot it is. And as you close your eyes and picture him spurting rope after rope of cum inside of you, you can't help the way your pussy throbs at the idea.

Toji mounts himself behind you and, once again, slides inside your ushy, gushy cunt without a warning. His hands find your hips and he begins nailing your G-spot so hard that you're sure he'll knock your pussy off its hinges. He's going so hard. He's never been this rough, this primal, before.

"Look at you takin' all this dick," he breathlessly chuckles. "You want ed this so bad, hm? I bet you were fightin' me earlier just to get a rise out of me." His big hand finds your hair and yanks it back so his lips can reach your ear. "You want this big cock to cum, don't ya?" he whispers. "You want me to make you a mommy...make you part of the Fushigiro family."

"Toji!" you scream as his cock plunges in and out of your squelching cunt, his balls slapping against your clit and making your knees nearly buckle. Your ass jiggles and smacks against his pelvis the harder he fucks you, the mixture of pleasure and pain sinking its claws into you and leaving you addicted.

"You're gonna look so fuckin' good with my kid in you, mama," Toji brokenly says between thrusts. "I can't wait till that belly gets big and those nipples get so swollen." One of his hands moves to squeeze your breast and tweak your brown nipple the way you like. "I'm warnin' you now, baby: I ain't gonna keep my hands off of you. I won't be able to."

"Fuck!" you shout, feeling that knot in your belly beginning to tighten. "I'm gonna cum, Toji! I'm so close!" And like an asshole, Toji stops fucking you immediately and pulls his throbbing cock, soaked in your juices, out of you. "Well, in that case..."

He tosses you onto your back again as you squeak in surprise. Then he is on top of you again but in a different version of missionary. In this position, he has your legs up over his shoulders and his feet on the bed as he mounts you, practically sitting on top of your thighs. Mating press.

'Oh, shit,' you think as the realization of the situation at hand hits you. He's really serious. He's going to breed you and you can't stop it.

Toji, red in the face and his eyes dark with lust and need, uses one hand to pin your wrists up above your head as he leans down to give you a wet tongue kiss. "You're gonna be such a good mommy," he coos. "I just know it. We're gonna be so, so happy."

"T-Toji," you weakly stutter, but you can't get out the rest of your words because he has begun to fuck you again. His thrusts are rough, hard, and deliberate. He plunges his cock deep inside of your pussy walls, groaning at the way they tighten and flex around him, pulling him in deeper.

"No man will ever be able to touch you now," he growls, "'cause they'll know you're mine. When you're knocked up with my kid, you'll officially be only mines, understand? Only I can fuck you like this."

Lewd sounds of your wet pussy fill the air as he fucks you deep into the bed, making a point to do so. "Gonna get you so knocked up, baby," he babbles. "Gonna make you a mommy. My mommy."

"Toji!" you scream as tears drip down your face. Toji groans at the gorgeous sight of your wet face and jiggling tits, his cock growing hard inside you. Every thrust brings you closer and closer to that fourth orgasm that you know will be the last of the night for you. You can't go anymore. You feel like you're about to pass out. "I-I'm gonna cum!" you sob. "I'm gonna fuckin' cum!"

Toji glares down at you and pauses, taking his throbbing, wet cock out of you a few inches. You blink at him in confusion. "W-What are you doing?" you weakly ask. Your pussy throbs and twitches impatiently, needing to release.

"Say you want me to cum inside you," he demands, his voice low and intimidating. "Say you want all these babies." He begins to glide his dick up and down your puffy slit, smiling at the way you pathetically whine at the feeling. "Say you want me to breed you," he growls. "Or you don't cum."

"God, I fuckin' hate you, Toji!" you scream. But you don't. You can't. Not when his sex is so good.

"I don't hear what I wanna hear, little girl," he teasingly sing-songs. "I could give less of a fuck if you cum or not, but if you want me to make that pussy cream around my cock, I suggest you do what I say." He takes his cock and begins to smack it against your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through you.

You can't handle it. You can't take this. "Please, Daddy!" you sob, tears dripping down your face. "Please breed me and fill me up! Give me all of your kids! I wanna be a good mommy for you!"

That nearly makes Toji bust right there. "Good girl," he growls as he slides back inside of you. He goes straight back to fucking you stupid into the bed, making you a completely mindless breeding slut. And you feel 100% okay with it. As long as you can cum, you'll do whatever he wants and he knows it.

He can tell you're close by how your eyes go cross-eyed and your cunt grips him. He can feel himself growing close too. You can tell by how his cock swells inside of you and his thrusts become rougher, nearly fucking you up against the headboard. "I'm 'bout to cum," he warns you. "You better take all of this cum, Mommy. Take all of it!"

"Toji, wait!" you protest, but it's too late. He is already stilling his hips and practically bending your knees to your chest as he fills you to the brim with an orgasmic grunt of release. You feel his cum flood your womb as you cum all over his cock with a short, high-pitched when. "Take it," he groans, pushing himself deeper and deeper inside of you. "Take it all, baby."

And you do so. You don't have a choice. You're completely crushed under his big body as he fucks the cum deep into you. You weakly moan as you feel it flood your insides, making you feel warm. Finally, after placing a chaste kiss on your lips, Toji pulls out of you. "Fuck, look at that," he sighs. "All that cum drippin' out of you..."

You don't look, but you can feel it all trickle down to your asscrack to the comforter below you. You don't look at him. You just stare up at the ceiling, breathing heavily and coated in sweat. You feel wet, sore, and achy. You just want to crawl under the covers and never come back out.

Toji places a hand on your tummy and strokes it lovingly despite you cringing at his touch. "We did it, baby," he chuckles. "We really did it." He leans down and presses a kiss to your stomach.

"Now you're mine forever."

THE END.

[here-lies-they-ran-outta-luck]

HIIII I wanna request something with draco mafoy x reader where he's nervous for him and readers first kiss

Short (Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader)

Warnings- use of Y/n, kissing, flirting, Fuckboy!Draco, they're cute Word count- 688 A/n- I had a lot of fun writing this and am actually really proud of it, thank you so much for the request, I hope you like it!

“How far have you and Y/l/n gone?” Mattheo says, taking a big puff of his cigarette.

“We- well- we haven't really gone anywhere,” Draco responds, choking a little bit on the fire whisky he was drinking.

“You seriously haven’t even kissed her? That’s a new one for you,” Pansy says, snorting loudly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco asks, putting down his drink and furrowing his eyebrows.

“Well you know how you are with girls,” Pansy replies, shrugging at the blonde.

“Y/n isn’t just another girl though, I don’t want her to think that I’m just using her for sex or whatever,” Draco says, crossing his arms and sitting back.

“But it’s been a month,” Theo says, joining the conversation, “how do you think that Y/n feels knowing that usually you kiss girls during the first week but it’s taken you almost two to kiss her?”

“You guys are being ridiculous, she knows I like her… right?” Draco says, suddenly second guessing his current relationship. Draco spends the rest of the night contemplating how to kiss Y/n. He hasn’t admitted it to anyone but he’s definitely nervous about kissing Y/n, she’s not like all the other girls he’s slept with and kissed. She’s Y/n Y/l/n.

“Good morning Dray,” Y/n exclaims, sitting next to the blonde, “Did you and your friends have fun last night?”

“I think it would have been a better time if I’d been with you,” he replies, giving the pretty girl a smirk.

“Well what are your plans for the rest of today?” The girl asks, blushing at the blonde's comment.

“I thought that maybe you and I could hang out later? Before dinner maybe?” He asks, glancing towards a smirking Mattheo.

“Oh I would love that!” Y/n responds, her face lighting up ever so slightly, then she stands up, “I’m gonna go to Herbology, I promised Neville I’d help him.” Draco only smiles and waves at the girl.

“Please tell me you’re finally going to kiss her,” Lorenzo, Y/n’s best friend says, his mouth full of bacon, “She won’t stop talking about wanting you to kiss her.”

“Does she really?” Draco says, raising his eyebrows, “She knows I like her right?” Lorenzo nods in reply, shoving more bacon into his mouth. Draco smirks looking down at his plate.

Draco being who he is decided he would spend the rest of the day mentally preparing himself to kiss the beautiful girl he’s been pining over since 4th year.

“Hello beautiful,” Draco says, opening Y/n’s dorm room, sitting on the foot of her bed.

“Hello Dray, did you have anything specific in mind?” The girl asks, scooting over so the boy could be closer to her.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” He says after a couple seconds of silence, pulling the girl into his side.

“Talk to me about what?” she replies, turning towards Draco, a look of fear quickly flashing over her features before she masks it with a closed-lip smile.

“You know that I like you right?” He says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Well I like you too, Draco,” Y/n replies, giving him a shy smile.

“I really like you, though,” he says, cupping her cheek and pulling her closer to him, “and you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met.”

“You’re just saying that,” she replies, laying her head more into his soft palm.

“I can promise you, I am not just saying that,” He says, leaning closer to her, brushing their lips together.

“I think that I want to kiss you,” Y/n says quietly, leaning further into Draco's warm and welcoming lips, putting her hand on his firm chest. He pecks her lips softly before pulling away and leaning back into her, giving her multiple more pecks.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t kiss you sooner, love,” Draco says, pulling away and leaning his forehead on hers, “You mean so much to me.”

“You, Draco Malfoy, are the most amazing guy I have ever met,” She says, closing their lips together again.

[slythereen]

Hello there!

I’m new to f1 and Lestappen.

Is there a Charles and Max master post somewhere with their history? I keep hearing about the social media unfollowing and podium walk off and want all the tea and timelines.

Basically all I know about is the inchident.

Many thanks!

hello and welcome!! my scholarship (read: obsessively reblogging things or bookmarking them thinking i'll actually find them again later) tends to be VERY chaotic, but i know there are definitely compilations out there. i've read some great ones.

nini (@scuderiafemboy) has a LOT of lore content on tumblr and twitter & does a lot of translating of dutch interviews/manages to unearth old interviews all the time. the twitter thread of threads covers 2018 through june 2023! she also compiled some of the database on tumblr here.

@chibrary archives interviews, articles, etc., in glorious fashion. this is charles centric but naturally charles' history intersects with max's so there are some good pieces in there, like this 2015 article on the lestappen rivalry in karting. the #driver:max tag provides a lot of golden content (such as extended lore on the inchident!).

moments™

marginally related, but dani (lecstappens on twitter) once posted the video of max and charles being scolded and warned to behave themselves during the race following the inchident. one of my favorite pieces of lestappen info frankly... demon children. (also on posted by @il-predestinato on tumblr here. who, btw, is a gold mine of lestappen content.)

well, as long as i'm adding some favorite gems while i try to find the specific post i'm looking for... the lestappen singapore flag moment is my roman empire. i am also haunted by the awkward weather convo video. which i know is out there, but i am going crazy trying to find it.

i decided to just commit to the moments list, so here is charles drinking red bull gate 2023 (courtesy of @countingstars-17)

charles asking the tifosi to stop booing max at monza this year (@il-predestinato seriously has so much content)

this excerpt of max's manager talking about charles (@blueballsracing)

if i don't stop myself i will be here all year

more mini compilations !!

@hyacinthsdiamonds once produced a nice list of the ridiculous lore around lestappen that sounds made up

some 2021 specific "best moments" compiled by @coconutshygame

there is one post i am thinking of that touched on their wild lore/destined f1 rivalry etc. but i can't find it now so stay tuned 🫡

also, for some theorizing on the most recent lestappen debacles and what it all means with ferrari/rbr and a potential charles to rbr (ot charles to more power at ferrari) move:

@tsarinablogs is a Scholar™ with lovely essays

@valyrfia has an addition to the marketing mayhem

i recently compiled my unhinged #rbr-ferrari sticker war content to advocate for rbr charles here, which was added to by this anon with banger points

personally i use #rbr charles for the theorizing and delulu hours, but i think #lestappen rbr and #lestappen gate 2023 are also prime hunting ground for rbr specific lore

anyone who has info to share pls do ❤️ i know i'm missing loads of scholarship that is lost in the pits of my unorganized blog

[radiation]

My Thoughts On MORPHEUS

Rewatched The Matrix yesterday. Everyone knows that Morpheus is fucking dope, but few realize he is one of the most moe characters of all time. Here is why:

Ok so at the beginning of the movie, Morpheus really appears to be this mythical figure, and that's how a lot of ppl view him. But something often overlooked is that, as the movie progresses, the more you see Morpheus acting mundanely, dressing normally, making mistakes, and getting the absolute shit beaten out of him & needing to be saved. Seriously, the gap between how he comes off when he first contacts Neo (larger-than-life, near-omnipotent) and when he gets kidnapped (totally fallible & vulnerable) is huge. You also see other characters doubt his absolute faith in Neo and it’s like wow yeah. This is really just some dude who is incredibly driven and passionate, and dedicated to his own ideals to a fault. He acts the way he does because he has a very clear image of the role he needs to play and has structured his life around it, choosing to embody this whole badass character in order to fulfill it. And from the way his appearance of perfection is shattered later in the movie in moments of monotony or when things spiral out of his control, I really believe how he acts when he meets Neo is suuuuper scripted. Like he has spent so much fucking time planning the perfect way to present himself and rehearsing exactly what he will say and do and how he will dress. And its funny to watch The Matrix knowing how totally badass & collected he is seen as in pop culture because he truly is incredibly incredibly dorky

This goes without saying but I also believe he is gay as fuck for Neo, but I need you to understand that the way he goes about it is sooo cute. I mean ok everything surrounding "You are The One and I've been searching for you for years" kind of speaks for itself. But also think about when Neo talks to the Oracle, she says this thing about like "knowing you're The One is like knowing you're in love". We can naturally really easily extend this metaphor to Trinity's explicit prophecy of her falling in love with The One, and knowing that's the case that also extends the metaphor to Morpheus knowing Neo is the one = Morpheus being in love with Neo. And I think how excited he acts around Neo, how physically affectionate he to him, arguably flirting with him during the dojo scene and shit bla bla bla sounds lame as fuck to write but I do think yeah whether literally or metaphorically that's kind of what's up. I think we can be confident that Morpheus loves Neo, and I think romantic love is a close approximation, or at the very least there are certainly real & valuable parallels to be drawn to it

But back to the previous paragraph, the specific kind of devotion towards Neo that Morpheus experiences where he is putting on all kinds of airs trying to mystify Neo, viewing himself as a supporting figure to prop up Neo as the savior -- Morpheus's underlying adoration is expressed through the language of respect, restraint, and selflessness, and a kind of self-sacrifice he is like...excited about. Feels very similar to the whole "best friend who is in love with the main character, but nobly tries to get him another love interest / somehow make his life better without any respect to his own desires". It's very sweet and well-intentioned, but totally excessive. Nobody else is asking you to go this far man this is just you. And it also comes off as a really big obfuscation of at least quasi-romantic feelings, both externally and internally, lacking a lot of self-awareness, so it makes it feel like Morpheus has this like elementary school crush he doesn't quite understand yet and it's really funny and delightful

There is definitely a certain writing style in The Matrix that is dramatic, over the top, and mythological, but compared to Morpheus, Neo and other ppl in his crew speak and act in ways much more grounded. Something I noticed a lot is just how much doubt and disillusionment all of the characters express in living life outside the Matrix, in the effectiveness of the revolution, and of Neo being The One, but Morpheus is totally an exception to this. The only person who puts on nearly as much airs, acting as dramatically and poetically as according to plan as Morpheus is Agent Smith, and like the dude isn't even a person he's a program. But even then Agent Smith expresses disappointment in his own life, and Morpheus doesn't. Seriouusly Morpheus is like the only guy in the movie who does this shit. By seeing himself as a mechanism in a prophecy to save the world and minimizing his own wants and discomforts for the greater good, he has kind of dehumanized himself in a way that's kind of sad. I think it's very easy to buy into it and take his self-perception at face value, and I think most people have, but there are a lot of moments in the movie where you can see through that. That underneath the appearance of a pure legend is a real person who means the absolute best, who is endlessly dedicated and adoring, but suffers from a one-track mind makes Morpheus a really fucking cool and unique character, and has one of the greatest impacts in making the movie's scenario feel believable. And also makes him sooooooooo cute. Anyways I forgoet what happens in the other mvoies this is only about the first one. Rewatch The Matrix 1 and open your eyes and you weill see the truth.

Also another thing I wanna mention that but its only tangentially related -- I think its very interesting how Neo is treated as a protagonist. I can't place exactly why but way the movie is written and shots are framed, he really isn't treated as an audience insert, and many moments in the movie are from other characters' perspectives (including their perspectives towards him, bereft of Neo's own expression). The movie honestly, more than identifying with Neo, expresses empathy and adoration towards him. So it kind of feels like literally everyone in the movie has a crush on him and so should you LOL. Morpheus is definitely a part of this, but I also appreciate the romance between Trinity and Neo feeling equally or more from Trinity's perspective, neither of them really being the object of desire, but if you had to choose one it'd definitely be Neo

Well let me know what you think & Dont try to troll this post because this is real shit

[under-lore]

About "Tweets aren't canon"

One misconception that one seems to be nearly guaranteed to see brought up by someone whenever discussing Undertale/Deltarune lore with people who are not particularly invested in it is that "Toby Fox said tweets weren't canon".

And, when you first hear it, it actually sounds quite convincing, because this tweet is in fact real and does seem to say that.

So... What's actually going on here with tweets and with this one in particular ?

The actual status of tweets

Before mentioning what's really going on with that specific tweet, i'd like to lay some groundwork first.

For instance, regarding the fact that this tweet dates back from November 2016. And that if the tweet were to be taken seriously, it would mean that no tweets especially after that date are to be treated as canon.

Something that is rather explicitely not the case.

There are several examples for this, although the Gaster tweets which introduced us to Deltarune and directly link up to the game's "Goner Maker" introduction sequence are i would say prime offenders.

Here in these tweets, we are not yet connected, then we are given a way to connect.

Then, we pick this back up where we left it in Deltarune, where we are then asked wether the connection was a success.

This has of course been pointed out to Toby (although he never responded to those messages), and yet it did not prevent him from re-doing the exact same thing a few years later for chapter 2.

In short, the situation is that, to this day, Toby Fox still purposely uses tweets in order to provide important canon-accurate information about his games, with the Spamton Q&A as recently as last year.

In light of that, using that one tweet to say that any information coming from tweets is invalid just can't be right... So one might wonder :

But then, why did Toby say that ?

The problem comes from the fact that this quote is usually cropped like this when people try to share it around :

Which is greatly misleading !

Obviously, Toby Fox's popularity comes mainly from Undertale and later Deltarune. Due to this, and due to the majority of the fandom nowadays being teenagers, many in the fandom are not aware that ever since his own teenage years, Toby Fox has been for the lack of a better term, a massive shitposter. A habit that only started to die out after Undertale's release and in the year that followed. (Though he still shows glimpses of it from time to time)

I mean, we are talking about the person who kept on posting memes on twitter for nearly a decade and who made "a goast poot on u" at the end of the Earthbound Halloween Hack, his first semi-serious game project.

Why ?

Because he's just that kind of "funny guy" and felt like it. His words, not mine.

This was, up until not so long ago, the kind of person that Toby was online.

When taking all this into account and looking back at the un-cropped version of that quote, it becomes pretty obvious what's going on here.

Toby Fox found a bootleg nursery rhyme video of Undertale characters, found that hilarious (As the "funny guy" that he is), and decided to make a shitpost about it. Joking about how this weird thing that he found, right here, was the peak of official Undertale material and might just be more canon in his book than the kickstarter or tweets were.

The post that started this whole thing in the first place was just that, a shitpost, a joke, not something that Toby ever actually meant. Which honestly should have been pretty obvious in the first place, i mean, this is still a post about Toby trolling bootleg nursery rhymes, people. It wasn't meant to be taken seriously...

Besides, that tweet's statement would have been self-contradictory anyways. If tweets weren't canon, then this tweet would not be canon either, etc... Leading to one of those silly paradoxical loops rather than to an actual statement about tweet canonicity.

So then, that brings the question : Why ?

Why do so many people still claim that tweets aren't canon ?

The reason is likely the same as the reason why this misconception was created in the first place : It is a rope to cling on to for some people to defend certain headcanons that Toby had debunked via tweets.

Because yes, between late 2015 and late 2016 Toby used to once in a while answer a question about the lore of the game on tweeter. Leaving some people with their headcanons turning out to be wrong.

(A few examples of headcanons that Toby denied on twitter were that Undyne killed the green soul human, or that ghost monsters used to be humans, for example.)

It was some of those people, in the first place, who started cropping this tweet to make it seem like their headcanons were still on the table and started the mess in the first place.

This rumor, at its origins, was not just a mere misconception but rather a deliberate attempt at misinformation from some fans that weren't happy with the way Toby had taken the game, which is unfortunately still being shared around to this day due to how sensible it seems at first sight.

[joezworld]

Christmas Story

Five Days Until Christmas

The engines of the big shed tried, both individually and as a group, for several days to puzzle out exactly what had occurred between Bear, Duck, and City of Truro. Their results were… mixed.

-

“I don’t know what I did…” Duck said, his stare vacant. It seemed like he was looking through Edward. “He just… It’s like it wasn’t even him.”

“Why do you care?” Truro scoffed. “It’s a brutish monstrosity and always has been. I say it’s for the better that the facade has finally come off and we know the truth.” He missed the way that James’ expression cycled through several different levels of outrage before settling on “astonished and also furious”. 

“Mate, I wasn’t even there.” Oliver said to Thomas across the platforms at the big station. “But if you ask me, Truro and Bear seem to be on the wrong wheel with each other. Thing is, I dunno if this is just some leftover stuff from the sixties, or if they actually offended each other.”

“Maybe,” BoCo said to Delta, one night in the diesel shed. “If you and I couple onto each end of him, we could threaten to pull him in half unless he tells the truth about why he’s such a bellend.” 

“I know that you all like keeping to yourselves,” Toby crept slowly through the yard at Knapford, looking at each truck in turn. “But does anyone know anything about what’s going on with Bear?”

“You must understand,” Gordon said, eyeing the Small Railway’s engines with deadly seriousness. “I wouldn’t come down this piddling branch line unless the circumstances were dire. So start talking.”

 -

Notably, nobody talked to Bear during this time, but that wasn’t for a lack of trying…

At every opportunity, he dodged his would-be interrogators with a shocking level of ease:

“Bear, may I-” Gordon called across the platforms at Barrow. Bear took one look at him, and reversed backwards across the bridge to Sodor. Fittingly, it raised behind him, and Gordon lost sight of him behind the rigging of a fishing boat. 

“Oi. We need to talk.” James tried being assertive. Bear growled at him so loud that the dust shook off the rafters at the big station, cowing him into silence. 

“Bear, is everything-” Edward didn’t get his sentence out before Bear and his train roared out of Wellsworth, sprinting up the hill and out of sight. “-alright…?”

BoCo got more success than most. “Do you want to talk?” He asked, while shunting the wagons for the Flying Kipper. He didn’t get a verbal response, but the quiet pain lingering in the back of Bear’s eyes said more than enough. 

-

Late on Friday night, they held a deputation around the turntable in the big shed. “Does anyone have any idea what we’re to do?” Gordon asked.

“I don’t know if we’re going to have a formal process for this,” BoCo began. “But I’d like to suggest finding Truro and extracting the information from him.”

“I’ll second that.” Delta mumbled under her breath. 

Gordon closed his eyes. “As much as I want to chide you for being brutish, that may have to happen… later.” He took a steadying breath. “Does anyone have an idea for now?”

“Why don’t we involve the Fat Controller?” Thomas had stayed over at the shed specifically for this meeting. “He’d sort this out right quick.”

“We tried that.” James said, remarkably serious. “He’s concerned with what’s happening, but it’s so close to Christmas that he doesn’t have the time to handle it.”

A mutter of agreement rolled through the shed. “Isn’t that the truth.” “Why couldn’t this happen in July?” “Aye, we’re so rushed we havenae even seen the poor blighter.”

“And,” James continued once the voices died down. “He’s retiring come New Year’s. There’s other things that need to be done just to “manage the handover”, whatever that means.”

“It means,” Gordon read between the lines. “That this will be young Stephen Hatt’s first crisis as controller.” He looked around, all business. “Now, I have no doubts about his skills for the job, but now that Bear is, ahem, “willfully separating himself” from Truro and Duck, it means that the current Fat Controller is performing triage during a difficult situation. After the twenty-fifth, things may change. Hopefully for the better.” 

There was a long and pregnant pause. “It also means,” Gordon continued, now gravely serious. “That we have between now and Christmas to solve the issue ourselves.”

“Durin’ the busiest three feckin’ days out o’ the year?” Donald sounded exhausted. “In what time?”

BoCo spoke up. “We didn’t survive this long by doing things that were universally pleasant. I have trust in everyone here to make miracles happen.” There was a long pause. “And if for some reason we fail, I hope that I can trust you all enough to lie to the Fat Controller on my behalf about what happens to Truro. Now everyone get some sleep, it’s the Saturday before Christmas, and we are going to be extremely fucking busy.”

With that, he closed his eyes and went to sleep. 

The other engines, Delta excepted, looked at each other, completely unsure if he was joking.

-

Saturday morning found Charles Hatt in his office before the dawn. There was no “weekend” today, just “busy” and “busier.” 

Everyone seemed to want to go everywhere, and the schedule was being changed literally all the time. He spun in his chair, taking a moment to observe the lights of the station bouncing off the roof of an HST he’d managed to finagle out of York. It was bound for Manchester before the day even began, and the crush-loaded train would be a distant memory before the hour was over. The next platform over had Wendell, his region’s sole class 47, looking quite amused to be on the lead of a passenger train - this one to Kirk Ronan, to meet the very earliest of the Irish Ferries. Next to him was an entirely different 47, wearing ScotRail colors. That one was off to Glasgow, another deeply packed train. An argument could be made that the island would be empty by the time they left, had both mainland trains not disgorged nearly a thousand out-of-town passengers between them. 

Finally, on the far platform, was a problem masquerading itself as an enigma. City of -

Bzzzt - “Mister Hatt, Gordon Drury to see you.” His secretary’s voice buzzed through the intercom, taking him out of his ruminations. 

Gordon Drury was the second son of a farmer, and despite now working as the sole paid member of the Island Council’s Tourism and Travel Directorate, he still rose at well past five in the morning. “Charles,” He said, his gruff voice not matching the tailored suit he wore. “What’s so urgent you called me here before the sun?”

Charles was in full “Fat Controller” mode. He didn’t want to be dealing with this right now, and was quite irritated that he was. “Gordon, I know that you have made great strides in your… management of the Tourism Board-”

“Directorate.”

“Whatever.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “However I feel that your “volunteer administrators” and I have not been working on the same page.” Gordon was the only paid member of staff at the Tourism Directorate, but a great many local luminaries volunteered their copious free time, noted lack of effort, minimal coordination, and overestimated skills. 

“What did they do now?” There wasn’t a question involved. They both knew what it was about.

“Last night, they claimed that “performance art” was a sufficient excuse to play their music naked.” 

“I see.” Drury put his head in his hands, his large frame bending over in disbelief. “How’d that go over?”

“They were arrested, Gordon.”

“Of course they were.” The directorate needed more paid staff. It also needed smarter volunteers. Gordon Drury would also like to be able to plant money trees on his brother’s farm. It felt more possible than the others. “I’ll speak to the embassy.”

“Speak to whomever you like.” Charles said bluntly. “But they’re not coming back.”

“Of course.” Damned Germans. 

There was a lull in the conversation, both men deep in thought. “I could… source another band, if you want.” 

“Gordon.” Charles was blunt. “I am this close to having the Wellsworth Youth Choir perform in the station on Christmas day. I know that we have an agreement, but the - well I hesitate to use the word bands - that you and your volunteers have sourced are among the worst things I have ever heard.” He fixed the larger man with a steely look. “If you manage to find one at such short notice, it will be done by you personally, and they will demonstrate their skills or lack thereof to me. Understood?”

 “Aye.” The two men shook hands on it, and the meeting was over. Gordon rose to leave, gathering his coat. “Say, if you don’t mind me asking: have they been that bad? For you to call me out here at six in the mornin’ on the Saturday before Christmas and be in such a state. I know the whole… naked thing is a bit much, but…?”

Charles took a deep breath, and felt himself deflate a little. “I have seventeen people staying in my home for Christmas, nine of whom are under the age of ten. My sister and daughter are arriving today, and while they have assured me that they and their respective broods will be staying elsewhere, that means that I will be playing host to nearly thirty people, most of whom are either children or acting like children.” 

He paused, looking out the window. “Then on a professional front, several of my engines seem to be having what I could charitably describe as an interpersonal meltdown, the line to Arlesburgh has been beguiled by derailments and permanent way failings, and,” he said with great finality. “I am retiring next week, so I have to ensure that my son - who is totally qualified for this position, is kept completely in the loop, lest he be thrown headlong into what I assume will be a simply gruesome chapter of the next Awdry Book.” 

Another pause, and he ran his hand through his hair. “Which, by the way, is now the subject of a television series on ITV. Apparently my father is portrayed by a little wooden figurine. I’m told that it’s very popular with children, which would explain why every grandchild, niece and nephew I have is suddenly very interested in trekking out to Ffarquhar and meeting Thomas.”

He finished, then paused for a second, before slumping back into his chair, utterly spent. “I apologize, that was out of turn.”

Gordon Drury tried to hide his wide-eyed stare. “No, I should be sorry. I didn’t realize all that was happening. I’ll let you know about the band, double quick.” 

He left before Charles could say anything else.  

The door didn’t even shut before his secretary stuck her head in. “Sir, your sister called. She says that she’s going to be on the 07:30 from London.”

“Thank you Emmaline.” He dismissed her, idly paging through the schedule on his desk, trying to work out what train that was. 

Outside the window, unnoticed by Charles, the HST departed with a roar of Valenta motors. A minute later, the ScotRail 47 powered up and left as well. Both trains seemed unusually eager to leave, considering the weight of the coaches. Behind them at the platforms, Wendell seemed slightly anxious, eyeing the signal bridge, waiting for his turn to leave. 

Next to him, City of Truro radiated hostility. 

-

Arlesburgh - Later

The sounds of an argument wafted on the breeze as City of Truro arrived at the station.

“Oh, what now?” he said to himself, quietly. 

Ever since that horrid diesel had left, the branch had somehow become even more of a travesty than it had been before. The tank engines were losing cohesion seemingly by the hour, especially the 5700 class. He had apparently been under the impression that the monstrosity was his friend, and was quite put out that this had been untrue. 

“How is any of this my fault!” 

“I don’t know, but he certainly didn’t say anything like that to me!” 

He rolled his eyes as his driver uncoupled the coaches. The Collett-designed locomotives always had interpersonal problems like this. How he longed for the days of Dean and Churchward types being en vogue. They knew how to work - twice the work done with half the chatter.  

“What? I’m supposed to read his mind?!”

“He’s not exactly the strong and silent type Duck! James knew that something was wrong, and he’s a bleeding moron!”

And then there’s the 4800 class. Not a drop of the original Armstrong design was left in him after Collett got his dirty fingers on the design. Even worse, this one has a brain, and the resultant opinions that he thinks he is entitled to have, as though he were a top link express engine. Bah.

“Gentle-engines, please.” He rolled up to the water plug with all due grace. “I know that things are perhaps a bit more… tense than they ordinarily would be, but it is nearly Christmas, so let’s all have some of that good cheer and merriment, hmm?” His driver set the hose in the tank, and promptly made himself scarce, meandering off to wherever it was that Drivers went when not serving their engines. 

“Truro – ” The Pannier really was upset over this, goodness gracious. It will take some work to correct that once the trial period is done and he’s properly settled onto this line. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t help but feel like this was my fault somehow.”

The 4800 furrowed his brows, likely ready to say something unhelpful. Truro cut him off. “Duck. Montague. I know that you feel slighted by this, but I can assure you that anyone who would have a grievance with you is someone you’re better off not knowing. You did nothing, and that is all that’s important.”

There was a scoff from the 4800. “Huh. Nothing is about right.”

“What?” Even with eighty years worth of good upbringing, Truro was momentarily baffled by the seeming non-sequitur. 

“That’s what Quackers over here did. What I did too. Nothing.” There was a concerningly determined look on the tank engine’s face. “All this time, Bear is looking like the world is crashing down on his cab and what did we do? Not a blessed thing.”

“I assure you that-” Truro tried to steer the conversation away from the point he was making. 

“No, I assure you that we didn’t do anything.” The branch line runt continued. “You’ve got an excuse, being cooped up in a museum for lord knows how long, but-”

“Twenty two years.” It escaped Truro before he could even acknowledge it was occurring. The acid in his tone was barely tamped down.

The oik continued on like he hadn’t even heard him. “We’ve known him for almost twenty years now. Goodness sake, I escaped from his ilk more than once back on the mainland. He’s not a subtle engine - something was wrong, but I figured that it was just him and you not getting along well… Lord knows that I didn’t get off on the right buffer with him back then, and I’m not City of bleeding Truro.” 

He paused, looking deeply troubled. Truro’s brow furrowed, and he tried to figure out how to make him shut up. 

“But…” Nevertheless, the backwater country branch line tank engine continued on, as though his opinion was wanted or valuable. “I saw that something was wrong, and I didn’t do enough to help it.” He paused, a sardonic laugh escaping him. “Of course, I did something at least. I tried to talk to ‘im.” A sharp gaze was fixed on the 5700. “You, on the other wheel, didn’t notice anything beyond the tip of your enormous nose unless it was related to him.”

“I-” The pannier tried to retort. Truro’s mind spun its wheels - he really hadn’t expected this level of independent thought from a rural tank engine. 

“No, I’m not done yet.” The farmer’s express kept talking. “You didn’t even notice! He was coupled to Truro and you didn’t even look! Clearly something was going wrong, and what, you spend all night grumbling that he messed up the yard? Right after he almost falls off a bridge? No wonder he yelled at you! You didn’t even consider-”

The Pannier looked like he was going to cry, and Truro’s slipping mental wheels abruptly found traction as an idea flashed through his smokebox. “Oilver. Stop. This isn’t being productive. Nobody is to blame for that beastly-”

“Beastly?” The tank engine shot back. “His name is Bear. Don’t think that you’re completely blameless here, boy-o. I know that we don’t have the best history with diesels, but it’s not his fault! You could’ve made an effort to be friends with him, it’s not the sixties anymore!” 

It was probably the casual “boy-o” that did it. The casual implication that they were equals. “Oliver, I do hate to be blunt like this, but shut up.” 

The two tank engines looked at him, mouths agape like Shakespearean groundlings. Now assured of at least some temporary silence, he continued, tone serious, gaze fiery. “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that. While I appreciate that it isn’t the nineteen-sixties anymore, we are still the engines of the Great Western, the last scions of Brunel himself. There is a dignity and composure that we must uphold at all times, even in private.” He paused, mostly for dramatic effect, so as to sufficiently wow the proles. “What we have been doing over these last few days has been anything but that, and so I am asking you, as an express engine, to conduct yourselves using the best practices of the Paddington shunters. Is that acceptable?”

Two agog tank engines stared back at him, and he took their silence for acquiescence. A moment later, his driver and fireman emerged from wherever it was they’d gone, stopped the flow of water into his tender, and drove him off to the coaling stage.   

-

Duck and Oliver could only stare as Truro took on coal, and was turned on the table. He’d never spoken to them like that, ever. 

“Did- did he just tell us to conduct ourselves like Paddington shunters?” Oliver asked, not quite believing what he’d heard. “Did he tell you to conduct yourself like a Paddington shunter?”

Duck, who had been allocated to Paddington station’s fleet of shunters for thirty two years, said absolutely nothing. He continued to say nothing for quite some time, long enough that he eventually had to leave for his next train. 

His driver grumbled all the while, pulling hard on the sluggish throttle and reverser. “Fuckin’ big engines running their goddamn mouths, I outghta give that one a poke in the nose for putting him in state like this.” 

Alice and Mirabel were equally furious, and quietly plotted amongst themselves as to the best way to pay out Truro. 

Duck meanwhile, was in a haze of memories mixing with reality. Truro really did tell him to act like a Paddington shunter, didn’t he? 

Didn’t he?

Didn’t he know?

Didn’t he remember? 

Didn’t he see?

-

Paddington shunters were the best of the best - what every other shunter on the Great Western aspired to be in the very realest sense. All the major termini tried to emulate them: Cardiff, Bristol, Birmingham - even Plymouth. They had developed the Shunting System over decades, ensuring the fastest and most efficient service into and out of the capitol. They could strip a train into its component wagons and coaches faster than most engines could ever dream. Their yard had been a haven of efficiency and poise - it had taken a direct hit from a German bomb to make the trains late.

But the big engines never cared, did they? Except for a few, a most serene and righteous few, they saw the shunters as nothing more than worker bees, scurrying about with no rhyme or reason. They weren’t worthy of respect, and if it weren’t for the general good upbringing and demeanour that Armstrong, Dean, Churchward, and Collett had built into them, they likely would have treated the shunters as poorly and pompously as the dreadful Eastern pacifics that befouled King’s Cross.

To ask “as an express engine” was a polite way of saying “do it now, I’m not asking again.”

To ask for someone to “conduct yourself using the best practices of the Paddington Shunters” was a deeply insulting way of saying “I don’t want to see you do it, and I don’t want to hear you do it.” 

On their own, these didn’t mean any offense. If an engine had said that to Duck in the middle of Paddington station, he would have taken that to mean “I’m asking you extremely politely to go away and stop talking.”

But they weren’t in Paddington station, were they?

Duck wasn’t stupid, nor was he sheltered. Despite rarely leaving Paddington, he knew exactly how other engines, other railways, and even other (lesser) yards on the Great Western viewed Paddington. 

By-the-book

No-nonsense 

Precise

Efficient

Obsessive 

Fussy

Officious

Irritating

Imperious

Haughty 

Dislikable

City of Truro thought that he wasn’t worthy of respect, only contempt. 

Duck - who had served thirty two years at Paddington, five of which were as the yard’s senior-most engine, was not worthy of his respect. 

And the reason why that had to be true, was that in any other yard on the Great Western, what Truro said was not “Please go away and be quiet”. 

It was: “How dare you speak to me. Go away and never let me see you again. Now, you worm.”

-

Oliver had never been a firm adherent of the shunting rules, or the seemingly mythical status that some engines gave to the shunters at big stations, but he knew damn well that Truro hadn’t said anything nice. 

Seeing Duck wandering up and down the line, looking like he’d lost his best friend, was further evidence, and it made his boiler pressure skyrocket. 

At noon, Duck’s driver took a half-hour lunch break, and when he returned to duty it was on Oliver’s footplate. “Wretched engine, great plodding brutish thing…” he grumbled as he worked Oliver’s throttle. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Oliver asked as they pulled out of the station. 

“This is the first time all day that my job has been easy, that’s what!” The man snapped. 

“I’m sorry?”

“That big superstar engine went and flapped his gums and now Duck’s in a right tizzy.” He continued. “Mark my words this is gonna cause an accident if some eejit isn’t paying due care!”

Oliver could sympathize. “It’s worse than that - Truro is going to run engines off this branch at the rate he’s going. First Bear, now Duck!” 

“Oh wonderful!” The driver groaned as they rolled south towards Haultraugh. “That whole nonsense was because of him?”

“That’s what I think, but nobody can get him to talk!” 

-

Behind Oliver, Dulcie rolled her eyes deeply. 

“What?” Isabel asked. 

“Have you ever considered that we’re living inside an episode of The Archers?”

“What?” 

“Nevermind…”

-

Oliver and his driver continued their discussion all the way to the big station, and by the end of it, they were convinced that something needed to be done. 

Unfortunately, they were of very different minds. 

“I’ll just pop in and talk to him. Won’t take more than ten minutes.”

“No! Do not bother the Fat Controller about this!” Oliver’s eyes were almost popping out of his smokebox as they rolled into the big station. 

“Why not?” It’s an issue that needs to be addressed!” 

“We can address it! Engines solve their own problems!” 

“Duck’s in tears, Bear is covering himself in spray paint, and Truro tried to glare a hole in your boiler when we passed him at Haultraugh,” the driver said, ignoring the choked laughter of the fireman (who wanted nothing to do with this soap opera, thanks very much). “I’d say that your plan is going poorly.”

Oliver spluttered in disbelief as the train came to a stop, and yelped as he felt his driver’s feet leave the cab. “Where are you going- DON’T DO THAT COME BACK HERE!” 

“Grow a pair of legs and stop me then!” the driver said, almost cheekily, and ran off to the station offices. Oliver’s helpless whistle echoed behind him. 

He darted into the staff only portion of the station through the baggage handling doors, dodging trollies of luggage and freight as he went. The “shortcut” to the upstairs offices was up the massive freight lift in the back of the station building, and through the second floor storage areas. He rode upstairs in the company of a rolling cart filled with mail bags, and nearly bowled over the clerk collecting it when the doors opened. 

Shouting sorry over his shoulder, he slipped through an unmarked door hidden between shelves of British-Rail branded crockery, and emerged into the carpeted environs of the station offices. A series of oak doors lined the hallway, each proclaiming a different name and title. After a moment’s walk, he stopped in front of the door labelled “C. T. Hatt - Regional Controller”. He took a second to brush the coal dust off, made sure that he looked as presentable as he could, and walked into the Fat Controller’s waiting room. The door shut behind him with a solid click. 

-

Seconds later, fifteen feet further down the hall, a door labelled “PRIVATE - C. HATT” swung open. Charles Hatt stepped out of his office, his son Stephen, and Gordon Drury in tow. 

“I must say Gordon, I didn’t think you would be able to find anyone on such short notice.” Charles said as they made their way towards the stairs down to the platform level. 

“I didn’t think we wanted him to,” Stephen said, under his breath.  

“Hush.”

The three men continued down the hallway, descending the stairs and entering the station proper. A small side room, part of the first class waiting room, had been closed off, with an assistant station master guarding the entrance. “Right through here, sirs,” he said as they approached. 

They entered the room to find it empty, save for some instrument cases strewn along one wall. Large hat boxes were leaned up against another, and there were small satchels and suitcases pushed under a table. 

“I think they went to change.” Gordon Drury put in helpfully. “They have costumes and everything.”

There was an audible slap as Stephen’s hand met his face, and Charles resisted the urge to groan out loud. “Gordon, what… genre of music did you say this was again?”

“Oh, it’s, uh, Mexican music. Mariachi or however you say it.”

Stephen’s other hand met his face, but Charles found this somewhat heartening. “Mexican? Wherever did you find them? I haven’t heard music from that country since I went to the Olympics there.”

“Oh, they’re on tour of Western Europe. Their embassy is doing a “hearts and minds” campaign,” Gordon explained as the door opened again. 

There was a noise from Stephen yet again, as a group of seven men entered the room. To a man, each one wore an elaborate black suit, covered in brightly colored frills, ruffles, and ornamentation. Each one wore an exceptionally broad hat that Charles vaguely remembered being called a sombrero, and carried some kind of acoustic instrument. There were several guitars of varying sizes, an accordion, a pair of violins, a huge bass about the size of the man carrying it, and a trumpet. 

Stephen seemed paralyzed in shock, so Charles strode forward to greet them. As he did so, he noticed something… intriguing about the men, that he couldn’t quite place. 

“Charles, Stephen,” Gordon Drury continued. “This is the band. They call themselves, well it translates to English as “The Sound of Mexico”.” He chuckled, before moving to introduce each band member in turn. “Does what it says on the tin if you ask me. This is their leader, Senor Pintarić, guitarists Senor Kovač and Senor Paskaljević, violinists Senor Vukov and Senor Kodžoman, Accordionist Senor Dugonjić, and their Bass Player Senor Gomez.” There was an almost one hundred percent certainty that he hadn’t pronounced a single name correctly. 

As he went down the line of men, shaking each hand in turn, Charles began to feel more and more like he was the butt of a rather elaborate practical joke. Meeting Señor Gomez as the last one seemed to crystalize it in his mind. “Gordon, only one of these men is Mexican.”

“Yeah?” There seemed to be some kind of communication breakdown. Perhaps he’d suffered a stroke and was now speaking in tongues. 

“Gordon, how can they be a Mexican Mariachi band if only one of them is Mexican?”

“Ah!” The leader, Senor Pintarić, spoke up with an accent firmly from the wrong side of the iron curtain. “Is no problem. We play Yu Mex! Is Mexican music from heart of Yugoslavia!”

“I beg your pardon” floated into the air over Charles’ shoulder, as Stephen seemed to crash back to reality. 

“Is very popular music in homeland!” Senor Pintarić continued, with the members of his band straightening up and looking their best. “Yugoslavia very independent, take culture from everywhere, not just America and Russia! Mexican culture, very important to us!”

“I see...” Charles really didn’t. “I take it that’s where Señor Gomez came from?” 

“¡Si Señor!” The man in question responded. 

Well. Charles thought to himself. One can either roll with the punches or take them on the chin. “All right, fair enough. Let’s see how they play.”

“Right!” Gordon Drury sprung into action again, addressing Senor Pintarić. “You mentioned having a Christmas song in English?” 

“да наравно - Yes of course!” The bandleader issued a quick order in his native tongue to the rest of the band, who picked up their instruments with zeal. “Један, два, три, четири!”

The string instruments picked up a jaunty tune, joined by the trumpet a moment later. It seemed that the accordion player could also play the guitar. 

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Feliz Navidad! 

¡Próspero año y felicidad!

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Feliz Navidad!

¡Feliz Navidad! 

¡Próspero año y felicidad!

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas!

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas!

I wanna wish you a merry Christmas!

From the bottom of my heart!

-

The worst thing about this, Charles mused to himself as they played, is that they’re actually quite good. 

-

About an hour later

Light and cheerful Mariachi music filled the station. Both Stephen and Charles gave each other a look that spoke volumes as they stood near the bandstand on platform one. 

The clock struck 12:30 with a single chime, and both men pulled out pocketwatches. Activating the stopwatch feature on each, both current and future controllers watched the hand sweep around the face. 

One minute, two, then three and a half minutes passed before lamps appeared in the distant darkness of the tunnel. Another forty seconds passed before Gordon emerged in a cloud of steam and smoke, and the midday express finally rolled into the station six minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule. 

Gordon’s brows furrowed as he saw the timepieces. “Blame the bridge tender, we’ve been late since Vicarstown.” He grumbled, before his eyes swept further back on the platform and found the bandstand. “What on earth-?” 

Whatever he said next was carried with him to the end of the platform, the coaches sweeping past Stephen and Charles with a squeal of brake shoes. The first class coaches came to a stop directly in front of them.

Porters materialized as though by magic, swinging open the doors to the plush Pullman cars, revealing-

“Grandpa!” Stephanie, one of his many grandchildren, burst out of the train car like a racehorse from the gate. She was quickly followed by several other children, all moving too fast to see who was who, and then well behind them, his daughter Bridget. 

“Hi Dad,” she smiled, sweeping him into a hug once Stephanie had let go.

“Hello, my darling,” he smiled. “Happy Christmas!” 

Any further greetings were cut off by a voice from inside the carriage. “What, I don’t warrant a hug?” His sister Barbara stepped out of the doorway with a wry smile. “I see how it is now. Perhaps I shall just get back on the train and let it take me away to someplace-” 

He cut her off with a similarly-sized hug, and they all spent the next few minutes collecting the hand luggage and children - both of which were many in number - before making their way down the platform towards the exit. 

“I say, what in the world is that?” Bridget asked as they approached the bandstand. 

“Your fault,” Stephen poked her in the ribs. 

“Mine? I’ve scarcely been here ten minutes! How could I have…” She and Stephen continued arguing, a sound that Charles had long ago learned to tune out. 

“It’s good to be back,” Barbara threw an arm around his shoulder. “Say, did you ever get my package? You never told me.”

“Oh yes, I did. That Jenga game is quite relaxing, actually. I haven’t had much time to play it, but I assure you that come next week I will have all the time in the world.”

Barbara laughed at that, and then had to quickly turn and chase after a wandering nephew who was getting too close to the platform edge.

Charles turned to help, but she had it under control before he could take two steps. Crisis averted, he took a long look along the platforms, instinct refusing to allow him to leave the station without checking for calamity. 

While nothing immediately presented itself, his eye caught on something in the far distance, beyond even the shape of Gordon at the end of the platform. 

It was Oliver, coming into the station with another commuter train. He looked deeply conflicted, in a way that was unusual for him, and his eyes were scanning the station like he was looking for something. 

As the train got closer, Oliver’s eyes snapped onto him, and he caught Charles’ gaze like he wanted something. The look in his eyes said it was somewhat important, maybe moreso. 

Then it was gone, hidden in a plume of steam from Gordon. 

“Come on Granddad…” It was Stephanie, yet again, pulling on his hand and ushering him into the waiting room. Charles made a mental note to follow up with Oliver at a later point, before following his granddaughter into the station. 

-

The next day

Sunday was usually a slow day - fewer trains, shorter trains, and a couple of extra goods services running in the daytime. A special once a week train ran early in the morning, carrying the faithful and the religious to the newly-restored Catholic Cathedral in Tidmouth in time for morning church services. The Anglicans had their services later in the day, timed to correspond to the usual train schedule, and the usual times at which people woke up. 

Of course, the Sunday before Christmas was not an ordinary Sunday, and so the train waiting at the platform was not the usual rake of Duck and his autocoaches.

Instead, City of Truro stood placidly at the platform, billowing steam in the cold December air, while five Mark 1 coaches stretched behind him. As befitting an engine of his stature, he was thoroughly polished to a mirror finish, and a small “Cathedrals Express” headboard sat above his eyebrows. He looked up at it with something approaching fondness. The Sudrians had managed to… acquire the original headboard that had adorned Western Region trains in the 1950s, and after finding it in a condition they only described as “broken”, they’d made it “better than new” by modifying the crest to include a GWR logo in the centre of the bishop’s hat. 

While he wasn’t one for modifying such a historical artifact, he did have to admit that it was a damned good looking headboard, especially when placed on an engine such as him and not some plebeian tank engine. 

The lights from the waiting room were dimmer than the lights on the platform, and the glass in the windows became very reflective as a result. I look good today, he thought as he admired his reflection. The billowing white steam hid the few imperfections left by some of the less intelligent cleaners, and the snow that was just starting to float down from the clouds was swirling around him in a thoroughly roguish way. I look very good indeed. 

-

Inside the station, two sets of eyes looked out at the engine. “Fucking wanker,” one said. 

“I don’t know how, but he looks wrong like this,” said the other. “James doesn’t look wrong, when he’s preening.”

“‘S cause James isn’t a wanker.” The first said.

“Fair enough.” There was a pause, punctuated by a slurp of a mug of tea. “You ready?” 

“As I can be.”

The drivers on the Little Western weren’t stupid. They’d figured out that something was going on, even if they didn’t know exactly what, and that Truro was likely at the center of it. This lowered their exceptionally low estimations of him to previously unheard-of levels. He was already difficult to fire, and drive, and keep steaming, and he treated them like scum on his buffers, but now? He’d made Duck upset, and there would be retribution. 

Duck’s usual driver, still smarting over his inability to speak to the Fat Controller yesterday, had volunteered outright. There had been some debate over who would be the fireman today, with no-one wanting to officially step forward for this duty… until the start of the shift, that is. 

When the “Cathedrals” stretched to its maximum length, there were a few different options for who would pull it. Occasionally Donald or Douglas took it, although Bear was a more common choice. James had taken it more than once, and he’d delighted at having a headboard. The most usual option, however, was for Duck and Oliver to doublehead the train, with all of their autocoaches in the train, plus any others that would be needed. It was a “bonding thing” as Oliver had once put it, and everybody seemed to enjoy it, even the hopelessly-fussy passengers. The few times Christmas had fallen on or near a Sunday, the “bonding” was increased moreso, and the train was decorated with Christmas frills and decorations, much to the delight of the passengers, engines, and coaches alike.

However this morning, while Duck and Oliver were in the process of being polished for the run, Truro had apparently browbeat them into giving him the train, and took the coaches he’d been using for the last month, leaving all the autocoaches stuck in the shed. Of course, the engines disputed this, but the manner in which they did so was so halfhearted that it raised concerns with the cleaners, who raised the alarm in the station, alerting the footplate crews to the unfolding situation. 

After that, so many men clamored to be the one on Truro’s footplate that the stationmaster threatened to go off of the seniority list, and eventually one of the engine inspectors was chosen to be the one wielding a shovel. 

The guards were equally upset, and despite the unpleasantly early hour, every single employee on the train was a seasoned railway man with many decades of experience. 

As the clock struck six in the morning, the passengers started arriving for the train’s six thirty departure. The decorated condition of near-Christmas runs of “The Cathedrals” was known to passengers at this point, and so there was a significant amount of disappointment as people filed onto the starkly appointed Mark 1s. Several even made a comment about Truro, usually in the context of “wherever is Duck and Oliver?”, and the engine’s frown deepened greatly each time. 

“I say,” he remarked to nobody in particular. “But you would think that they want to be hauled around in squalor.”

“Well,” the driver said curtly. “Some of us like the ‘squalor’.” 

There was a confused chuff. “Who asked your opinion, driver?”

“Who asked yours, you inelegant excuse for a tea kettle?”

Truro whooshed steam aggressively, scattering the passengers on the end of the platform. The stationmaster was on him in a second. “What kind of a display is that? You’re going to spray people while it’s below freezing? You stupid great engine!”

“But- he-!” Truro tried and failed to defend himself. 

“No!” bellowed the stationmaster. “This is your one warning for the day! Don’t make me get inventive!”

He stalked away to help a passenger who had tripped as he ran from the steam, leaving Truro furious and confused. 

-

Half-past six in the morning approached with agonizing slowness, but eventually the time came. The train was packed to the gills with Christmas visitors and residents alike. Some weren’t even going to church, but were using the train as an early morning connection to the big city. 

The clock struck six thirty with a single bong from the station clock, and the last passengers were quickly ushered aboard. A short distance train like this had little luggage, and so the porters were milling about on the platform while the coaches were quickly shut and locked behind the last stragglers. Leaning out of the window of the last coach, the guard slowly but surely waved his green flag. He didn’t wave it very far or very hard, and it could scarcely be seen behind the porters. He put his whistle to his lips, but didn’t actually blow it. 

From the cab, the driver and fireman looked back, seeing the flag wave from their elevated vantage point. Moving quickly, they advanced the controls, and the train set off down the tracks. 

Screeeeeeeeech

For about five seconds, before the brakes came on with a squeal, throwing passengers off their feet in the coaches. “The guard hasn’t said to go yet!” Truro bellowed. “What sort of a driver are you?”

“What do you mean he didn’t blow it?” The driver shouted back. “Didn’t you hear it?”

“He did no such thing!” 

“Oh great!” The driver said melodramatically. “He’s arrogant and deaf! You heard it, right?”

“Of course!” The fireman exclaimed. 

Truro rolled his eyes. “You’re hearing things that aren’t there.”

“What are you doing?” The stationmaster came out of the station at light speed. “Go!”

“There hasn’t been a whistle yet!” Truro shouted. 

“Yes there was, I heard it inside!” Came the retort. 

“You’re mistaken.’ Truro said firmly. 

“Mister Truro sir,” The lead coach said quietly. “He waved the flag, but-”

“Be silent, Termite.” Truro snapped, before turning his attention to the stationmaster. “There. Was. No. Whistle!” He ignored the insulted gasp that ran down the train as the all-first-class rake processed what was just said - a Termite was an old GWR term for a third class coach.  

The cab radio crackled. “What in the bloody hell is going on up there?” The guard shouted through the connection. “I said go!” 

Everyone turned to look at Truro, who looked bewildered. “But-but-there wasn’t!”

“Yes there was!” Everyone shouted back.

The driver reached up and released the brakes. “Yes. There was.” he said firmly before advancing the throttle. 

Truro was outraged, confused, and more than a little embarrassed. He tried to set off, to minimize his error, but the hand at his controls must have been slovenly and ill-trained, because the throttle was advanced so far forward that his wheels slipped and spun all the way out of the station, jerking the train wildly. 

“What’re you doing up there!” Came a shout over the radio. “We’re getting thrown around here!” 

“Easy does it!” The driver yelled, rapidly reducing steam, causing the wheelslip to stop but the train to jerk again. “This is Swindon’s finest? Banging your passengers up and down the line?”

Truro growled, but otherwise didn’t dignify it with a response. 

-

Haultraugh 

The train banged and clattered into Haultraugh station amid a veritable cloud of insults. The coaches yelled and snapped with each bump, the driver was heavy-handed on the throttle, berating Truro for each wheelslip, and the fireman made only a minimal effort the get the coal into the firebox, leaving the cab a dusty mess and the fire a poorly-burning pastiche of what it should be. Dirty black exhaust emanated from Truro, staining his paint and dulling his brass. The radio hadn’t let up since they left Arlesburgh, a torrent of complaints spewing from the guards in the coaches. 

The passengers in the station recoiled at the state of the train, and even before it stopped moving some turned around and left. 

“Ach jaysus!” Burst out Donald, who was stopped at the signal on other platform, running “light” down to Arlesburgh to pick up a stone train. “What’re ye doin ye great beastie? Them’s coaches, nae trucks!” 

Truro scowled at him. “I don’t need any help from you, you Caledonian lout!”

“An what’s tha’ supposed to mean?!”

The argument soon became blistering, with the coaches joining in on Donald’s side. 

“-oh yes, we’re just all third class biddies to him!”

“-what I’m saying is that if you like Scotland so much you should go back to it!”

“-does anyone know the postcode fer Swindon? I’m gonna crush ye up and mail ye back in a box!”

“And we’ll help!”

“Typical lower class aggression! Not a drop of emotional intelligence anywhere!”

The few passengers still on the platform had very quietly made their escape - a brave few had gotten onto the train, but most had followed the first group and made a mad dash for the station carpark. Quite a few of those on the train joined them, and by the time the stationmaster came out, screaming bloody murder at Truro and Donald alike, the train had gotten quite emptier. 

This was very apparent to the guard, who barrelled up the platform to yell at Truro as well. “You great mouthy disaster! Half the bloody train has run off because you can’t keep a consistent speed for five seconds! We’d better get going before they all run off!”

Truro turned a particularly bright shade of puce at that, and then very quickly turned a bright red when the guard pulled out his flag and whistle and made a great show of using both right in front of him. 

With an infuriated whistle and a roar of steam, Truro practically ripped the throttle from his driver’s hand, and tried to take off down the line. The coaches and the guard screamed at him to stop, and it took a lot of squealing brake shoes just to slow the train to a crawl. As the second to last coach passed the guard, a door popped open, and he was able to jump on board. 

“You maniac engine!” The guard shouted down the radio as he landed in a heap on the coach’s carpet. “You’ll pay for this!” 

Truro simply grew angrier still, and bumped the coaches. This sent anyone not sitting down flying, and startled the coaches so much that the brakes came off, and the train shot forward down the line. 

The driver was quick to apply the brakes again, and the train continued its jerky, stop-start journey down the line to Tidmouth. Before it had even left sight of the station, the stationmaster was back in his office, placing a very serious phone call…

-

Truro stormed into the tunnel, more furious than he’d been in a very long time. The NERVE… He bellowed within the confines of his own mind, too angry to even think coherently. The train was far lighter than it should have been, considering the pull on his couplings when they left Arlesburgh, and it only made him crosser still. 

His smoke was dark and sooty, and each chuff was a deafening thunderclap inside the tunnel bore. He stormed over the summit and down the grade towards the big station, bursting out the other side just in time for the first ray of sunlight to crest over the horizon, straight into his eyes.

Hissing like a wounded animal, he jerked the train and shut his eyes, never once thinking of slowing down as they bucked over the switch at the start of the double track line into the station. Anyone out in Tidmouth’s affluent northern boundary in the predawn hour would have been treated to a phenomenal show of smoke and steam as Truro charged down the line towards the station. 

To make matters worse, the line here was actually icy, the morning dew having frozen to the rails. Ordinarily not an issue, Truro’s rage and already difficult to master throttle had the driver increasing and reducing steam at wild intervals. The coaches, now firmly against their engine, were of no help, and bounced on his buffers like the most uncivilized group of trucks imaginable. The bumps were so bad that even the headboard mounted above his eyebrows was rattling on its posts. 

In the coaches, the remaining passenger clutched at anything sturdy. They were praying harder now than they would have at church, and felt very close to God indeed. 

-

Far away, Charles Hatt could just barely see a puff of smoke making its way across the horizon. 

“Granddad, do you have to go to work?” Jack, his youngest grandson, whined in the way that young children could only do. “It’s almost Christmas!”

Stephen opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Barbara, who was having faux-melodrama with her breakfast. “Jack, am I not enough for you? You need Grandpa too? Not just Auntie Barbara?”

Jack giggled, and was soon joined by the rest of the children, who flocked to Barbara’s theatrics like iron to a magnet. 

“We see you all the time, Aunt Barbara!” Stephanie protested. “We never get to see Grandpa!” 

“But he’s so old,” Barbara protested, causing Charles to quirk his eyebrow in mirth. “Not like moi, who is a picture of health and vitality!” 

“Barbara,” He said evenly. “Have you been telling the children that you’re their aunt?”

“Isn’t she?” Stephanie said, turning to face Charles and missing the wide eyed look that Barbara tried to stifle. 

“Well,” Charles said with as much drama as he could muster. “She is your mother’s aunt, which means that makes her my little sister, and… your Great Aunt!” 

The Children gasped at this revelation, and turned to face Barbara. “Auntie, you didn’t say you were old too!” Jack said. 

“Maybe you should go to work.” Barbara addressed over the heads of the children. 

“Maybe I will stay at home and educate my grandchildren on how family trees work.”

“Um,” Stephen said from across the dining room, marmalade toast halfway to his mouth. “You do know that I took today off, right?”

“You know, I think I’d forgotten that.” Charles said, reaching for a piece of fruit. “But I think the railway can manage one day without us.”

--

The Cathedrals Express screeched into Tidmouth with the sound of nails on a chalkboard. 

Truro was black from buffer to buffer, coal dust streaking down him in a myriad of ways. His eyes were red, sweeping furiously across the platform, seeking out anything at which he could yell. The coaches were howling at the tops of their voices at him, seconded only by the train crew, who emerged from the cab equally black and enraged. They stormed up the platform, leaving black boot prints on the cement, wielding shovels threateningly. Behind them, the doors to the coaches opened up, and a wave of blasphemy followed the passengers out of the train. In two distinct streams, they parted on the platform, the first and largest group made a beeline for the ticket office - they were going to speak to someone about this. 

The second group followed the crew up the platform, and before a minute had passed, Truro was surrounded by a near riot of angry people telling him exactly what they thought of him and his ability to pull trains. 

Somehow, he was able to still his tongue, and take his verbal lashes in silence. The station staff were rushing up the platform like they were being chased, and he hoped against hope that someone, anyone could make it all stop. 

Then, a particularly loud voice became briefly audible over the crowd noise. “-and if you want to be like that so bad, HERE, take it!” 

A hard-sided leather briefcase came sailing out of the crowd in a near perfect arc. It smashed into Truro just above his eyebrows, fell down his face, bounced off his nose, and caught itself by the handle on one of his lamp irons. The case snapped open, and papers flew everywhere. 

There was also an ornate clatter, followed by a shattering sound. Looking around on the ground for what that possibly could have been, Truro’s eyes fell upon the Cathedrals Express headboard, lying broken in three pieces on the sleepers of the next track. The GWR-painted crest sat almost perfectly atop one of the rails, and Truro had a fleeting thought that it could be salvaged… 

Until, moments later, it was crushed underneath Gordon’s wheels, as the big blue idiot backed down onto his train. 

Eyes wide with surprise, and not even able to fake the pompous demeanour he usually took with Truro, Gordon looked at the raging crowd, the furious coaches, and the simmering mad locomotive. “What on earth has happened? What have you done?”

Truro’s response could be heard on the platforms of Knapford station, nearly three miles away. 

--

It must be said that the Alresburgh crew’s plan did not go exactly as planned. 

Yes, while Truro did receive a tidy helping of the blame, the Tidmouth stationmaster and the yardmaster, who both declared the other to be in charge once it was discovered that the Fat Controller was “unavailable”, declared that this was everyone’s fault, and punished accordingly. 

The driver was sent off to the docks, to work with the shunters down there - apparently the weekend fishing catch was much greater than expected. 

The fireman/inspector was formally written up, for allowing such nonsense to happen (even if the stationmaster had no idea of the extent that he allowed things to happen)

The coaches turned out to be slightly damaged by Truro’s rough handling (and their own responses to that), and they were sent off to the works on the back of a goods train, much to their displeasure. 

Truro, who was so upset he could barely be moved, was eventually dragged to the coaling stage by Edward, who took one look at the situation and decided that he didn’t actually want to know. 

Later (hours later), while still fuming with rage and snapping at everyone in view, Truro was washed down on the yardmaster’s orders. The only hose that anyone could “find” (actually looking involved effort that nobody wanted to spend) was attached to the yard’s standpipe. Somehow, being hosed down with freezing cold water in temperatures that were at most a degree above freezing somehow didn’t help Truro’s mood, and when late afternoon came he was sparkling clean but blindingly angry. 

The yardmaster nor the yard foreman were willing to trust him with coaches, and so he took a short mail train back to the Little Western as the sun started to go down. The mail vans had heard something about this engine not being a Friend Of The Mail, and considered making his life difficult, but the beady-eyed, tooth grinding fury that was plastered all across his face made them reconsider that course of action. They didn’t say a word to Truro, and he didn’t say a word to them, all the way to Arlesburgh.

Duck and Oliver were no more interested in talking to him than he was in talking to them, and so he sat in a corner of the yard for most of the day, ignoring the looks the trucks gave him. 

-

That night, the night shift stationmaster came over and spoke to him seriously. “Truro, I know that there’s been some issues over the last day or so, but we need an engine to run the next service. Do you think you can keep your calm long enough to take it?”

Truro wanted to tell him exactly what had been disrupting his calm earlier, but held his tongue. “Of course sir. Where is the train going?”

After the disaster of that morning, the return Cathedrals Express had been run using Donald and a group of second and third class coaches taken from the Express pool. They hadn’t been needed after that, and Donald had needed to take one last stone train before the Christmas eve rush effectively removed all goods trains from the timetable, so he hadn’t been able to return them. There was just enough room in the timetable for a train to go south to Tidmouth around eight that night, so the stationmaster had organized a special “extra” service.

Truro didn’t say anything to the coaches as he buffered up to them, and they didn’t say anything to him. It was a difference from the usual fawning and fussing that he usually received, and after the morning, it was a welcome change. Pleasantly, his crew didn’t speak more than was strictly necessary. He didn’t know it, but shortly after the train had arrived in Tidmouth, there had been a series of very loud phone calls to Arlesburgh, and the crews had been ordered to never do that again. 

Thankfully, few of the passengers traveling to Tidmouth at 8 PM were in the same circles as those who went to church at 6 in the morning, and nobody said a word about the disastrous Cathedrals Express as they filed onto the train. Despite it being an extra service, it was still full to near-capacity, and he struggled a bit on the frost-slicked rails along the coast. 

In complete opposition to the events of the morning, the extra service arrived and departed from Haultraugh with minimal delay. He met one of the northbound services there, and the tank engine didn’t even speak to him, instead choosing to remain subserviently quiet. It was yet another welcome change, and he relished in the silence until the signal man waved him through with flags - they hadn’t yet fixed the signal, something which never would have been allowed on Brunel’s GWR. He would have to speak to someone about that, at some point. 

Arriving in Tidmouth was an altogether pleasant experience this time around - there was a ludicrously dressed band playing music that wasn’t dreck this time, and the passengers streamed out of the train with no fuss whatsoever, let alone a riot. 

His crew spoke to him for the first time in the journey, informing him that it would be some time before he could get back to Arlesburgh, due to the holiday traffic, and that they would leave him by the carriage sheds. By the time they got there, Truro was simmering happily, and he even found the time to take a nap. 

I suppose we all have bad days…he thought to himself as he drifted to sleep under a few flakes of snow. 

-

It is now Christmas Eve

-

He was rather rudely woken up at one o’clock in the morning, to a pure white vista stretching everywhere he could see. “Oh bother…” he said, surveying the completely snowed-in yard as the church’s clock tower bonged once. 

A crew - presumably his crew - were moving purposefully around him, oiling his joints and tending to his fire with less care than he’d like. “Two inches an hour!” One panted as he shoveled snow off the coal pile in his tender. “It’ll be a foot high soon!”

“How concerning…” Truro drawled, unsure why so many people were fussing around him - he was warm enough to melt the snow landing on his boiler, perhaps they should be focusing their attentions elsewhere? Shovelling snow perhaps? “I take it you are to bring me inside?”

Bitter laughter, laced with schadenfreude, rang out around him. His warm mood began to dissipate as he began to get an idea of what they wanted him to do… “Gentlemen, I do hope you know that I am still technically part of the Collection at Swindon until the first of January-”

--

The sun just about peaked over the horizon as a snow and ice coated Truro slithered into Arlesburgh station. The tight confines of the tunnel meant that the Little Western was assigned a wedge type snowplow that was modified to be narrower than usual. It did its job well enough for clearing the line, but as an added detriment, it tended to throw quite a lot of snow back over the engine pushing it. This usually wasn’t a problem for Duck and Oliver, who knew the limitations of their equipment and went slower as a result, but Truro had just spent the last five hours clearing the line as fast as he could. He was wet, he was cold, and he was coated in ice. 

The yard was still covered with snow, but the upcoming Christmas eve traffic would be using solely the coaching stock, so nobody was too fussed about clearing the goods yard. (Except the trucks, but there wasn’t an engine around who would listen to them right now.)

“Oh look!” The shed doors were thrown open, and Oliver emerged from the shed in a cloud of smoke and steam. “It snowed last night! How…” 

His voice trailed off as he saw Truro. The bigger engine was being disconnected from the snowplow, and didn’t even appear to notice him, but it was enough to quench any possible excitement over the snowfall. Oliver made it halfway to the carriage sheds before he even realized that Truro had probably been the one to clear the line. 

Truro watched the tank engine fetch the autocoaches. He may have feigned disinterest, but he was still paying keen attention, and had seen how the childish excitement had trailed off the instant eyes had been pointed in his direction. 

Hmmph, he grumbled to himself, the mild indignation mixing and swirling with the furious discomfort of a long, cold, sleepless night. What’s all that about? Is my very presence enough to snuff out joy? Juvenile little imp. Just because I want order and discipline in the yard he thinks that happiness can go out the window? Hmmph. I will have words with him later. He scowled at nothing in particular, and this time he actually didn’t notice Duck emerging from the shed, seeing his face, and then steaming out of sight as quickly as possible. 

-

As much as Truro wanted to correct this behavior, the time just wasn’t there. It was Christmas Eve, and the island was going… well to put it frankly, absolutely berserk. 

The roads were jammed with cars, buses, and lorries going every which way, but especially into Tidmouth. Ferries from Ireland and the Island of Man were rushing back and forth as fast as the winter seas would allow. Airplanes soared low overhead, as they made long sweeping approaches to the airfield at Dryaw. Even Harold the helicopter was buzzing about - the roads were so choked that he had to act as an air ambulance. 

And then there were the trains. 

No train was long enough, and services couldn’t be frequent enough. Every train bound for anywhere was full to bursting; the Express was double headed, as was the Limited. James was so rushed that he forgot to complain about anything, and when Truro and Bear briefly crossed paths in the big station, they were both so focused on their next train that they didn’t notice the other.

The mariachi band was playing in shifts, and multiple engines had to do a double take at the occasional Yugoslav folk song that was thrown into the mix. Strangely, Gordon seemed to enjoy it, and he spent his meagre downtime talking to the bandleader about… whatever it was that Gordon would talk about. 

And the weather wasn’t playing favorites either. The weather had warmed above freezing, and the clouds had given way to the sun, causing the snow to melt onto the cold rails, where it either froze or puddled. On the Little Western, Truro found himself slipping inside the tunnel, as snow that fell off the roofs of passing trains melted onto the rails. 

For some unusual reason, Duck had even more trouble than that, and any time he set off from a stop it was with a flurry of wheelslip before his driver could bring things under control. “I think it’s your auto-train gear,” The fireman said, poking at the controls. “Something might be loose.”

“Just what we need…” Duck grimaced as he rolled into Haultraugh with a northbound train. The rails were icy just before the points, and his brakes locked as he encountered a fully iced over section. “Whoa!”

“Easy!” He yelped, as his driver slammed shut the regulator from his position in Alice’s control cab, and the Duck slithered to a stop directly on top of the switch. 

Fortunately, this had happened several times before just in the last hour, and so with great care and patience, Duck’s driver slowly opened the regulator and…

chuff chuff chuff chuff chuffchuffchfuffchuffchfuffchuffchuffchuff 

Duck slipped immediately, his wheels spinning wildly on the ice, before abruptly finding purchase. The entire train jolted, but got underway, and they were at the platform within a few moments. 

Meanwhile, inside the signal box, trouble was brewing. 

When Duck slipped, the whole building had shaken, the entire lever frame jumped, and there was a loud ping sound. The signalman groaned, knowing exactly what had happened. 

Sure enough, when he tried to move the lever controlling the points, it wouldn’t budge. Worse still, the lever was frozen halfway between its two stops, meaning that the switch wasn’t pointing to either track. 

“Stupid great engine!” the man grumbled to himself, already dialing the phone. The signal maintainers are going to earn their overtime today!

-

Duck didn’t learn that he’d broken the points until he’d arrived at Arlesburgh, and it was to his surprise that he felt no guilt or shame over it, or the massive inconvenience it would cause to the passengers on such an important day. 

Instead, all he felt was worry and discomfort - unlike the last two times this had happened, all of the branch’s engines were trapped in Arlesburgh yard… and that included Truro. 

Or rather, City of Truro. Use my full name, scum. 

With all trains being delayed or cancelled outright, Truro and Oliver had been moved back to the sheds. Of course, Truro was facing Oliver, meaning that he couldn’t ignore the big engine. 

Duck was usually a brave engine, but today his bravery ran away and hid, and he asked his driver if he wouldn’t mind taking a look at the auto-train gear. 

Begrudgingly, the man agreed, and Duck sat there, facing away from Truro and Oliver, wondering exactly when everything had gone all wrong. 

-

“So,” Oliver asked after a long silence. “What’s gotten so up your boiler that you’ve gone and become a bastard all of a sudden?”

Truro recoiled like he’d been struck. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.” Oliver said firmly. “You’ve been nice as can be (to us) for weeks and weeks, and then all of a sudden out comes the old haughty express engine tripe.” He fixed the big engine with a level glare. “It wasn’t fun back then and it isn’t fun now.”

There was a simmering silence that followed that. Truro was inscrutable. 

“You know, I don’t quite understand it.” Truro said after a second. “I spoke with Duck just the other day about perhaps restoring some discipline to our interactions, and he said that you were all for it.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “No he didn’t, come off it.”

“Oh yes,” Truro was entirely earnest, except for the shifty look in his eyes. “He said it would be nice to go back to the old ways. Something about tradition?”

The lie was so bad, and so blatant that Oliver couldn’t even be offended. “Mate,” He said, halfway to a chuckle. “That might work on a Paddie shunter like Duck, but I’m from the countryside, right? ‘Bout the only thing I trust coming out the mouth of an express engine that acts like you is ‘Hello,’ ‘Goodbye,’ and ‘I’m better than you.’ So cut the nonsense and say it Swindon style, alright?”

-

Duck had been listening intently since the moment Oliver had said the word “bastard.” On one buffer, it was inconceivable that he would speak to Truro in that way, but on the other… 

Then:

I spoke with Duck just the other day about perhaps restoring some discipline to our interactions, and he said that you were all for it.”

What?

What?

Duck reeled, completely missing everything that happened after that. Truro said that he what?

It was so completely false, so untrue, that it didn’t feel real. 

Why would he say that? Duck thought to himself. Does he think Oliver would believe him?

“Oh Yes, he said it would be nice to go back to the old ways. Something about tradition?” Truro’s voice filtered through the mental noise. 

Tradition? What? 

There was a crashing noise from outside the station. A car towing a trailer had hit a pothole, causing the trailer to bounce up and down, making a tremendous racket.  

Duck didn’t hear that. 

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! We’ve broken away! We’ve broken away! We’ve broken away!”

“Chase him! Bump him! Throw him off the rails!”

“Another clear mile and we’ll do it.” “Oh glory! Look at that!”

There was a passenger train in the station.

“I must stop them. I must.”

A sudden swerve, a slide. 

A barbershop.

What had been murky was suddenly clear. 

Truro wasn’t being nice. He didn’t care. 

He was manipulating them. 

“Galloping Sausage!” “Rusty Red Scrap Iron!” “Old Square Wheels!” 

“I’m revolutionary…”

Exactly how it happened all those years ago.

“He played me for a fool…” Duck whispered to himself, as every interaction he’d had with Truro played through his mind, free of bias for the first time. “He’s like a diesel…”

Silently, tears fell from his eyes. 

His driver, too engrossed in the auto train connections, didn’t notice. 

-

“So cut the nonsense and say it Swindon style, alright?” Oliver’s phrasing hung in the air like a lead balloon. ‘Say it Swindon style’ was the ultimate request - a plea, or perhaps a demand - to say exactly what you meant, with no more dancing around the point. The great equalizer, any engine could say it, at any time - it was one of the immutable rules of the Great Western. 

Truro’s earnest look faded. It didn’t disappear, but it seemed to lose all its warmth. What had been a slight upturn to the edges of his lips became the barest hint of a sad smile. There was something behind his eyes, but it still seemed hidden, or perhaps restrained. “Are you sure?” the bigger engine asked, after a second. It almost seemed like he was readying himself to let go of a great weight, in the way that an engine does when they finally reach the last station, or the top of the hill. 

“Am I sure? What kind of a question is that?” Oliver saw all of this play out on Truro’s face, but he didn’t comprehend it. If he’d had Duck’s level of training, of knowledge, of sheer exposure to haughty express engines, alarm bells would’ve been ringing. 

But he wasn’t Duck, and his only real exposure to big engines and subterfuge was Gordon. He mentally shrugged off the “odd” look Truro was giving him, and tried his best to look slightly intimidating. 

“What do you know about me?” Truro asked, after a moment. 

“What sort of a question is that?” 

“The ultimate question.” Truro looked almost pensive. “Am I a creature of myth, shrouded in fables, or am I steel and iron? Do you know who I really am?”

“You’re City of Truro, and I’m not playing guessing games beyond that.” Express engines always had these inflated ideas of their own importance anyways. 

“Ah,” Truro rolled his eyes ever so slightly. “So I’m naught but a myth to you. Some ultimate creation, hewn from a solid block of steel by Brunel himself. Blessed be my name, for I am the son of the father, and the only witness to the holy ghost.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far-”

“Hmm. All better for you then. Some do; we’ve been sharing a shed with one.”

“I wouldn’t say-”

“Oh, but he would.” Truro’s smile sharpened slightly. “One of the Paddingtons. He knows the legend full well.” There was a pause, and a hint of sadness. “Of course, he knows the legend as it is now.”

“Now?”

A sad chuckle escaped Truro. “Ah, there were two of us once: myself, and the holy ghost. He was once my compatriot - my comrade in arms, so to speak. Great Bear. Now there was an engine that Brunel shined on. I had to get by on my merits - my speed, my looks, my charm - but he needed only to exist for the full weight of fame to fall upon him. Posters, films, anything of publicity value, he was on it, right next to me. It was wonderful, having someone to share the load with.”

“But I thought that Great Bear was-”

“A total failure?” This was followed by a bitter chuckle. “Yes, he was. He wasn’t the great white hope that we all wished for, but you’d never know that for the publicity. He could do no wrong, and his wheels turned the rails to gold anywhere he went.” He paused wistfully. “And then it became anywhere we went. When the papers finally saw fit to publish my name, and my achievements, my status rose to equal his, and the publicity department couldn’t be separated from us both except with crowbars.”

Oliver, wondering exactly where Truro was going with this, missed the engine’s darkening expression. “And then of course, came progress.” He almost spit the word. “Churchward had only retired for what felt like a week when Collett swaggered into the picture. His thoughts were that only successful engines should be public figures.” 

Truro was getting more and more emotional, words being accentuated by barely hidden anger. “Caerphilly was getting her official portrait done within three months, and Great Bear was gone within two years. They took him away and used his parts to make a Castle. He didn’t even recognize me when it was all said and done.”

“Hey…” Oliver felt an instinctual need to stand up for his designer. “Mister Collett was-”

“A man.” Truro snapped. “An ordinary man, with a pencil. He knew nothing of how engines lived, just how to improve them.” A scowl. “They even came for me, and the rest of my family, soon enough. I wanted to rage at the world, to rebel, fight, or at least die with them, but they all said ‘no, Truro, you will live on.’” 

He scoffed. “What they meant was that I would be the one to carry their names into the future. To make sure that our class does not die the same ignoble death that Great Bear did. What the engines that you replaced did.”

“Oi!”

“Shut up. Do you think those branch lines managed themselves, before the works pushed you out like a little green turd?” It was now inescapably obvious that Truro was incensed, and Oliver began looking around for someone, anyone to defuse the tension. 

Truro continued. “And then, do you know what happened? What my thirty years of faithful service got me? My speed record?”

“Did you call me a-”

“I got my wish.” Truro hissed. “I got my bloody wish to die with my family, because the Great Western Railway had no interest in preserving its history. I was going to go off to scrap, but at the last minute…” He trailed off, furious. “The last minute, I was saved. By the L-N-E-R.” 

Part of Oliver’s mind was suitably shocked by this information. The rest was trying to plan an escape. He’s going mad right in front of me!

“I spent the next twenty six years crammed into a shed with the best and brightest the North Eastern could bother to preserve,” Truro continued, his voice buzzing with anger. “Who all think that they are god’s gift to railways, and that everyone else - including me - are apostates! It would drive a lesser engine mad. It almost drove me mad, but I was saved - or so I thought, when British Railways came calling.”

Oliver wanted to be anywhere else. “Oh yeah?” just keep him talking Ollie. Someone’s gotta come over here sometime. 

Truro continued like he hadn’t heard Oliver. “They pulled me from that accursed building and whispered promises like they meant them. I’d get to run trains again, they said. With my own kind - Westerners!” He scoffed. “How quickly they forgot the reason why I was in that damnable place. Or so I thought at the time.”

He was quiet for a moment, and that honestly scared Oliver more than the increasingly crazed rambling. “You would never have known, seeing as you suffered the replacements that forced the change, but back then modernization was a dignified thing. We did our jobs until we were allowed our final rest. It was treated more like a living funeral, similar to what the humans do when one of their own gets some incurable disease. What do they call it nowadays, hospice care? It was quiet, and orderly. We were allowed to make our own goodbyes.”

He paused for yet another worrying moment, gaze dropping to the sleepers. “I was treated as a dangerous lunatic, for wanting to rage against this process. For wanting them to live.” 

The gaze snapped up, and Truro stared directly into Oliver’s eyes. The burning rage behind the eyes was almost diesel-like in its intensity. “I trust that you remember what happened, as progress battered our shores?”

“Y-yeah.” Oliver gulped. 

“I didn’t like the Castles,” Truro didn’t break the gaze. “Nor any of the rest. But they were still Our Metal, and they were worthy of that basic respect. I watched, from my position of privilege, my ornate cage of preservation, as every single one of them were driven into the rails in some sadistic attempt to extract every last shilling of value from them. How they were towed off to the scrap heap without so much as a by-your-leave. Engines would vanish, never to be seen or heard from again. Their friends would die wondering what had happened. The diesels reveled in it. They laughed and played with us as pawns on their game boards! Sadists, every one of them!”

Oliver had lived through this era, thanks very much, and was not enjoying a forced history lesson. “I was there.”

“But you didn’t go back in the box, did you?” Truro’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You ran for the hills and got away clean, like nobody ever did before or since. There was no rumour of your survival or death, no muttered tale of a crane snatching you off the dock like Scylla, or a screaming dismemberment at some mechanical abattoir, just a true story of the little engine that did. Not even I was so lucky. I had to go back, into an even smaller box this time, surrounded by the trappings of the railway I had just seen dismantled before my very eyes!”

Speaking of eyes, a little bit of derangement was slipping into Truro’s. “You have no idea what it was like! To be torn asunder and then thrown into a box for people to gawk at! There were only four of us to represent over a century’s worth of history, while more and more of it was being cut up just outside the walls! On clear nights we could hear it!” He was panting like he’d just charged up Gordon’s hill with the brake on. “Lode Star wouldn’t speak for ten years! I didn’t know what gender she was because I’d never even spoken to her! You have no idea the level of trauma I went through before I got here!”

Something in Oliver very quietly went snap. “You think that I don’t know?!” He found his voice and roared like a much larger engine. “I was on the run! This wasn’t some Sunday excursion up to Cumbria! I had to hide to survive! Living off of charity, my crew stealing coal out of other engine’s tenders! We disguised ourselves as a landslip to hide from the diesels looking for us!”

“Oh! And yet somehow you associate with them as though that didn’t happen!” Truro yelled back, subtlety forgotten. 

“They’re not all monsters!” Oliver could not believe he was making this argument. “After they shut you back in that museum they started going after the diesels too! Whole classes wiped out in a month! All the Western region types, gone from service except for Bear, and BoCo’s worse off than that - he’s the only one of his kind left!” 

“You named them?” Truro scoffed. “They don’t deserve names! They don’t deserve anything!” 

Oliver growled. “Suddenly, I get why Bear hates you so much! There’s not much of you to like!”

“I’m not here to be liked!” Truro roared. “I am here to be obeyed! Don’t you get it, you mental reject? I am the express engine, and you are the servant who does my bidding!”

“Servant?” Oliver scoffed. “Yeah right, I might not be the most fanatical engine, but even I know that Brunel-”

“BRUNEL IS DEAD! I REMAIN!” Truro screamed. “I am the Great Western! My word is law! Do you think I spent twenty two years in Swindon telling children about broad gauge? No! I built the foundations of a legend that will live on forever. There is a Great Western Way, and it is my way!” Steam was beginning to escape from Truro’s nostrils. 

The small part of Oliver’s mind not consumed by blinding rage nor reeling from shock was beginning to realize that he may be in some very real danger. It was not paid any attention to. “Not on this island it isn’t.” He said, suddenly defiant. “We follow the real ways, right from the heart of Paddington!”

Truro made a noise that could be a scoff or a hysterical scream. Or both. “I am well aware of that! And I will fix that! Just as I have been fixing that since I arrived here!”

“How’d you mean?” Oliver was only partly aware he said that. 

“What- what- You can’t actually be that stupid?” Truro was incredulous, and it took the edge off his rage. “Have you not paid even a bit of attention to what has been happening around you? Are you as willfully blind as the other one?” Truro’s eyes motioned towards Duck, who hadn’t said a damn word the whole time.

“What?” Oliver said. “What could you have possibly done?”

“EVERYTHING!” Truro dragged out every syllable. “I have done everything to bring this line up the standards of the true Western, and away from the backwater attempt at adherence to The Ways that it currently is! I excised that diesel, I meddled with your trains, I even caused that derailment. You mean to tell me that you didn’t even notice!?”

Oliver was momentarily speechless. “You- you- you did what? You… you treated Bear like that on purpose?!” 

“I most certainly did! It was far too welcome around here!” 

“And-and-and you - you didn’t break his-”

“I will admit it was a touch more brutish than necessary, but the results were effective!” Truro almost sounded pleased with himself. 

Oliver was seeing red. “What did he do to deserve that, you monster?!”

“I saw enough good engines get hauled away to an unjust end to make its specific crimes irrelevant.” Truro sniffed. “But I would think that it swanning into our midst with a Great Western livery on its sides was provocation enough!”

Oliver’s safety valves lifted, and Truro raised an eyebrow. “Oh don’t get upset, it’s not worth it.” He said hypocritically. 

Oliver wanted to scream. “You- you- you- I can’t-”

“That’s right,” Truro cut him off. “You can’t, and you shouldn’t. You’re a tank engine. Your job is to make sure I can do mine. The fact that you get to gallivant all over this Island while I have to shunt trucks is an abomination.”

“You messed with my trains?!” Oliver suddenly remembered what else Truro had just admitted to. 

“How else could I put you in your place?” Truro retorted, slowly regaining his composure as Oliver spiralled into spluttering rage. “It should have worked, too, but this whole line seems to be blessed by Saint Cajetan, he who brings luck to the moronic! Anywhere else, and you’d have been demoted to pushing trucks filled with horse shit two weeks ago!”

“And when that didn’t work you derailed a train?” Oliver snapped. “They were ours! Westerners to a one!” 

Truro rolled his eyes, like it was a stupid question. “Don’t be idiotic. Those vans weren’t supposed to make it halfway out of the yard with bearings that seized. The fact they made it well past Haultraugh is a testament to their Great Western construction!”

“So, so, so what? They were supposed to fall apart or something? Make a mess in the yard?”

“Oh yes! That would’ve gotten you put on work details for a year in Paddington - moving something without inspecting it first? For shame.” Truro almost looked like he hadn’t just been screaming his voice raw. “But of course, not all plans survive contact with the enemy - or the Scots.”

Oliver, on the other wheel, looked ready to explode. “Why me!?” He bellowed. “Why pick on me? What did I do to you? What did I do that Duck didn’t?!”

“What you didn’t do, Oliver,” Truro said his name like it was an epithet. “Was know. Your. Place. Duck knew his place. Duck was not a problem. You, on the other buffer… needed some “re-education” on your proper spot in the world.”

Oliver stared at the diesel masquerading as a steam engine. “You won’t get away with this.” He said, his voice quivering with anger. “The Fat Controller-”

“Will learn nothing of this.” Truro cut him off, his face going very serious. “No-one will know of this conversation outside of us.”

“Hah!” Oliver laughed involuntarily. “What a load of rubbish! You think I’m not going to tell him? You think he’s not going to believe me?”

“Oh, I know that you won’t tell him.” Truro said very calmly, his face impassive.

“How’s that gonna work?” Oliver felt a rush of confidence. Truro had overplayed his hand, and he was going to feel the wrath of-

Inside Truro’s cab, the reverser and regulator moved violently. With a great jerk forwards, Truro began to roll towards Oliver, quickly buffering up against him and pushing him backwards. “OI!” Oliver screamed in the big engine’s face. “What’re you doing?!”

“Well Oliver,” Truro fixed him with a murderous stare as they rolled backwards toward the closed doors of the shed. “As it turns out, I know that you won’t tell the Fat Controller anything, and I know that because if you do…” 

He trailed off as they smashed into and then through the door to the shed, wood raining down on them in a shower of splinters. A few seconds later, Oliver slammed into the buffers at the end of the shed, stopping with a groan of metal and wood. 

Truro’s wheels kept spinning, though, and the creaking of the buffers got louder and louder. 

“Well,” Turro said, his voice gravely serious. “It turns out that they preserved several of your brothers and sisters. If you should become a problem, I will simply replace you with one of them. Understand?”

Oliver gulped, but remained defiant. “They’ll never let you get away with this!” 

Truro’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. “I’m City of Truro. You’re a tank engine. Who’s going to believe you?!”

“Oi! What in the name of mike are ya doing you maniac!” It was at this point that several new voices, all speaking over each other, interrupted the proceedings. Feet pounded on the floor of the shed, and hands grasped at the handle to Truro’s ash pan. Bodies flung themselves up the ladder and bounded into Truro’s cab. Hands cranked open the injectors and shot the in-cab hose into the firebox, drowning the fire and cooling the boiler even as the burning coals were unceremoniously dropped into the shed’s ashpit. 

Truro yelped at the hands and bodies clamoring over him. “What are you doing? Stop that!” 

He was ignored, and a hand grasped at the lever for the safety valve, and the shed filled with steam as the boiler pressure was released in a continuous droning roar. Truro bellowed some more, and attempted to move his controls, only to be stopped by a firm hand on the regulator and the reverser. 

Oliver was blind in the confusion, and felt more than saw someone enter his cab and open the regulator slowly. With a few short chuffs, he was moving, shoving Truro backwards out of the shed and into the yard. 

They emerged from the shed in a cloud of steam, Truro bellowing and roaring like a wounded animal. The cloud of steam seemed to multiply in size on contact with the cold winter air, and the figures swarming around in the cloud seemed to be more like spectres and phantoms than men. 

Eventually, the hand at Oliver’s controls shut off steam and applied the brakes. Oliver came to a quick stop, while Truro continued to roll backwards under his own momentum. He came to rest a few dozen feet away, already under siege by men with large chocks to place around his wheels, locking him in place. The person in Oliver’s cab exited in a very swift manner, and Oliver noticed that he’d taken the coal shovel with him. 

It was Duck’s driver, the one who had taken such an interest in Truro’s issues just a few days ago. He held out the shovel like a weapon, bellowing at the big engine as he stormed down the gravel. “What you think I’m fuckin deaf? You think that I’m not gonna hear you admit to bein’ the goddamned wrecking crew on my line? With my engines?!” He bellowed at a furious staccato.

“- think you’re immune? I will have you drawn and quartered for this!” Truro roared, his eyes looking from one man to the next - as the steam cleared, it became easier to identify people: the stationmaster, the yardmaster, a different driver, some of the porters, a guard, a cleaner, two inspectors, someone from the p-way gang, at least four firemen, some of the drivers from the small railway, and the signalman. “Your existence is tolerated! How dare you interrupt me, touch me in such ways! You will-”

CLANG

The coal shovel rebounded off of Truro’s face, and Duck’s driver reached up for another swing. 

CLANG

This time the shovel fell out of his hands, and as he bent down to retrieve it, the p-way ganger, twice the size of a normal man, stepped forward. He was holding a pipe wrench the size of a sledgehammer. It usually laid against the wall of the shed, and was only used to undo some huge bolts that lay under Duck’s boiler jacket. The man gave it an experimental heft with one hand, and then turned and threw it at Truro like a shot put. It sailed through the air. 

CRACK

Truro’s nose now pointed to the left. “YOU SAVAGES!” The big engine howled, snapped out of the stupor induced by the shovel. “I’LL KILL YOU AL-”

CLANG 

The shovel came back for another swing, silencing Truro once again. Duck’s driver stood there, panting in the cold air, and pointed the shovel at the big engine yet again. “You think we didn’t hear you, you piece of shite? You’re done.” 

[inamindfarfaraway]

The Morality of Mabel and Dipper Pines

Warning: Dipper Levels of Overanalysis Ahead

I’d like to make it clear at the start that I love both of these characters equally and they’re both good people, just in different ways. But I’ve seen a lot of criticism of Mabel’s flaws and less of Dipper’s, so I’d like to contribute to the discussion of their respective characters by exploring a divide between them I haven’t seen talked about much.

Mabel really wants to be a moral person. She places a lot of intrinsic worth in the concepts of ethics, like kindness and fairness and the wellbeing of others. Being a bad person could be considered her worst fear. It’s definitely up there with her other greatest fears of losing her relationship with Dipper and the inevitability of change, and those fears developed later largely in response to Ford and the baggage he brought with him.

Dipper just doesn’t care about that as much. That isn’t to say he’s a bad person! He's compassionate, selfless, brave and unquestionably heroic by the end of the show. They both are. But it sticks out to me how differently they think about ethics. For example, Dipper literally kills Wax Sherlock Holmes, while Mabel is so averse to hurting someone’s feelings that she can’t bear to break out of a false, one-sided relationship with Gideon until Dipper's life is at stake. You see what I’m getting at here? But I have more evidence! Buckle up, this is gonna get long.

Compare how they treat their rivals, Pacifica and Robbie. These are ordinary humans with no real authority over them who, age and class gaps aside, they're basically on even footing with in confrontations, so this is a good metric for how aggressive they are when upset and how much they hold grudges in mundane situations.

In “Irrational Treasure”, Mabel is deeply hurt by Pacifica’s mockery to the point of giving up her silly identity, and sets out to prove her wrong that she can be competent. But at the end, when presented with the opportunity to destroy the Northwest family’s fake prestigious legacy that they use to justify putting others down, she declares, “I’ve got nothing to prove” and lets it go. She’s secure in herself. Her motivation is satisfied. Why bother putting more pain and strife into the world? It’s Dipper, who has been only been hurt by proximity to Mabel, who insists on exposing the truth specifically to spite Pacifica and takes away that “Man, revenge is underrated. That felt awesome!” Revenge is arguably a form of justice, especially in this sense of revealing an unfair lie, but still, he takes great pleasure in bringing an enemy down for the sake of it, not to fix the damage they did.

In “Fight Fighters”, Dipper’s vindictive streak returns. He manipulates the ridiculously powerful Rumble McSkirmish into brutally beating up Robbie on the fraudulent charge of murder, threatening Robbie’s life. He didn’t realize Rumble would try to kill Robbie, but he was fine with him severely injuring him. Rumble is a fighting game character, a superpowered master martial artist. Robbie is a normal fifteen-year-old. This is not a sportsmanlike matchup. By the end Dipper learns his lesson and takes responsibility, but so does Mabel about hurting people to try to have a perfect life and people still complain about that!

In “The Golf War”, Mabel is again the twin with a bone to pick with Pacifica, but Dipper takes her rivalry more seriously than her and is more willing to be mean about it. He encourages her to cheat when she doesn’t want to, justifying it because Pacifica is “cheating at life”. Understandable, but still underhanded. While Mabel bonds and buries the hatchet with her rival by the end, outright declaring their rivalry to be stupid, Dipper holds onto it, refusing to forgive Pacifica at all. He disapproves of Mabel's offer to give her a ride home afterward, despite the pouring rain and her absent parents. He still wholeheartedly considers her “the worst” and tells her so to her face at the beginning of “Northwest Mansion Mystery”, even though he saw her and Mabel help each other in their fight against the Lilliputtians and Pacifica thank Mabel and accept her apology.

In “The Love God”, Mabel’s compassion is on full display. She makes it apparent that she wants everyone she knows to be happy, to the point of making a chart to show her friends’ feelings with stickers, and goes out of her way to help Robbie just because she doesn’t think any human being should be so lonely and sad. Dipper initially has no sympathy for Robbie’s misery and sees the twins and his old friends leaving him to rot as a good thing.

Dipper is more emotionally invested in hating people and willing to play dirty. Mabel prefers to see the best in people, forgive, deescalate conflict and turn enemies into friends whenever possible, and has more respect for honour and sportsmanship.

Compare the insecurities they highlight in "Society of the Blind Eye". These could have been their last words spoken with their memories of the summer, so they are fully candid and vulnerable.

Mabel confesses, “I only love some of my stuffed animals and the guilt is killing me!” She reprimands herself for not having sincere affection for all the people in her life… who are inanimate objects, hence this being a joke about how immature and overly sentimental she is. But she’s telling the truth! Not being honest about your feelings toward someone who loves you (as toys are assumed to love their kids) is wrong. It’s something a bad, or at least flawed, person would do. We also know that it’s something Mabel can do with real consequences - she loves Dipper unconditionally, but her frequent teasing of him instead of letting this on damages his self-esteem more than she intends and often realizes - and when she does realize as in “Little Dipper”, she’s ashamed of herself. Her guilt is that she’s failing morally, that she hurts the people around her despite her good intentions.

Dipper admits, “Sometimes I use big words and don’t actually know what they mean. I mean, I’m supposed to be the smart guy! If I’m not the smart guy, then who am I?” He primarily thinks of his worth in terms of competence. Dipper is generally not that confident, at this point in time. He has an intense drive to prove his worth. He is acutely aware of his physical and social shortcomings. But the one thing he knows that he does well is analytical, deductive and strategic thinking, and so to always have value he’s built his entire identity around being particularly intelligent. He’s the planner, the mastermind, the guy with the specialized knowledge and important big words who people have no choice but to respect and listen to, because a lifetime of loneliness besides Mabel has taught him that given a choice, they probably won’t. Except just like Mabel’s all-loving attitude, there’s an element of performance. He doesn’t know everything; he’s inherently irrational to a degree like everyone else. So he tries to seem smarter than he is. His guilt is that he’s failing intellectually and practically, that he isn’t contributing enough to be worth something.

This is where Dipper diverges. He wants to be ethically good less than he wants to be good AT things, and respected for it. But they both beat themselves up when they don’t live up to their self-assigned archetypes of All-Loving Hero and The Smart Guy, when they aren’t good enough by their own unreasonably high standards.

"The Last Mabelcorn" deconstructs Mabel’s fixation on her moral perfection. Celestabellabethabelle, who I will henceforth call C-Beth for short, manipulates it to keep her out of the unicorns’ way. She makes manifest Mabel’s fear that she isn’t good enough no matter what she does. We see Mabel push herself further and further to try to prove herself, much like Dipper in episodes like “Dipper vs Manliness”, and emotionally unravel until she’s miserable, self-loathing and openly listing her vices in a way never seen before. But this isn’t productive! Wallowing in shame doesn’t motivate her to be better! She needs to learn that although she isn’t perfect, the virtues she has are good enough to work with to both get out and kick C-Beth out of her head. She decides to stop worrying about meeting an impossible ideal of goodness and just focus on doing good, by using efficient (if violent, and therefore immoral under certain paradigms) methods to protect her family. Her plot in this episode has its detractors and I understand the criticisms that the message wasn’t handled as well as it could have been. But I think it does okay. Mabel definitely reevaluates her need to feel like a good person here. She switches from prioritizing what’s important to her, the validation of being "pure of heart", to what’s important to others and in the bigger picture, simply getting the unicorn hair to keep Bill out of the Mystery Shack.

Finally, compare the twins’ disastrous errors in judgement in “Scary-Oke” and “Dipper and Mabel vs the Future”, when they both accidentally unleash terrible forces of evil upon the town and set in motion a local apocalypse.

Dipper recites an incantation from Journal 3 that causes the dead to rise as bloodthirsty zombies, desperate to prove to the government agents before they leave that the supernatural is real and warrants their help investigating, driven by both his desire for knowledge (his tool to feel secure in himself) and more immediately his fear of being dismissed as unworthy. He is emotionally vulnerable, but still creates the dangerous situation on his own initiative. Since he doesn’t need a blacklight to read the spell and the beginning of the episode established that he’s already familiar with all Journal 3’s visible entries, he knows what the spell would do. He doesn’t realize how many zombies will appear or how dangerous they’ll be. But he is aware that there are risks. Plus, the Shack is hosting a party full of innocent civilians and Mabel has explicitly asked him not to interfere with weirdness. The one thing she told him not to do that night was raise the dead! And what does he do? Raise the dead.

Mabel is actively deceived and manipulated into giving who she believes to be Blendin Blandin, an expert in time-altering technology, what she believes to be an item of such technology, with the intention of warping time to extend the summer for the town. This is a selfish choice. But on top of how emotionally compromised she is, sobbing in despair after “the worst day of [her] life”, consider her internal logic: the end of summer is going to mean the trials and tribulations of growing up for both her and Dipper, and they won’t even have each other if he gets his way; Wendy is already going through that and has told her how awful high school is; she overheard at least some of the Stans’ conversation at the end of “A Tale of Two Stans”, meaning she might know that Stan will have to give up his home and business once the summer is over; and she and Dipper both have true friends here who they will miss and be missed by, as opposed to Piedmont where we only see them supporting and comforting each other and never hear of any friends. And it isn’t like she’s the only one having fun! Stan is happier than ever, Ford is back home, Dipper’s come into his own more than she could ever have anticipated. He’ll still get to delve into the mysteries of this town that he loves so much. But she’ll be there too. If you want more Gravity Falls, you can see where she’s coming from. She genuinely thinks that “just a little more summer” would be a positive experience for everyone, with plenty of good reason. Yes, she’s recklessly messing with powerful forces that she doesn’t understand. Yes, she isn’t nearly as suspicious of this sudden miracle solution as she should be. But she has no evidence that this would harm anyone.

Their responses after making their mistake are also noteworthy. They’re both horrified and remorseful. But Dipper expresses no concern for the agents for the rest of the episode when it looks like they’ve been killed due to his actions. He even nonchalantly remarks that he thought they were dead when he sees them again. Mabel, however, reaches to stop Bill and begs him to “wait” before he knocks her unconscious. Then she’s imprisoned in Mabelland, which is designed to make her never want to leave and based on how it only occurs to her after she renounces it that the neon colours and repetitive background music are too much even for her, may additionally have a direct, though subtle, influence on her mind. So she’s a little distracted from her guilt. But by risking her life to fix the repercussions of her actions and save the town, she shows much more responsibility for the townspeople’s lives than Dipper showed for the agents he’d tried so hard to impress. He just happily went about his business for weeks believing he had two people’s deaths on his conscience. Never even looked into whether they survived.

These differences in their personal moral philosophies add another layer to the parallels between the two generations of Pines twins. Typically, Dipper parallels Ford and Mabel parallels Stan. But less so here! Like Mabel, Ford very staunchly believes in abstract moral theory, namely that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. He holds a grudge for weeks against Stan saving him from being lost in the dimensions through the portal, because it endangered the rest of the world by creating the Rift. It was a good deed with good intentions… but it didn’t only make life better for everyone. To Ford, that means it isn’t good enough. Hmm, which younger twin has a problem with judging anything short of ‘pure good’ to not be worthwhile? Also like Mabel, Ford’s self-righteousness is often hypocritical, considering his pride, selfishness and willingness to disregard the possible negative consequences of his actions, e.g. trusting Bill and building the portal in the first place.

Like Dipper, Stan is willing and ready to use underhanded methods to win against his enemies, to lie, cheat, steal and leverage assets he doesn’t really have the right to. He’s more inclined to be aggressive, spiteful and smug. As for holding grudges, even to an unreasonable extent, he personally despised a nine-year-old child even before he knew that the child was a bad person. He would absolutely summon Rumble McSkirmish to attack a rival for him. He prides himself on his cunning, another form of intelligence, and prioritises being good at what he does best over holding the moral high ground. He is shown to have lifelong insecurities about Ford being better than him in other fields (and thus explicitly valued more by their father); so his pragmatism is his way of trying to always be useful to the people he loves, and indeed a key way he shows them his love.

[leonawriter]

It's funny - from chapter one to the present day, Shinichi's always been more forthcoming with his feelings and confident about what he feels in front of others than Ran?

Like... seriously.

In this image here, set a year pre-canon, Megure says "Ho! So the two of you are on an aquarium date together, are you?" and Shinichi's response is an easy "Oh, does it look like that?" while blushing.

RAN is the one to go "I-it's nothing like that! Nothing like that at all!"

Just like however long it is later in chapter one...

Where she points out how much fan mail he's been getting, assuming that just because Shinichi is getting the fan mail, and that he likes the attention, that means he must be reciprocating some of it, and/or be flirting a lot. She says "I don't mind you going ga-ga over these girls... but you should really narrow it down to one!"

Shinichi's actual response is to go "Down to one, eh..." while giving her a side glance, blushing, as she looks away.

If anything I'd say that this gives a snapshot into how both of them have maladaptive affection styles.

Shinichi, who is mostly left to his own devices and treated as an adult when he's still a child (has lived on his own for several years when he's not yet seventeen), is of course going to look for attention from any avenue he can find it in. He's starved of it from his parents, so he'll take it from others. At the same time, because he takes surface attention from multiple sources, and because his parents are away (meaning he's forced to be self-sufficient) it's hard for him to ask for a specific person's attention. That's on top of his pre-existing difficulties with expressing his own emotions.

Ran, meanwhile, has seen her parents split up and her mother move out, and even here in the flashback she's trying to get them to fall back in love, and move in together... in short, for things to be more like they were when she was a child. However, because of those issues, she seems afraid of committing her emotions to something like this - she feels strongly, so if she gives her heart to someone, she's sure that she's going to get rejected, or hurt.

If anything, it's an inversion of the "girl knows how she feels, boy is oblivious to emotions that aren't to do with fighting, etc" that's prevalent in shounen manga while also fitting their backstories.

(Disclaimer: I'm not a psychologist; the terms seemed to fit but I'm not diagnosing anything.)

[teecupangel]

Hey, what you think about Desmond in Teenwolf universe? Like him working there in bar and eventually help gang with supernatural problems(because well he can fight and doesn't want these teenagers die?)

Oh, man. I was into Teen Wolf years ago so let’s see what we can do with this one.

First of all, we’ll put Desmond in the gap between Season 1 and 2. Why?

Because he’s there to investigate the killings of Season 1. It’s a personal thing.

Well…

It’s connected to Ratonhnhaké:ton because his Bleed of Ratonhnhaké:ton makes him believe that there is something familiar with the way those people were killed by a ‘wild animal’.

He’s not sure if it’s related to a POE though but it’s worth investigating (we will also be moving the timeline of Teen Wolf so S1 happened in 2013 instead of 2011 and this is after Desmond saves the world from the Solar Flare)

The real reason why he’s there though is because he’s supposed to be hiding. After his attack on Abstergo’s Rome facility, Interpol has been on his tail so he needs to lay low for a bit.

We’re also placing him between S1 and S2 so there’s some time for him to integrate himself to the plot. Specifically, he’s working in the Jungle where the problematic teenagers would get themselves in trouble later when the hunt of the Kanima starts.

That’s also when he becomes entangled with the plot because he’s been researching about the ‘new’ killings happening all around Beacon Hills and, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, there were a lot of reds calling themselves ‘hunters’.

Desmond has a feeling that something more was going on.

In this one, Desmond actually spots the teenagers as they enter Jungle because he’s been a bartender long enough to spot problems (and Jungle doesn’t want problem, especially since being a gay club means they’re not unused to some… annoying flies) so he pats the other person working the bar with him, which is a silent signal that he was going to switch to being the teenage bouncer and give their actual bouncer another scolding (seriously, he doesn’t care if sweet boy Danny is planning to graduate early or whatever, he’s still in highschool)

Then he feels it.

Something about these teenagers that alerts him. A ghost of a Bleed from Ratonhnhaké:ton…

And then the Kamina attacks and all hell breaks loose.

Unorganized Notes:

Would absolutely push himself into Derek’s little pack because he sees the cool front that Derek is showing and calls bullshit on it. He doesn’t know they’re werewolves yet but he knows something is up and Derek’s pack has information. Caring for the pack later on was not the plan.

He sees Erica, Boyd and Isaac as recruits in need of care. Derek is annoyed with him though because he keeps butting in to tell him to be nicer or to explain it more and- Desmond has no idea what a Stiles is but he’s probably being insulted, the asshole.

He does learn what a Stiles is because Stiles annoyed him by visiting the club repeatedly. The Drag Queens love him and has adopted him and has band together to stop Desmond from throwing his underage ass out.

Stiles is the one who spills the whole werewolf hunter thing because he thought Desmond’s strange mannerism (“It reminds me of my dad but like… more spec ops?” “You play too many video games, squirt.”) might mean he’s a hunter.

Oh and Stiles being in the club a lot? Yeah. Sheriff Stilinski gets into this whole mess because he’s sus of Desmond. It doesn’t help that Desmond has been teaching Stiles a few tips of how to fight (“Why… why do you know that you should kick off the tail lights of a car if you’re inside the trunk?” “My dad’s a cop, dude. I know how to shoot too. Wanna see?” “With your flailing limbs? Nah, I’m good”)

Desmond is an annoying older brother to both Derek and Stiles. The pack loves him for it.

Scott thinks he’s cool too but he’s a bit wary of him since he’s close to Derek. He’s also worried that he’s being used to pull Stiles to Derek’s pack.

But that’s not really Desmond’s problem at the moment because the Bleed of Ratonhnhaké:ton he’s been ‘feeling’?

That’s because Ratonhnhaké:ton has confronted werewolf hunters before. To be more exact, the Argents during his time in France. Arno Dorian is actually the one who got the wrath of the Argents but that extends to the Brotherhood in general.

The Argents are not Templars but they definitely don’t like the Brotherhood. And Gerard Argent? He has a feeling an Assassin is snooping around their hunting ground. It’s only a matter of time before he finds the rat.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I told a very poor person to stop asking me for money?

(🧍‍♂️💸 for ez finding, names are fake for obv reasons)

I (21, any prns) met Pink (21, she/they) in a fandom-specific RP server about a year ago. Everyone was (and still is) very nice, including Pink, the server owner. Pink and her family are very poor, barely even making rent, and she often plugged her donation posts in the server announcements channel (this happened a lot. at one point there was even a donations channel just for her). I didn't really mind because desperate times call for desperate measures, ya gotta do what ya gotta do, y'know?

About nine months ago (mid september) I decided to pay something for her (it was either the remains of her rent or her meds, I forgot which). I did it because I felt like it, and it wasn't much. I figured if I could make someone's life a little easier, I might as well. Then about a month later (last week of October) she DM'd me, also about meds. She seemed apologetic and honestly kinda desperate. I figured if she was going this far it was probably by necessity, so I sent money again. She asked about paying me back, but I declined the offer since when I give people money I pretty much expect it to be Gone lol. She asked me again for money twice within that week for some Emergency Essentials. I obliged the first time but gently refused the second. I work retail, I'm not made of money...

She didn't contact me again about this until early December, due to an overdraft. I declined because of a vet appointment and also Xmas shopping. Plus, I was in kind of a tight spot myself at the time (from around Nov-March I had to be really careful with my spending). She asked again in mid-December for rent money, to which I obliged. It was the last time I gave her anything. She then had *another* rent emergency at the very end of December, which I refused because I Have Bills. I should mention that some of these emergencies were not posted publicly (i.e. in the server) - she was asking me, personally, for help. Nobody else, at least as far as I know. Maybe she DMs everyone who sends money her way. I have no way of knowing.

In mid-January she asked me again for rent money, to which I politely declined due to my own financial struggles, and stated that I probably wouldn't be in a better position to donate until April. She seemed to understand and wished me well.

...until recently. She's made a habit of asking me for money again. Not as frequently as before (about once every 2-3 months. she did this in late May and again around march), but it does happen. I thought about telling her off the first time, but I wanted to compose myself lest I say something really mean, but by the time I felt like responding, she deleted it. Maybe she realized it was embarrassing? I don't know. This also happened with the May message. I was super inactive in the server by then due to being busy with Life Stuff. I've wanted to chat in it again lately because everyone else (including Pink, at least in overall demeanor) but it's kind of awkward when I have the literal owner DMing me for cash every few months.

At this point, I'm at the end of my rope. I want her to stop. It makes me seriously uncomfortable how she only ever contacts me to ask for money. Not even my closest friends of almost a decade - who also have financial struggles of their own - would ask me personally for money, and Pink is barely more than a friendly acquaintance. But at the same time I know she's only doing any of that *because* her situation is so desperate. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and it feels rather two-faced to turn my back on her now.

WIBTA?

[mothmanssweetsucculentass]

Clockwork Headcanons

Yknow, Clockwork is another OG/classic Creepypasta fandom character I never really touched all that much. I don’t think I ever had any issues with her as a character nor her ships or anything like that, she just wasn’t that interesting to me.

Also this should go without saying but just in case, I don’t endorse anything any of the OG creators have done in terms of bad shit. I heard clockwork’s creator was added to the list of “OG CRP creators that are POS” and. Yeah.

Expect canon typical dark topics beyond this point

Is physical the oldest human resident out of everyone, somewhere in her early 30s

Is the newest resident, however

When she was a little kid, she lost her eye in an archery accident at a summer camp

Usually wears an eyepatch, but does have a glass eye underneath

The older she got the more expressive she got with her fashion, especially steampunk related things. Has both a clock themed eye and a working watch face on her eyepatch

Wears a dark green coat with many pockets and belts that’s two sizes too big for her

Has her hair cut really short, chin length and a spiky scruffy mess

Has a military family, specifically her father and grandfather. Her father wanted a boy but got stuck with Nat and her sister instead

If he was still alive today he would’ve gotten what he wanted cause surprise, Nat’s sibling ended up transitioning when he was 20

Due to the harsh way Nat was raised (corporal punishment, like I’m talking her father believed in more than just spankings) she has a pretty high pain tolerance and an even higher disdain for authority and discipline

And because of that she’s also very brash and blunt. She’s not mean on purpose but she’ll call it how she sees it

The BIGGEST IDGAF Queen like holy shit Nat doesn’t care about anything anymore

It’s not that she doesn’t have motivations, but it takes A LOT to get any kind of reaction out of her

Nothing fazes her anymore, which is why most of the residents have stopped bothering in trying to make her tick

Has one of if not the smallest hair trigger among the others. She’s a stab first questions later kinda guy

All this impulsivity isn’t for nothing though, she’s specifically an impulsive chaotic mess because of how unfazed she is by shit

She’s constantly chasing every new high she can get her hands on just so she can feel something other than all her repressed trauma. Which she has a lot of

But I mean so does everyone else, she ain’t special

Because of how new she is, her disobedience has relatively gone unnoticed by the head honcho, but Clockwork will continue to keep living the way she is even if punishment is in store for her

The others swear up and down that she’s gotta be a masochist at this point

She’s not as durable as Nina or Jeff, but what she lacks in bulk she makes up for in whoop ass

No but seriously if you were to spar with her she’d knock you on your ass before you could blink

Yeah she’s pretty adept with bladed weapons and handguns, but her real strength is her bare hands

The one thing she’s grateful her father and grandfather taught her is self defense and combat

Unfortunately that too came to bite her in her ass

Spent a few years in juvie after beating the snot out of one kid within an inch of his life, all because the poor kid made fun of her.

It wasn’t even a good scathing insult either, it was barely anything, but Nat reacted way out of proportion

She brags to the others that she’s been to and made it through prison already. Even though she hasn’t. I doubt any of them fully believe her

Because of her problem child tendencies, her family disowned both her and her sibling before either turned 18

Her brother was able to get a steady foot back on life, but Nat? Well…

She’d pick up a lot of odd jobs to stay afloat. Most ended up being more on the illegal side

But hey, being hired muscle pays well enough, so for nearly a decade she continued this line of work

Until the boss of her boss’s boss pissed off the wrong guy. And let’s just say no one who had connections to that specific guy got to make it out alive

Nat was kidnapped, tortured, and forced to endure all kinds of inhumane shit before they dumped her body in the woods

By all accounts they swear up and down she died, or was basically on the way out when they dumped her

But a couple months after her and her colleagues were disposed of, talk of “the grunt with the eyepatch is back” began circulating in the crime world

She’s littered with a lot of scars now because of this, including the scars on her cheeks she’s constantly stitching up

Nat isn’t as hellbent on revenge as someone like Ann is, but she certainly revels in taking out anyone associated with her murder

Is friends/close with: Jane, Nina, Puppeteer, and Jeff

Has a tolerable relationship with/is neutral about: Eyeless Jack, Liu, Ann, Masky, Hoody, Sally, and Kagekao

Hates: BEN/Ben, Helen, Jason, and LJ

Doesn’t give two shits about Slenderman. She doesn’t hate it, she doesn’t love it, all she does is acknowledge the fact it’s what’s keeping her alive

Is in an on-again-off-again relationship with Jane. Buuuuuut because of her intense nonchalance, the two are constantly going on breaks. Nat swears she cares about Jane genuinely, but so far her actions have yet to match her words.

A lot of the others dislike her solely because of how new she is. That, and her abrasive personality

So it’s no wonder she gets along with Jeff pretty well

After adapting to her new “life” living alongside other monsters and criminals, one of the first things Nat did was go out and kill her father

Her grandfather had long since passed even before the family disowned her and her brother, but she knew for a fact her father was still kicking

Besides the whole raised military thing and physical abuse, Nat’s father was generally a piece of shit guy

The kind of guy that’s all smiles in public but behind closed doors is a menace to his family

I’m talking shitty father of the year award here

Luckily, Nat’s mother finally gained enough sense to divorce his ass after news of Nat’s “murder” went public. Because Nat was fully willing to kill her too if it meant leaving no witnesses

No one’s ever really asked her about how she feels about her past life, it’s a touchy subject for anyone living this life, but if she were to be approached about it, she wouldn’t be able to give you a straight answer on if she misses it

Like yeah, a lot of them miss their old lives and desperately want to go back. Jeff, Eyeless Jack, Ben, Sally, Tim, Jane, Liu. But Nat? She falls more in line with the likes of Helen and Brian. She’s just not willing to admit it yet.

[very-bad-poetry-captain]

TOS book review McCoy edition – Dreams of the Raven

I joked that one day I’d write a book review based on specific McCoy questions… A McCoy meter if you will. Well, I decided to do it! Not to be taken too seriously except that my love for McCoy (and his suffering) is no joke. Contains some spoilers for the book.

Title: Dreams of the Raven Author: Carmen Carter. Year published: 1987

To summarize the book in two sentences:

McCoy loses his memory in the middle of a mission and thinks he’s in his early twenties again. This is fun for exactly no one. 

Official plot summary:

A merchant ship’s frantic SOS sends the Enterprise speeding to the rescue! But the starship’s mission of mercy soon becomes a desperate struggle for survival against a nightmarish enemy Captain Kirk can neither identify nor understand, an enemy he must defeat without the aid of one of his most trusted officers. For the Leonard McCoy Kirk knew is gone. In his place stands a stranger – a man with no memory of his Starfleet career, his family, his friend or the one thing James T. Kirk needs most of all… his dreams.

This book is for you if you:

would love to study McCoy under a microscope

enjoy exciting mystery plots

have a strong stomach (trigger warning for gore/body horror/autopsy scenes)

The ultimate McCoy questionnaire (below the read-more):

Is McCoy in it? McCoy is the main character and the main problem and somehow also the solution.

Is McCoy in it a lot? So much. But it’s mostly the amnesiac McCoy that no one likes mean. Somehow the “young” McCoy gets it in his head that the “old” McCoy should die for his crimes (that is, being human enough to have made mistakes throughout life) and it’s up to the young McCoy to quit Starfleet and start his life over. I’d say half the book revolves around this plot (to my great amusement).

Does he get to be concerned over whatever angst has befallen Kirk lately? It’s the opposite around – Kirk gets to worry himself sick over McCoy :3 The young McCoy doesn’t even remember who Kirk is. Kirk is extremely upset by this (yay!) and really wants his bestie back. Quote from Kirk (barely controlled rage): “It’s your duty as a doctor, as my ship’s surgeon… […] Somewhere inside of you is a man who would stop at nothing to save a friend’s life, to save any life, no matter what the personal cost. It was that quality that made him the best medical officer in Star Fleet. If you don’t have that same passion for the value of life, you’ll never be half the doctor he was. Or half the man.”

Does he get to have silly little arguments with Spock?                  Yes, of course, Spock can’t resist him. They were literally arguing when McCoy got knocked over and lost his memories. After that everyone is sad and depressed because young McCoy refuses to argue with Spock.

Is he the damsel in distress?                    Well, he’s in a lot of distress, that’s for sure. But he gets some action scenes at the end… More like he’s treating himself like a damsel in distress to the detriment of everyone around him. At least we can assume that Spock carried a bleeding McCoy through the ship to Sickbay, since Spock was with him when he hit his head and Kirk reminisces later over Spock being covered in blood… And everyone is very worried about him.

Does he suffer, preferably a lot? Physical and/or psychological torment                          He suffers a lot initially… Then he makes everyone else suffer for a change. Why would you do this, McCoy? Just hurt everyone you love? I just wish he’d remembered it afterwards so he could suffer from guilt, too. That would have been delicious. The book starts off with shore leave being cancelled, and then a lot of the crew get hurt and several die. McCoy comes out of hours upon hours of surgery with trembling hands and a lot of angst. He does fun things like staring at pictures of dead aliens, reading an e-mail from his ex-wife and getting drunk before dropping into bed. Then, of course, after too little sleep he knocks his head so hard he loses his memories and wakes up in Sickbay (and he truly is the worst patient ever). The young McCoy is tormented by not remembering half of medical school, hearing about all the terrible mistakes the old McCoy has done throughout life, and seeing wrinkles on his face in the mirror. Also he’s pretty useless as an officer and can’t remember having ever done surgery on a living being before. Quote from young McCoy: “Since when does Star Fleet hire doctors with an instinct for self-annihilation? No wonder I became chief medical officer. Promotion due to a high rate of casualties.” <-Words from a man whose colleagues knew he’d volunteer to beam into a dangerous situation. If only he knew how much danger he’d volunteered for in the twenty-five years he’s forgotten…

Does he get to whine and complain and be right about it? Even better is he wrong about it?                        He whines A LOT and he is extremely WRONG about it. It’s a miracle no one grabs him by the collar and shakes him around.

Does he get to throw some of that southern charm around?                         Yeah, on the wrong person. Terrible. And extremely fascinating. The young doctor in charge of getting his memories back is no match for young McCoy’s advances, and honestly, who can blame her? Who needs workplace professionalism when you can get your heart broken by sleeping with your boss while his memories are gone. And poor Spock catches them kissing… I’m pretty sure this is why no one tells McCoy what happened afterwards when his memories return. Too awkward.

Does he get to do some medical malpractice?                         Yes, actually, if you count incapacitating aliens as medical malpractice. But mainly he gets to forget everything he ever learned and get it back just in time to take over from the sucky doctor no one likes to save the day. Heroic. (But why is the second most senior doctor on the ship an asshole no one likes? They should have put Chapel in charge or something… I mean obviously it’s because then everyone gets to commiserate over how McCoy is a much better CMO and boss, but still. I have questions.)

Does Spock call him illogical or similar?                         Spock COMPLIMENTS him. What is the world coming to? Better yet – young McCoy calls Spock “sir” and is super polite to him and Spock hates it. And Spock gets the dubious honor of training an amnesiac McCoy for landing party duty. Literally just drills McCoy on protocol for hours so he won’t die. Quote from young McCoy: “Diana must have been pulling my leg about fighting with Spock. I’d rather wrassle a Bengal tiger than cross that man.”

Is he forcibly put through his arch nemesis the transporter? Or the dress uniform? Quote from young McCoy: “You put human beings in that unholy device?”

Does Kirk call him handsome (joke or not this happens more than you'd think)? Not really :/

Bonus points if his accent is pronounced and his speech is full of befuddling southern expressions which make Spock question McCoy's sanity (and me wondering if I need a dictionary) I think they could have had more fun with young McCoy having an accent. But the book does get bonus points for young McCoy’s last memory being that he was thrown off a horse at a ranch (apparently a great way to relax from medical school is riding half-wild young horses? And this from a man who is afraid of transporters…) and therefore gets to have a I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore… kind of moment.

Criticisms/things I’d change:

Much like in The search for Spock, there’s a serious lack of McCoy/Spock closure at the end of the book. Also, I’d remove the weird romance young McCoy has with the other doctor on the Enterprise that he conveniently forgets about when his memories return. Plus, even though the title literally includes the word dreams there are barely any dreams in the book. They could have spent a little bit more time showing him sweating and moaning from nightmares… alas we were robbed.

Highlights:

The reason McCoy’s memories return (not gonna spoil it). The way Spock and Jim obviously miss him a lot. The mission plot which is really interesting. A very good, slightly insane book! Definitely a recommended read!

Final McCoy meter: 9/10 would read again

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hey! I was just wondering if you have any ideas of how I can display the fact that a character has aged (not necessarily from adult to elder but just in general) without describing appearance. I’ve tried searching it up but they never really want into detail or they simply advised on changing the character slightly as in giving them old fashioned hobbies. I’m sorry if this has already been answered or does not simply have a direct way and must be decided by the author. Again I am very sorry if this has already been asked I really don’t mind if you either direct me to the answer or copy and paste it if so :)

Showing a Character Has Aged

When it comes to illustrating that someone has aged, you basically have four choices: describe physical characteristics that illustrate age, describe physical activities that illustrate age, indicate the passage of time, flat-out state that the character has aged.

The problem is that aging isn't a wildly specific thing. People don't take on certain physical characteristics, appearance, or activities at exactly the same age. While there are certainly some activities and behaviors that are broadly specific to age categories, age is not accurately defined by behavior, thought process, personality, etc.

If I say, "The last time I'd seen my nephew he was barely crawling, and now he was not just walking, but climbing on everything..." that's a pretty good indicator that this child has aged. But how much? Because babies don't all learn to crawl at the exact same age, or learn to walk at the exact same age for that matter. Some babies skip crawling and go straight to walking. Other babies seem like they'll never go from crawling to walking and suddenly do. This child could be two weeks older than last time or two years older. It isn't clear at all.

Complicating things is the fact that physical appearance is also not a good indicator of age. I mean... as I've pointed out in the past, Paul. Rudd:

Carrol O'Connor (on the left) is the same age in that photo as Paul Rudd is in the photo on the right (both are early 50s here). And while things like hairstyle and fashion do have an impact on how we view someone's age, some people just get wrinkles/gray hair/gain weight/lose muscle tone sooner or later than others.

And, the advice to "give them old-fashioned hobbies" is terrible. "Old-fashioned hobbies"? What, like candle-making and churning butter? What does that even mean? Maybe these people view hobbies like knitting, stamp collecting, and wood-working as "old-fashioned," but I guarantee those are hobbies that are broadly enjoyed by young people to this day.

If I write, "She sat on the couch lovingly knitting a sweater," that tells me nothing about her actual age because:

And, again, the woman on the left could be sixteen or thirty-five, and the woman on the right could be sixty-two or eighty-six.

So, outside of flat out stating that a character has aged, your best bet is to use a combination of these methods to get the point across...

"It had been over ten years since I last saw Mr. Smith. At the time, he'd recently returned from hiking in the Alps. Now he was hunched over a walker, his formerly salt-and-pepper hair now stark white. The deep grooves that had once made his face look handsome and worldly now made him look wizened and tired."

Between stating the amount of time that has passed (over ten years), physical activities (hunched over a walker vs hiking in the alps), and physical appearance (white hair and tired wrinkles vs salt-and-pepper hair and handsome lines), it is very clear that Mr. Smith has aged quite a bit in the decade since the POV character last saw them.

I hope that helps!

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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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