#one day in england and he’s off the rails

[mikeyvinyl]

i don’t know what it is about milton keynes or what was in the air on that day but it made gerard absolutely unhinged on night one. the outfit, the voice effects, the story of his new outdoor cat that brings him gifts in the form of dead rats. yeah.

#one day in england and he’s off the rails #what the fuck #gerard way #frank iero #mikey way #ray toro #mcr #my chemical romance #three cheers for sweet revenge #i brought you my bullets you brought me your love #the black parade #danger days #rock #music #tua

[patrollingboston]

141 Beach Episode // Cod x Reader

You know how in every good show there's a beach episode? Yeah this is theirs.

The 5 of you were sat in a truck with the aircon blasting. Price was dramatically fanning himself with his boonie hat. With one hand placed on the steering wheel. You had just finished a week-long mission and it left you all somewhere on the east coast with the sun beating down with no mercy. You were so uncomfortable, dressed head to toe in full gear practically sweltering in it.

“Not used to this bloody heat.”

  Soap sighed placing a hand to his forehead to relieve his brow of sweat.

“I’ve got the aircon.”

 Gaz smirked, of course he was fine he was sat in the front seat with cold air blasting directly onto him. You were squished between Ghost and Soap, plus he always wore a sunhat and sunglasses even in the rain.

“How ghost isn’t a puddle yet I have no clue.”

You stated, glancing over at ghost who was dressed in all black with his mask still pinned down onto his face yet he didn’t show a single sign of discomfort.

“Can you even breathe? Isn’t it like being trapped under a blanket?”

“I can breathe fine.”

He grunted not sounding amused by your questions.

“Look at tha’ ain’t it a pretty view.”

Soap said tapping on the truck window, everyone’s eyes glanced to meet where he was pointing. You were greeted with the sight of a gorgeous white sandy beach with the clearest sea water you had ever seen with families playing in the sand and surfers utilizing the waves.

“The things I would give to dive in those waves.”

 You said groaning, resting your head back in the seat knowing you had a hot and uncomfortable 6+ flight ahead of you to get back to base in England not to mention the drive to even get to the airport.

“Can’t we stop for a bit? The missions all done and dusted, surely, they don’t need us back that hastily.”

Gaz asked turning to face the captain with a cheesy grin plastered across his face.

“I could use a pint. I’m sweating like a fucking pig. We only have a few hours but I think we could all use a break.”

“Make that two.”

 Ghost’s gruff voice chimed in his mood perking up at the promise of a cold beer.

“I think everyone here wants a bloody pint.”

A few moments later the 5 of you were all stood on the beach boardwalk, you removed your boots and placed them by the railing before stepping onto the soft, warm sand.

“I have never ever stepped on sand so soft oh my-“

You wondered how long it had been before you stood barefoot on a beach. Probably not since you were a child on a day trip with your family.

“Shit the sands a bit hot ain’t it?”

Soap said as she stepped onto the sand beside you, shifting from foot to foot as he complained about the temperature once again.

“I’ll go grab us some drinks, find a spot I’ll come find you all.”

 Price said before stepping up the stairs and walking towards the crowded beach bar on the boardwalk.

Ghost, who was still dressed fully in his gear stomped behind you scouting the beach for a place to sit like it was the toughest decision he ever had to make.

“Here.”

He said pointing to a peaceful square of the beach, not too far from the shore.

You all placed your backpacks down and set a towel down for yourself. Ghost was wrestling with the beach umbrella to get it stood up.

“Whose going for a swim?”

Soap said with a huge smile on his face as he stripped off his t shirt leaving him in his cargo shorts.

“You go first mate, tell us how cold it is eh?”

Gaz joked, pushing soap slightly closer the seafront.

“Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’ll go!”

 You said, removing your jacket and vest leaving you in a tank top and some old cargo shorts dumping by your backpack them away from the shore so the waves didn’t steal them.

You jogged down to the water front stood beside Soap and Gaz.

“Whose going to make the first move then?”

You all stood in a line, hands on hips inspecting the water as it broke in front of you. As you spoke Soap dived headfirst into a wave like a goofy dolphin. He stuck his head up like an seal, running his hands through his mohawk and wiping the salty water off his face.

“Is it cold?”

 You shouted through the crashing waves.

“Nah, its refreshing.”

He shouted back before running through the water back onto the shore to stand beside the two of you.

“I don’t know if I’m that hot anymore you know-“

You said backing off after feeling the  ‘refreshing’ water splash over your feet and ankles sending little shockwaves through you.

With that statement Soap placed two hands on your waist and lifted you up into the air before placing you over his shoulder like a fireman would carrying someone out a burning building.

“DON’T YOU DARE SOAP, I MEAN IT.”

You screamed thumping his back in fear as he stepped into the freezing ocean once again. Gaz stood on the shore filming the entire situation laughing at your misfortune. Ghost sat watching from afar under a big shady umbrella pint in hand with Price sat beside him reading something, smoking one of his cigars as per usual.

“Ready?”

Soap teased as he began to hoist you up even further before throwing you into the sea with a huge splash. The cold water shocked you at first but after a few seconds, soap was right. It was kind of refreshing. You popped your head up out the water with a frown.

“I hate you asshole.”

“You weren’t going to get in I had no choice-“

You pushed a big wave of water his way aiming for his face secretly hoping the salt would burn his eyes.

“GAZ GET IN.”

Gaz stepped into the water with haste joining you and soap.

“We going play mermaids or what?”

You asked with a chuckle as the 3 of you treaded water in a circle.

“I would prefer to drown Soap.”

Gaz said before dunking soaps head back under the water.

About an hour later you sat on the beach wrapped in your towel, drying off in the sun.

“Been a while since I’ve been able to relax on a beach.”

Price spoke, he was leant back on a sun lounger his hat placed over his face shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

“Thought you were asleep old man.”

Ghost chuckled.

“Can we take a photo?”

You asked bringing out your super old digital camera you dragged around on every single mission.

The 5 of you gathered in closer. Gaz throwing up a peace sign. Soaps arm slung around ghost and a beer held loosely in the other. Captain Price sat up placing his hands on your shoulders. Your smiles were all wide (you would like to believe ghost’s was too) as the light of the setting sun glowed on your faces.

That day was a good day.

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #john soap mactavish #soap x reader #call of duty fluff #call of duty x reader #captain john price #captain price #captain price x reader #cod fanfiction #cod angst #cod oneshot #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfiction #soap call of duty #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #soap cod #ghost x reader #cod mw2 #gaz cod #ghost call of duty #cod #captain price fanfic #fanfic

[lonelycowgirls]

Harry and Stella at LOT Wembley

Liked by annetwist, dolly_mallonex and others

stellamallone ready to melt for 2/4 nights in Wembley, still can't quite believe I'm saying that 🫠

View all 13 comments

gemmastyles can't wait to see you! Stay hydrated 🥰

dolly_mallonex on fire baby G!

annetwist our boy is home ❤️

↳stellamallone Manny will always be home ❤️

harrystyles not a lot of melting to be done in all those layers 🙃

↳stellamallone you love it

13 June 2023

Liked by gemmastyles, MummaMallone and others

dolly_mallonex the girlies are OUT for Love on Tour

View all 984 comments

stellamallone I can't believe we're dressed like this for a gig in ENGLAND 🥵

↳dolly_mollonex only because @mayajama said it's time for the summer of lurrrve

↳mayajama killing it chicassss 🤌

↳stellerrrr let me innnnnnn

harryshoes the friends and family box is about to be FULL full tonight 🥹

sideboobrry @dolly_mallonex show us Stella and Harry!!!

carlybaby11 Stella's getting railed tonight

↳frankiejane that's her baby sister y'all 😭😭

↳harrytheone you guys are too much 😅

14 June 2023

Liked by court_xo, tbslamber and others

harryflorals ANNE ACCEPTING FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS FROM FANS DURING WEMBLEY NIGHT TWO via adoreyoualice

View all 1,437 comments

cruel_summerrr she is the cutest!

raven3333 I love how she interacts with fans

sweetchels13 she's so like Harry fr

↳ginacorrin like mother like son 🥹

harrysgirl I love herrr, saw Stella and her sister with Anne and Gemma too

↳ari_love We saw her too! She's so small!

↳rinaaaaa Yeah she's super small and cute 😍

↳kristbsl she must be so proud of her boyf

↳larry4life if only it was real 🙄

14 June 2023

Liked by lilyrose05, stellamallone and others

harry_update Harry looking like a sculpture on stage at Wembley Stadium! June 17 via nikkimariejpg

View all 1,064 comments

adore.starry Stella liking this is so me coded

sweetcreature22 STELLA LIKED

tori_wilks how does he look like thisssss

uma.clarke2 Have you seen the state of his body

freddiejones I can't keep going like this 😩😩😩

lilyrose05 he's fucking shredded 😩

becca_jane Stella's getting this every day... let that sink in

↳tbslamber STOP HSDOSJCNKS

↳mylarry you spelled Louis wrong

↳becca_jane @mylarry be serious 🤣

17 June 2023

Liked by stellamallone, starrylove and others

dolly_mallonex wishing my bb an amazing trip to Italy with her bb @stellamallone

View all 2,345 comments

harrystyles thank you for dropping us off Dolls ❤️

↳dolly_mallonex no bother, I'm always up at half four in the morning... 😉

↳stellamallone Harry singing Holiday by Madonna at the top of his lungs didn't help 🙄

↳harrystyles heyyyy

↳starrylove PUBLIC INTERACTION???

↳tbslamber do you believe in miracles???!!!

annetwist have a fabulous time you two ❤️

19 July 2023

Liked by foreverharry, italrry20 and others

harryflorals HARRY ARRIVING IN ITALY THIS MORNING via italrry23

View all 1,966 comments

sideboobrry this fit

harryshouse_x welcome to the final show 😭

tina.snow.33 how do we never get pap pics of Stella anymore 🤔

↳hannasmith probably because ya'll scarred her back in 2014 🙄🙄

↳kirstyloml I'm glad tbh my heart can't handle

elenavatore Harry waved at us through the window of his car today! I think they're heading to his villa ❤️

19 July 2023

Liked by harrystyles, gemmastyles and others

stellamallone thirteen years <3 one guess who Delilah's favourite parent is...

So proud of this smiley man. Love on Tour has been the perfect celebration of your talent, music, kindness and love. Four sold out nights at Wembley fucking Stadium. I'll never get over what you can accomplish. What an achievement.

The love your fans have and show for you inspires me to strive to be the most adoring and supportive partner that you deserve... most of the time 😉

We're now where we're meant to be. Together, eating all the pasta and gelato we can possibly stomach, sipping on Aperol Spritz's in the sunshine - our true natural habitat.

That reminds me, next round's on you, Gorgeous.

View all 52 comments

annetwist The greatest of blessings ❤️

dolly_mallonex We're all so proud of our H!

zayn 🤍

MummaMallone Can't wait for our big family holiday soon. ❤️

↳stellamallone Can't believe it's finally happening!!! 😍

niallhoran Love to you both

harrystyles you make it all worth it, Stell x

harrystyles and Lilah knows where the good cuddles come from

24 July 2023

Liked by izzypope, stellaflorals and others

harryflorals HARRY POSTED AND DELETED A PICTURE OF STELLA IN ITALY ON HIS STORY! via harrystyles

View all 4,376 comments

starryforever Crying real tears 💔

toriiii_x he's in his feels

harryholics guys what if he proposes on this vacation

↳tbslamber omg we could see fiancerry by HS4

↳oliviamac don't 🫠

↳kiwidaddy FINALLY

georgieanne This dress she served 😍

jamiestyles_xo He's in photographer boyfriend mode 💘

carly_d what a beautiful sunset ✨

willowshouse Luckiest bitch in the world confirmed

24 July 2023

Hope you enjoyed this piece of absolute self-indulgence because I want this to be my life 😂

Okay, bye!

Nel xo

#harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles angst #harry styles fic rec #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles fake ig #harry styles fake social media #harry styles love on tour #harry styles fake instagram #harry styles fluff #harry styles x oc #starry <3 #starry forever

[whirlybirbs]

100% support the slutty norrington one off <3

WINE-EYED  ;  j.n.

summary: you loved him once. set during potc:dmc.

pairing: james norrington x f!reader

tags: unrequited love, angst, comfort, a dash of injury and worry, flashbacks to port royal & powdered wigs, a nice dock makeout scene

a/n: bro idk. bro IDK. had some pirate thoughts and then this 3.6k mess happened.

"You always did love her."

Those words, raw and cold from your lips, feel like salt in a wound — as stinging as the sea whipping James Norrington’s sun-split cheeks. The warmth of the setting sun does little to melt your icy disposition, and the ex-Commodore’s well-stoked and unbridled self-loathing rears once more.

He deserves that.

It’s evening, now. Most of the crew has settled below deck for well-earned rest and picking over supper — and you’re here, avoiding the raucous company in lieu of this. Quiet. Peace.

It’s not something you’ve had for weeks now, following Lizzy around the sea in chase of wandering loves and willful compasses and some still-beating heart in a long, lost chest.

She’s with Jack, now — chatting quietly in the evening air as they continue to plot a course by the stern. Far enough away that they’re in their own little world, as muddled and confusing as that thing between them is. Far enough away that James can stare, and wonder, and reminisce in heartwrenching loneliness.

At the sound of your voice, his head snaps forward along the horizon. He stiffens. James leans on the port banister and exhales.

“Have you come to mock me, then?” he replies in that same smooth voice you’d loved long ago — but it’s bitter and harsh, like the sting of an expensive whiskey.

You lean against the mass and cross your arms. The Eastern wind is cool — but it carries the edge of a coming storm. Give it two or three days, you reckon.

You cross your arms over your chest, and the barrel of your long rifle sways against your back. It’s cool through the thin cotton of your billowed blouse.

Your eyes slip coolly across his posture. The tumble of dark, salt-curled strands are pulled loosely into a blue ribbon. He doesn’t turn to face you, and instead turns his eyes to the honeyed-rose sunset dwindling along the horizon.

You deserve that.

You push off the mast and swagger forward. You come to rest beside him, and plant your calloused palms on the weathered wood of the Pearl’s railing.

“Pray, how is that mockery?” you say lightly, though your tone is sharp. Confident. Sure as the setting sun, “It is but the God’s honest truth.”

For the first time since he’s come aboard, he turns his head and looks at you then — truly looks at you.

James realizes then that you are not the woman he once knew in Port Royal.

There’s a new scar on your cheek. Your hair is different — styled in a more practical sense than perfectly placed like he remembers. You lack ribbons and rouge and petticoats. You’ve dawned trousers and boots and belts and sashes.

The only thing he recognizes is that rifle on your back.

You always were an impressive shot.

Though sport was rare on the island of Port Royal, your reputation followed you from England. Your father, the Governor’s Treasurer, took every chance he could to boast about his daughter’s accomplishments. James remembers many a dinner where you sat, as soft and doe-eyed and girlish as could be, and sported a bashful smile at the praise.

You were different from Elizabeth.

You always had been.

While Elizabeth had been infallible — high, and unattainable on a pedestal he’s half-aware he built himself — you had been present and interested and kind. It was clear you held a spot in your heart from the Commodore, even then. Even when he was intent on having Lizzy’s hand. Even when his attention was always wrung from conversation by her approach.

Even when he left, heartbroken and intent on chasing pirates.

You can feel his eyes on you.

His words are slow and very serious. “I’m not in the mood for jests, my lady.”

The jab doesn’t land. You continue on, unbothered.

“There was a time I would do anything for you to look at me like that, you know,” comes your easy reply as you move to crawl atop the cannon to your right. You perch yourself with ease. There’s a moment of silence that settles between you and James feels an uneasy itch crawl into his heart, “God, I would have thrown myself from the Fort’s cliffs, even.”

You never admitted your feelings for him.

Not before now.

He knew, God, of course, he did. Of course.

But, he’d been blind, then. Ignorant to the devotion of one woman, eagerly chasing the untouchable affection of another.

Finally, you look at him, and he feels like it’s ten years past again — and you’re chatting in a quiet room at a boisterous dinner party over the ethics and intricacies of Queen Anne’s privateering laws. He remembers the candlelight and the companionship and the comfort.

You were friends, once.

Your voice is quiet, carried away by the wind. You watch him, albeit distantly.

“Now look at us.”

Two tired souls, each as lost as the other.

With a flick, your gaze finds his. James’ eyes are the color of sea glass — they search yours for a moment before his jaw tenses and he drops his gaze to the water.

He’s quiet for a while, and so are you. For now, it’s just the calm swell of the sea. The sun has all but extinguished now, and the stars are creeping up over your back.

His voice is softer now.

“I doubt an apology would mend much of anything.”

You screw your face uptight. You move to pull your knees up. You’re quick to placate the assumption with a dry laugh. “I didn’t come up here seeking an apology—”

James straightens his posture and turns, fully allowing you to occupy his attention. “Then why did you come to me at all?”

His voice was colder than he intended.

You wince.

Years of loneliness, of regret, of shame, of guilt — they’ve all eroded the soul he had before. He’s as changed as you. Propriety would once call that this conversation be chaperoned; now, he finds himself yearning for a moment alone with you.

His eyes snap away again.

“...It’s what I owe you,” he says — this time, purposefully softening each syllable to paint his intent; he tries to placate the ache he sees in your face, “You... You were always kind to me. Even when I hardly deserved it. Even now.”

His eyes are soft.

Your lashes flutter.

“...It was always impossible to be anything but kind to you, James Norrington.”

He’d forgotten how his name sounded on your tongue — coy, gentle and warm. Sweeter than he remembers now, punctuated by the briefest slip of a smile. It leaves with the passing wind.

With that, you slip down from your perch and slip away.

James watches you climb to the Crow’s Nest — agile and graceful — and wonders why he ever let himself forgo your affections in the first place.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The storm rears upon them sooner than anyone expected.

It’s as if in an instant, the Pearl is swallowed by clouds darker than it’s pitch-colored sails. The electric snap of lightning splits the sky open, and in the span of five minutes, the Pearl careens into the worst storm First Mate Joshamee Gibbs has seen in ten years.

The winds send waves high — and in the chaos of bone-rattling impacts upon the deck, the crew is sent into a scramble trying to maintain the heading. They’ll lose day's worth of travel if they let the storm have her way.

The rain is coming down so heavy that James Norrington can barely see — all he can hear is the hoarse barks of orders by Gibbs and the roar of the thunder and his own thoughts.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men.

His back burns as his hands grip the sea-slick ropes and he heaves, pulling taut the mainsail with four men at his back. A wave slams them from the starboard side and sends a line of sailors tumbling — and James gulps for air when the ice water strikes him hard. But, he stands firm. Keeps hauling.

Tripoli. The Dauntless. Hundreds of men—

It’s your voice, suddenly, that cuts through the roar of the storm.

“HOLD FAST!”

The starboard side is being battered by the wind and the waves and the rain. Hit after hit, the crew tries to maintain footing as they adjust the sails to correct the heading — and now, you’ve planted yourself at the front of the line.

James’ head snaps to you — and he watches a wave nearly ten feet high slam down on the deck, directly atop your head.

Somehow, you stay upright.

But, it’s like drowning.

Your hair clings to you in wind-whipped tendrils of snarls. Your shirt is soaked through, and the chill is settling into your bones. Still, better down here than up in the Crow’s Nest. The mast, at that thought, groans loudly under the push of the wind. Your boots slip, and you stagger back as you try to haul the sails back to the position — behind you, Gibbs is braced.

Your hands are bleeding.

Lightning cracks close, and you try to breathe.

“BRACE!” suddenly comes the hard call of Gibbs in your ear — but it’s neither too late nor too soon, it’s simply not enough.

The rogue wave hits the Pearl hard.

You hit the deck harder.

In a tumble of limbs and shrieks and pain, you’re rolled violently towards port — and as you gasp hard to try and get up again, you’re slammed with another cold shock of seawater. It seizes up your lungs.

It’s a whirlwind of panic that seizes you the second your back slams against the port siding. It’s water and wind and thunder and the dizzying confusion of pain crawling up your temple — and then, it’s James.

James is there.

James is there, wild-eyed and soaked and holding your face in his hands as he’s shouting something — but your ears are ringing and you’re trying to see his mouth in the downpour.

Then, just like that, the world swims back into focus.

“GET BELOW DECK.”

All you can do is nod.

He helps you, with a bruising grip, towards the lower deck’s hold — water is pooling down here, up to your ankles, and it sways and rocks with each pitch the Pearl takes. Your knees wobble as you descend, and you spare James a single, long look back as he slams the deck door’s shut with a rattle.

The animals one level down are panicked.

There are a few souls down here — most nursing injuries, some praying.

Your stomach tumbles as the ship lurches again and you stagger into a bunk on the wall. Your hands grip the ladder tightly, and it’s then that you realize you’re still bleeding. You haul yourself up, muscles still burning, into a vacant top bunk. It’s nearly dry here — but the noise of the storm and creak of the ship’s bones does little to bring comfort.

Your head is pounding.

And so you stay there, in the lonesome dark, and try to remember the quiet psalm some tired soul is whispering into a rosary. A sailor’s prayer.

Slowly, as time creeps a half past the hour, the violence of the storm begins to subside — and on the seventeenth repetition of the prayer, sunlight begins to peek through the slats in the deck overhead.

You’ve turned your eyes to marvel at the warm rays pooling into the water that has gathered below deck. Little flickers of light dance around the space — and it’s almost heavenly. Peaceful. Quiet.

Then, James.

He’s fast to make his way to you — as the rest of the crew dwindles down, wrought with exhaustion and pain. His hands are as bloody and spent as yours; torn to shreds from the coarse ropes. And still, despite this, his touch is so gentle you swear you could cry.

“Are you alright?” he asks, in a desperate whisper, as his hand finds your knee and he gestures for you to come down from the bunk.

Your nod is far from convincing.

Truth be told, you’re off. Dizzy and confused and your entire back aches. Your ribs protest with each breath.

James sees it.

He’s gentle — and suddenly, so gentlemanly — when he slips his hands beneath your arms and gently helps you down from the bunk.

You slip down his front, hands tangled around his shoulders.

The act is enough to wind you.

You plant your forehead against the sopping wet cloth of his jacket.

This moment is enough; it placates the yearning you’ve stoked for years. It’s horrible in that way — that you’re allowed this now, after so long. After so much. But, James doesn’t pull away.

Instead, his hands slip to push matted tendrils from your temple.

Worry is heavy in his deep voice. “You’re bleeding.”

You’re exhausted.

And so is he.

What he’d give to collapse into his own bunk now — to sleep for a day, or maybe more. But, his heart won’t let him. Not when you’re here, and when he... when he almost thought he could have lost you.

...But, truly, he never really had you to lose.

Nor you him.

And maybe that’s the poetic part of all this.

Suddenly, Elizabeth is calling your name from atop the deck.

You slip away, hands brushing his chest as you do.

His hands trace your arms, and you’re gone.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

You have no idea where you are.

All that matters — however — is that the Pearl is docked, your feet are firmly planted on land, and you’ve got a warm helping of food in your stomach.

The crew needed this after that storm.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and loosen your grip on the bottle in your hands. It’s rum — cheap rum. But, to the dear Captain’s point: rum is rum is rum. You watch him, and Gibbs, and Elizabeth, and Marty converse about something with animated intent.

From across the crowded tavern, Lizzy offers a smile.

You honor it with a commemorative swig.

The bar is busy — working girls flit in and out with men on their arms, venturing upstairs for privacy. There are card games between tables, a fight in the back alley, and music blaring loudly from the corner. All in all, for being a small little port in the middle of nowhere, it’s good business.

Not very quiet, though.

James, all the while, is trying to ignore the gnaw of yearning the sight of you brings.

He’s staring — openly, now — from his position on the balcony. His own bottle is nearly half-gone. He’s by his lonesome up here, pestered every now and again by a woman or two promising a lovely evening. But, each time, he passes. And each time, his gaze lands back on you.

Had he been so stupid?

Had he been so damn blind?

He could have had you — you, beautiful and witty and charming and sharp. You, kind and gentle, as devoted as the sun is to the moon. He could have had friendship and love and all the things touted in a marriage.

But, no. He couldn’t have Elizabeth. And so, he went and he left and he fell apart at sea. He lost what he was, and drowned the man he used to be.

Sea-green eyes watch you stand from your table. You shrug on your rifle, drop your hat atop your head, and toss a few coins down for the barmaid.

So, James swigs the rest of his drink and follows.

The port is quieter — but still, the noise from the tavern bleeds into the town’s night air. Here, with music droning on as the waves lap at the dock, you find a bit of peace.

“Mind if I join you...?”

You turn, eyes pulled away from the moon.

James’ eyes are soft.

You give him a consenting nod.

It gives you a moment to take him in.

The two days in port have done him some good. He’s washed up, taken a bath, even shaved. But, the shadow of a beard has already begun to creep back along his sharp jaw. His hair is long, swept neatly away, and a few stray strands move in the cool breeze. His hands hang on his belt, loose and easy.

He’s always been tall — imposing. Very handsome. Even in that god-awful wig.

You remember that sandalwood cologne he favored back in Port Royal. Clean. Warm. Pervasive. Expensive. The sort of thing the salary of a Commodore could allow for.

Now, he smells like gun powder and rum.

His arm brushes yours as he sidles up beside you on the dock.

“It’s dangerous to be out here alone.”

Your eyes flick up to see him watching you — and you see humor there in his eyes.

You scoff. “Come to save me, have you? Once a dashing officer of the King’s navy, always one.”

His face twists into a bitter scowl. Like he tasted something sour. “I am inclined to disagree.”

You nudge him with your arm. “Fine. I amend everything from that previous statement, up to and not including the dashing part.”

For the first time in years, you hear him laugh.

Truly laugh. A real, low, thunderous chuckle creeps from his chest as he ducks his head and smiles.

It spurs you to muster your own laughter. You try to tamp it down, to keep it quiet and easy and light. The smile that digs into your cheeks intends to remain. The ache there is sweet.

He’s watching you again.

This time, you feel as though... as though this sort of look is different.

When he speaks, his voice is tender. His words are as sweet as a summer breeze.

“...I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” he begins, “But, I now believe forsaking you may have been my biggest.”

And it feels as if someone’s plunged a knife into your chest.

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. How could you have ever been prepared for that? In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel the returned affection of the man before you. And yet, here he is, bending to take your rope-burnt hands into his own.

“I am sorry.”

And again — and again, and again. The knife is twisted, and suddenly you feel months' worth of agony rush up. Words whispered between men at the docks, the HMS Dauntless was lost on the coast of Tripoli. That Commodore Norrington was declared lost at sea. He had left with barely a word. Hellbent and heartbroken.

You never imagined an apology.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles and your swallow roughly.

“James—”

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek.

“Do not protest this,” he says quietly, “You know it is what you deserve. After all I’ve done.”

You’re shaking your head when his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone. It’s enough to make your head spin. You find both hands clinging to his own now as you shake off the dizzying thought of him in your space.

You feel like a girl again.

“You had a duty—”

“To you,” he corrects sternly; his eyes are set in a serious manner, framed by dark brows that pull taught as he brushes his fingers against a stray lock by your ear, “And I should have seen that. And I didn’t.”

It’s then that you finally look up at him.

It’s his turn to be robbed of breath.

You speak quietly.

“...You’re a good man, James.”

“You need not lie to me,” he whispers back, the space between you both enough to send the moonlight spilling over your entwined shadows.

“I would never,” you insist, your hands moving to brace flat against his chest. Your thumb brushes a bare patch of skin just along his sternum. He feels as if he’s been set on fire.

“Then, tell me,” James breathes as his nose nudges yours, “Would you allow me this?”

His eyes flick to your mouth.

All you can muster is a nod.

And then he kisses you.

His fingers hold your chin, and the kiss is as chaste and gentle as any — it’s slow and kind and warm. It’s punctuated by a deep breath as you both sink into the feeling of one another’s hold.

He... He feels hale and whole.

In a thousand, heartbroken, lonely years, you never imagined you’d feel his lips against your own. And yet, here he is, bending to break your composure with a hand that ventures around your waist. His other cradles your jaw. You cling, and allow the chasteness to dissipate into a feverish sort of chase.

It’s your tug on his lapels, the bunched grip of your shirt, the stagger of boots against the deck as he bends at the knee and nips at your bottom lip. Your arms swim around his neck, and you try to kiss him like you’re not halfway to the depths of love.

You’ve tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, leaped onto the tips of your boots, and allowed for his hands to grip the curves of your waist tightly as he hides a desperate kiss into your smile.

And then, a voice.

“’Bout time, I’d reckon.”

Captain Jack Sparrow — in all his glory — stumbles by.

And James Norrington has to try not to kill him then and there.

#james norrington #potc #potc imagine #james norrington x reader #james norrington imagine #pirates imagine #commodore james norrington #pirates of the caribbean imagine #potc x reader #WHAT DO I EVEN TAG THIS #THIS MOVIE WAS AGES AGO

[weirdowithaquill]

Traintober 2023: Day 6 - Special Letters

A Tale of Two Brothers:

When Flying Scotsman left Sodor in 1967, he left behind two things: a number of new friends and a mailing address. Alan Peglar was planning on taking Scott around the world after all – sooner or later at least – and using his owner’s address as a jumping-off point, Scott hoped to be able to keep in touch with his brother and his friends. These letters would forever remain special to Gordon, and the other engines knew it.

“Where is your brother off to?” BoCo had asked one evening, knowing Gordon had just received an envelope. “Apparently, he’s going to America!” Gordon had said, having just listened to his driver recite the letter written by Scott’s crew.

Gordon worried for his brother – and rightly so. Over the next four years of his life, Alan Peglar would drag Flying Scotsman right the way across the continental United States and Canada, tiring the middle-aged engine out and bankrupting himself. Flying Scotsman’s last letter to Gordon in 1972 read as follows:

Dear Gordon,

I’m sorry to say, but Mr Peglar has run out of money. We tried San Francisco, but it was no use. Now, I am unsure what will happen to me. They have moved me to a United States Military Base, and everyday I see large, aggressive diesels growl around. They seem to think that they will be able to tow me off at some stage – and considering that Mr Peglar has had to leave, I worry they may be right.

The United States isn’t all bad though – the people are nice enough. Even the soldiers and sailors sometimes stop to talk to me… but it’s mostly to ask about England, and I never really do have an answer for them. What am I supposed to say? That I miss my home and I miss my brother who you are all keeping me from ever seeing again? The soldier who is writing this for me just looked at me curiously, so now I will have to explain to him who you are. I bet you’re more famous than I am here!

I do hope to make it back to you one day – though it may be a little longer yet. Mr Peglar is unable to pay to bring me home, and no one else has offered to yet… well, apart from one gentleman – but that’s just a rumour. Wishing you dry rails and smooth running,

Your Brother, 4472 Flying Scotsman

Gordon had sent multiple letters in return, each more frantic than the last – but heard nothing from his brother until mid-1973, when Scott had clanked his way from Liverpool to Derby. Gordon was waiting for him, and spent a solid hour chewing out his brother, and then another three crying with relief. Flying Scotsman was his last sibling left, and those letters were the last thing tethering the two together, when a country, or an ocean, or even a continent separated them.

Scott never missed another letter. Not even when he travelled to Australia, during a far more successful journey that saw the locomotive break records and rake in new fans. Still, he took time out of his day to ensure Gordon got a letter, even once begging an old lady in Alice Springs to lend him the stamps necessary.

In the 1990s, the pair switched to emails, though sometimes they still send letters – especially on important occasions. Christmas cards from Gordon to Scott fill the NRM engine shed; Mallard resents them all, but Scott wouldn’t change it for the world. And in return, Gordon gets a birthday greeting from his younger brother every year, the cards and letters all being carefully framed and stuck to the back wall of his berth.

All letters are special, no matter how mundane, simply because they were crafted by one person specially for the receiver.

Back to the Master Post

#fanfiction writer #railway series #weirdowithaquill #thomas the tank engine #railways #traintober #traintober 2023 #ttte #ttte gordon #ttte flying scotsman #special letters

[marauderundercover]

A Robin in the Making: Meeting the Justice League

Bruce frowns at the monitor.

“I already told Superman that I cannot, under any circumstances, come to the Watchtower this week.” He says firmly. Oliver runs a hand down his face, obviously aggravated.

“Batman, I’m telling you, if any of us could figure out how the hell to fix it, we would. And we wouldn’t be calling your stubborn ass.” He huffs out. Bruce’s eye twitches under his cowl.

“I don’t have anyone to watch Robin.” He says, telling only a partial truth.

“Then bring the kid with! I’m sure we can figure out something for him to do while you fix the monitor station.” Oliver says. Bruce starts to argue again, because it really wouldn’t only be his oldest that he’d have to bring along, when a familiar voice cuts in.

“Whoa, really? Can we go, B, please, please, please?” Dick begs, appearing at the edge of the cave with a domino already on his face. And just like that, Bruce has no choice but to cave. Something he was sure Dick knew.

“Fine. We’ll be there in twenty.” He says curtly before hanging up. Sighing, Bruce turns to look at Dick. “You do realize Mari is going to have to go too, right?” He asks. Dick nods rapidly.

“B, you’re not even ready for how totally awesome this is going to be! I’ll go grab M.” He says, darting back up the stairs. Bruce blows out a long breath. He’d told the League that he had prior engagements in Gotham that would keep him from being on call for this entire week. With Alfred in England for another five days, he had no one to watch Dick or Marinette. Which meant he hadn’t even been patrolling for very long. Just long enough for people to notice him (something he rarely wanted as Batman), and then he went right back to the manor. Dick, as he was almost a teenager, had tried to convince Bruce that he could watch Marinette by himself for a few hours. It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t trust his son. He did. He just also knew that Marinette and Dick had been partners in crime ever since Marinette first pulled herself into a standing position. She took off after her older brother and never looked back. It never failed to put a smile on Bruce’s face- well, as long as it wasn’t accompanied by mischievous giggling from the two. Before he can get too lost in his thoughts, he realizes that the giggles are definitely real and approaching quickly.

“Dick, make sure you’re holding onto her!” Bruce calls out. After Marinette had made her appearance, he’d made sure there were railings everywhere in the cave. Didn’t mean he completely trusted the railings to be failproof.

“Don’t worry daddy! Dickie’s got me!” Marinette calls out, and Bruce relaxes slightly. Until the two appear in sight and he sees what his three year old daughter is wearing.

“Richard, why does Marinette have a Robin uniform?” He asks, working hard to keep his tone calm. He already wasn’t thrilled that Dick was running around every other night fighting crime. It terrified him, but the idea of Dick going out as Robin by himself and getting injured because he didn’t tell Bruce where he was going- that fear far outweighed the fear that Bruce had when he would spot his son out of the corner of his eye while going against a mugger. But his daughter, who was still a toddler, wearing a domino mask was a little too much for him.

“It’s not really a uniform, B. She’s not gonna go out and kick the Joker’s butt or anything. I just thought it’d be cool for her to be able to match me if we ever got to meet the League together. Pretty cool, right?” Dick presses, and Bruce takes a second to breathe. Looking closer, the outfit clearly just mimicked the Robin colors, and was obviously not made to fight in. It was, unfortunately, cute. There was even a tiny bat symbol on the belt of it.

“I’m a hero!” Marinette chirps happily, grinning up at him. Bruce softens immediately, crouching down so he can be more on her level.

“You make a great hero, sweetheart. Now remember, what do you call Dickie when he gets his outfit on?” Bruce asks. Ever since she’d started talking, he’d tried to drill the importance of secret identities to her. He knew it wasn’t exactly traditional parenting, but he figured it was better than just lying to her about such a big part of his life. She grins widely.

“Dickie is Robin and you’re B.” She says, rattling the words off as if she’d rehearsed them (he knew she had). Bruce smiles and picks her up, tossing her gently into the air before catching her, heart warming as she giggles and shrieks.

“Very good.” He says, then pauses as he realizes she doesn’t have a secret identity.

“I say we call her Bug, cause that’s already what Lucius and you call her when she has to go to WE.” Dick pipes up, walking back into the main part of the cave as he pulls on his last shoe. Bruce glances down at his daughter.

“Does that work for you?” He asks. She nods, grinning. Bruce exhales deeply. “Very well. Who’s ready to meet the Justice League?”

---

The second they zeta onto the Watchtower, Dick runs to the center of the room, slowly turning as he tries to take in everything. He’d met a few of the other heroes at the Hall of Justice before, but B had never let him go to space before!

“Hey sport. Where’s your old man?” Ollie asks, walking in with his arms crossed. Dick nods towards the zeta tubes.

“He’s gotta get Bug set up first, but he said it was fine for me to come ahead.” Dick explains. Ollie frowns.

“Bug?” He asks. “Is that a person?” Dick nods.

“Yup! She’s my little sister.” He says, and Ollie’s jaw drops.

“She- what- Batman has more than one kid?” He gasps. Dick snorts. It was always funny to see people’s reactions to B having kids. Before he can explain more, the zeta tube announces B and Mari’s arrival.

“B! B, look! Stars!” Marinette gasps, immediately tugging B over to the windows. Dick giggles at the look on Ollie’s face.

“Green Arrow. I assume you have figured out where Robin and Bug can go?” B asks, glancing back at the other hero while Mari was focused on the stars. Ollie sputters for a minute.

“What- I- what the hell, Batman! We had an idea for Robin, not a freaking toddler!” He huffs out. Marinette tilts her head to the side, and Dick’s eyes widen. Uh oh.

“B? What does ‘hell’ mean?” She asks, frowning.

“Oh sh-”

“Unless you want to teach her two new words today, I suggest you shut your mouth.” Batman says lowly. Ollie’s jaw snaps shut as he nods slowly. B turns to Mari. “That’s not a word we use, Bug. Green Arrow is going to have to go sit in time out becuase he said it. You don’t want to sit in time out, right?” Mari shakes her head rapidly.

“No! No fank you.” She says, messing up her ‘th’ like usual. Dick thought it made her the cutest kid ever.

“Very well. Robin, stay here with Bug. I’ll walk Green Arrow to time out and send Superman back here.” B says. Dick nods, and Mari rushes over to him.

“C’mon! Let’s do flips!” She says excitedly. Dick grins, immediately rushing over to help her with her cartwheels. He loved being a big brother.

@maribat-get-in

#platonic dickinette #maribat bio dad bruce #maribat bio dad au #maribat bio dad bruce wayne #mgi civil war #mgi civil war 3

[sea-owl]

So I got a new book and from the summary alone I got an new au idea. I have not read one page of this book yet.

The book is called The Fairy Bargains of Prospect Hill.

Here's the summary:

There is no magic on Prospect Hill—or anywhere else, for that matter. But just on the other side of the veil is the world of the Fae. Generations ago, the first farmers on Prospect Hill learned to bargain small trades to make their lives a little easier—a bit of glass to find something lost, a cup of milk for better layers in the chicken coop.

Much of that old wisdom was lost as the riverboats gave way to the rail lines and the farmers took work at mills and factories. Alaine Fairborn’s family, however, was always superstitious, and she still hums the rhymes to find a lost shoe and to ensure dry weather on her sister’s wedding day.

When Delphine confides her new husband is not the man she thought he was, Alaine will stop at nothing to help her sister escape him. Small bargains buy them time, but a major one is needed. Yet, the price for true freedom may be more than they’re willing to pay.

So here's the au idea.

The aristocratic families held onto a secret only their families know. Many of their ancestral seats hide the gateways between the human world and the world of the fae. Deals can be made with the fae but everything has a price. Can you pay it?

Kathony

Mary was not surprised when she got a letter saying her parents back in England pissed off the fae, and that's how they were killed. What did surprise her was the deal they made that ultimately led to their deaths. They promised Mary's child to the king of the fae?! Knowing Edwina's dream of a love match, Kate looks for a loophole. Well, Mary did always say Kate came into her life as a daughter. So she should count, right? Anthony raised an eyebrow when Kate presented herself as the bride. Oh, he's gonna have fun with her.

Benophie

In exchange for keeping privileges from the new Earl of Penwood, Araminta sold Posy off as his bride. Or rather his broodmare. Sophie refused to see the closest person she had to a sister be miserable for the rest of her life. It's what pushes her through Penwood to make a deal for Posy's freedom. Now how is she convincing this fae man to make a deal that DOESN'T include her becoming his mistress?

Polin

The Featheringtons are probably one of the more superstitious families. Portia, who was from an area way more familiar with the fae, made sure her daughters knew the tricks of dealing with the fae. So knowing all these tricks and with a mother who had no fear of the fae, is it any wonder that Penelope regularly made deals with them? Nothing ever major, small things that cost a piece of glass or a poem. Of course, whispers of a human who isn't afraid to trade with the fae will travel. Such whispers reach the most chaotic fae prince who wonders how far this little human will trade. Colin siezes his chance for a trade when Penelope comes to make a deal that will allow her favorite sister Felicity freedom from their father's debts.

#bridgerton #polin #kathony #benophie #fae deals au #anthony bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #colin bridgerton #kate sharma #kate sheffield #sophie beckett #penelope featherington

[fanartandfanfiction]

Many of you expressed interest in my fic about Ominis and an arranged marriage, so here’s the first chapter! You’ll also find it on AO3 if you’d like to subscribe for updates ❤️

“Arranged” Chapter one

Ominis Gaunt met his bride the day before their wedding.

His parents had hosted a ball to celebrate their betrothal. Despite his pleas, his parents were forcing him into a marriage with some French girl. They’d raved about her family’s bloodline and how they had been the most popular pureblood wizarding family in France before moving to England. He was dreading this entire ordeal. Luckily his family had allowed him to invite his best friend, Sebastian Sallow.

“It could be worse.” Sebastian said as he and Ominis stood off to the side.

“How could it possibly be worse?! I’m marrying a stranger!”

“Yes but apparently her family has a pretty good reputation and loads of money. Plus I heard she’s part veela so she’ll be gorgeous.”

“Like that matters to me.” Ominis said, sipping his glass of champagne. “I suppose it’s too late to vanish to the other side of the world and get a new identity.”

“Merlin, you’re dramatic.” Ominis heard the sound of the large wooden doors opening.

“Holy shit!” Sebastian said quietly.

“What?”

“You lucky bastard.”

“Would you care to elaborate?”

“That woman that’s going to be your wife is the single most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Take my place then. I’ve no interest in her.”

“If I could, I would. Don’t you want to know what she looks like?”

“What does it matter?”

“Fine, I’ll tell you anyway. She’s tall and thin, with white blonde hair and blue eyes. Her dress is light blue and it is definitely working in her favor. And now she’s headed this way.”

Ominis felt a flutter of nerves. He wished he could be anywhere else.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for Monsieur Gaunt?” A delicate voice said with a wonderful French accent.

“That’s me!” Sebastian said eagerly.

“Oh hush. Forgive my friend. This is Sebastian Sallow and I am Ominis Gaunt.” He gave a small, polite bow.

“I am Giselle Dubois. I suppose I am your fiancé.” Her perfume smelled expensive, it was somewhat sweet and floral.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Dubois.”

“Please, you may call me Giselle. Or as my friends call me, Gigi.”

“Then you can call me Ominis.” He smiled. “But my friends just call me Ominis.”

“Oh we call you other names, but it’d be rude to use them in front of a lady.” Sebastian said with a teasing grin.

“I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time to speak privately.”

His stomach felt as though it had butterflies again. Despite not being able to see her, her accent and perfume were quite nice.

“Of course. May I escort you to the veranda?”

“ Oui. Apologies, yes.”

“It’s alright, I speak French.” He smiled and she took his arm. He led her out onto the veranda where it was quiet, and the cool breeze felt nice.

“May I speak plainly with you, Ominis?”

“Of course.” They stood beside each other, arms resting on the railing.

“I do not wish to get married. I do not wish to have children. I’m sorry if you desire a perfect wife. Our betrothal was not really up to me. I’m sorry if I have made you unhappy, you seem like a kind man. I will marry you because I must, but I will not be your wife.”

Ominis smiled and then let out a peal of laughter. “That’s exactly how I feel!”

“Really? You do not wish to continue your family line?”

“I couldn’t care less about my family line.”

“I feel the same.” She chuckled. “I think we shall get along just fine.”

“Sorry you’re stuck with a blind husband. I’m sure you could do better.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because it must be difficult, having a husband with a disability. My wand does allow me to navigate quite easily, but I imagine it’s embarrassing.”

“Ominis, I chose you.” She said.

“What?”

“My parents said they were going to let me choose who to marry. I was excited, until I realized it was from people they had selected. You were one of those people.”

“Even with the Gaunt reputation, you chose me?”

“Truthfully, I have seen you once or twice before, from a distance. You seemed kind. Much kinder than the other two.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, who were the other two?”

“A man close to my age named Leander Prewett and a man twice my age named Phineas Black.”

“I’m familiar with both of them. Black is the Hogwarts headmaster.”

“That is your wizarding school here, yes?”

“Yes. And I attended school with Leander Prewett. We didn’t get along.”

“I only met him once, but I did not get along with him. He thinks much too highly of himself and his family. And when I met Phineas Black, he informed me that WHEN we got married, he wanted as many children as possible as quickly as possible.”

“My god.” Ominis chuckled. “I’m very happy that you chose me over those two. Especially Black.”

“As am I.” She placed her hand over his and he flushed at the contact. “I suppose we should get back. Our families are probably looking for us.”

“More than likely. Could I interest you in a dance?”

“That sounds lovely.” He escorted her back inside and onto the dance floor. He held one of her hands in his and rested the other on her waist. They began twirling with ease around the dance floor, years of practice having been drilled into them by their families.

“So tomorrow. How do you feel?” Ominis asked her.

“Nervous. I don’t want all those people looking at me.”

“Fortunately, I won’t be able to tell.” He gave her a teasing smile.

“There is something else we should discuss. After the wedding…”

“Right. That.” He swallowed nervously. “I don’t want you to feel any obligation to…participate in honeymoon activities.”

“That is reassuring. Not that you aren’t handsome, I’m just not quite ready.”

He blushed at her compliment. “We don’t even have to share a bed. I’m perfectly comfortable sleeping somewhere else.”

“No, that is silly. We can share a bed.”

That statement made him anxious. He’d be sharing a bed with a woman, a beautiful woman, who was going to be his wife.

“May I have your attention please!” Ominis recognized his father’s voice. “Thank you all for coming to celebrate the union of the Gaunts and the Dubois. Where is the happy couple?”

“I suppose that’s us.” Ominis said quietly.

“Ominis, Giselle, please join me!”

“I don’t want to.” Giselle said quietly to him. “There are so many people and they’re all looking at us and-“

“You’ll be alright. Just pretend they aren’t even there.” He squeezed her hand before leading her up to the platform his father was standing on. He felt Giselle’s grip tighten.

“We have a very special gift for the soon-to-be newlyweds! Ominis, I welcome you to our family. And to ensure a blissful start to your marriage, we have purchased you a home.” Giselle’s father said. He pressed a key into Ominis’ hand. “It has plenty of rooms for future little Gaunts!”

Giselle’s grip tightened so much it was nearly painful. His knees felt weak. He couldn’t imagine having little Gaunts. He had no desire to put more Gaunts out into the world, there was enough as it was.

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.” Ominis smiled tightly.

“Go ahead and give your fiancé a kiss!” His father said and the crowd cheered.

“Oh god.” Giselle said quietly.

“It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it.” He pulled her close and put his hand on the side of her face, effectively blocking their lips from view. They stayed there for a moment, lips hovering near each other before Ominis pulled away and the crowd cheered again.

“To the Gaunts!” Giselle’s father raised a champagne glass.

“To the Gaunts!” The guests shouted.

“I need air.” Giselle said quietly.

“Hey, it’s alright, I’ve got you, come on.” He could hear her labored breathing beside him and he led her out onto the veranda again.

As soon as they were outside, she rushed for the railing of the balcony and took deep breaths of air. Ominis wasn’t sure what to do, so he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“Please don’t misunderstand, it’s not that I did not want to kiss you, it’s the people, there were so many, and-“

“It’s alright, Giselle. I understand.”

“I have never done well with crowds. My maman used to make me play the violin and perform in front of large groups of people. I hated it. I would make myself sick with worry. If I played incorrectly, she was furious with me. Once I got so nervous, I…well, there’s no polite way to say this. I was sick. On stage, in front of all maman’s friends. She told me she was ashamed of me, but luckily I didn’t have to perform anymore.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” Ominis stepped closer, his hand still on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine what I would have done.”

“You see, I love the violin, just not performing. It was painful to do something I loved with such stress and anxiety.”

“Do you still play?”

“I do.”

“Well, if it didn’t make you too nervous, I’d love to hear you play some time. And you have the benefit of me not looking at you.”

She laughed, and it was a lovely, light laugh. “Ominis…if it is alright…I think I’d like to kiss you now.”

“Oh!” His heart began racing. “Yes, of course.” He stepped towards her and cupped her cheek with his hand. He leaned down and she tilted her head up, meeting his lips. It was a short, gentle kiss, but his heart was pounding just the same.

“I thought perhaps it would be easier tomorrow if I practiced.” She said quietly.

“I hope so. Hopefully we can enjoy ourselves somewhat tomorrow. We’ll have cake, anyway.”

She laughed again. “You are funny, Ominis. I like that. I think I’d like to go back inside. I do enjoy dancing.”

“As do I. Let’s go.”

They expertly danced to several songs before deciding to take a break. Giselle led them over to a table to sit and rest.

“So tell me Gigi, are you looking forward to marrying my best friend?” Sebastian said, joining them at the table.

“Yes, Monsieur Sallow. Ominis seems very kind.”

“He is, he’s a great guy. So why’d your family pick him?”

“Sebastian!” Ominis hissed at him.

“It’s a fair question!”

“My family chose three pureblood families, I’m assuming for their wealth and status, if I may speak plainly. I selected Ominis because I thought he seemed kind.”

“So are you wanting to have a bunch of babies?”

“Sebastian!” Ominis hissed again.

“It is my duty to continue the bloodline.” She said flatly.

“Giselle, it’s fine, he won’t say anything.” Ominis said with a smile.

“Oh, good. Then no. I have no interest in children.”

“Giselle is actually the perfect partner for me.” Ominis said with a smile.

“Really? I suppose that’s good. And hey, now you’ve got a house. I can’t believe your parents just BOUGHT you a house.”

“Ominis, I did not ask, but will you allow me to work?” Giselle asked.

“Why would I not allow you to work? You’re your own person, you can do whatever you’d like.”

“Most men think a woman’s job is to maintain a home and produce children. I have other interests.”

“What are you interested in?”

“Studying biology, particularly plants. I make scientific illustrations of them and study them.”

Both Ominis and Sebastian looked surprised. Giselle smiled. “What were you expecting? Needlepoint? Crochet?”

“I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.” Sebastian said.

“I have not been in this country long. I am eager to study the local flora and fauna.”

“That sounds wonderful. Apparently our home will have many rooms. You can set one up as a studio if you’d like.”

“Oh, that would be fantastic!” Ominis loved the way she said fantastic. Fan-tas-teek!

“Giselle, could I ask you for a dance?” Sebastian asked.

“Of course.” They went out to the dance floor and joined the other couples.

“You’re not what I was expecting.” Sebastian said to her.

“I do not know whether or not to be flattered.”

“I mean I was expecting a snooty, uptight woman obsessed with blood status.”

“You are describing my mother.” Giselle grinned.

“Ominis is a really good guy. He’s really easy to get along with. I think you guys will be happy together.” Sebastian smiled.

“I think so.”

The song ended and he bowed. She responded with a curtsy.

They returned to the table and Giselle sat beside Ominis again. “I wonder how long we are required to stay.” She pondered.

“Since it’s a party for us, I’m going to guess a while.”

“Please, they may say it is for us, but it is so they can get dressed up and show off.”

“I agree. By the way, have you had the displeasure of meeting my family yet?” Ominis asked.

“Only your father, when we were on the stage.”

“They’re awful. I feel the need to apologize in advance for them.”

“I feel the same about my family.” Giselle replied.

Ominis sighed. “I hate these events.”

“As do I.”

Ominis stiffened. He knew who was behind him before he spoke.

“Congratulations little brother.” Marvolo said, placing a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Not that you’d know it, but your fiancé is stunning. I daresay more attractive than Penelope.”

“It’s improper to speak of my fiancé in such a way.” Ominis said sharply.

“Apologies, I was merely complimenting her beauty. Giselle, may I ask you for a dance?”

“You don’t have to.” Ominis said, placing a hand over hers. She could see the anxiety written all over his face.

“It’s just a dance, brother. Let’s dance, Giselle.” He practically yanked her up from the table.

“I need you to tell me what’s happening.” Ominis said to Sebastian.

“Nothing at the moment. They’re walking onto the dance floor. Now they’ve started dancing.”

Giselle wasn’t sure why, perhaps it was the look on Ominis’ face, but she was uncomfortable dancing with Marvolo. She looked up and he was staring at her with a small smile. “Your blood mixed with ours will make beautiful pureblood children.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“It’s a waste that you’re betrothed to Ominis. Blood like yours should be reserved for someone like me. Your children may pass on Ominis’ disability.”

“I would love them just the same.” She said firmly.

“Who cares about love, it would be a waste of your genes to bear disabled children. We need healthy Gaunts.”

“I do not particularly enjoy the direction of this conversation.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Perhaps I can convince Father to let me impregnate you instead of Ominis.”

Giselle gasped. “This is not an appropriate conversation. I shall return to my fiancé.” She tried to leave but Marvolo held her firmly.

“It’s rude to leave your partner before the end of a dance.” Marvolo sneered.

Ominis stomped over, wand glowing and guiding him. “Apologies, Marvolo, I must speak to Giselle urgently.”

Marvolo gave him a disgusted look. “Fine. Go on then.”

Ominis took her hand and led her away. “Could we step outside again? I could use some fresh air.”

“Of course.” He led her onto the veranda again. “What did he say to you? Sebastian said you looked upset and he wouldn’t let you leave.”

“It’s nothing of importance.”

“I disagree. If he made you uncomfortable, it’s not acceptable.”

“I would rather not discuss it.” He could hear the strain in her voice. She was upset and trying to keep it hidden.

“Alright. But brother or not, if he lays a hand on you or makes you uncomfortable, I’ll deal with him.”

The party had lasted for two more hours after that, and he, Giselle, and Sebastian had spent the whole time chatting. She was easy to get along with. Ominis felt like he’d lucked out. Now all he had to do was marry her.

#hogwarts legacy #fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt fanfiction #ominis gaunt x oc

[maxbegone]

happy wedensday, friends! i don't know about anyone else, but this is the first day we've had all week without rain and I am living for it.

thank you @kiwiana-writes for the tag ♥️ I hope the rest of the week treats you well.

He smirks at Henry, picking up his walkie. “Watch this. Shaan, come in, Shaan.”

Alex can practically hear the sigh from here. “Yes, Alex?”

“I see you driving. Mind helping us at the gate?”

“What for?”

“Confidential,” he says.

Oscar clicks through then. “Since when do we do confidential?”

“Since right now for, like, five minutes. It’ll be quick.”

“Wouldn’t bet my life on it,” Shaan tells him, but Alex sees him turn the truck in their direction and calls it a win.

“What was that about?” Henry asks him.

“Just someone I want you to meet.” At his look, Alex gives him a pat on the arm and says, “He’s British, too. Y’all will hit it off.”

When Shaan pulls up, he steps out in all his too-handsome glory and leans against the hood of the truck, arms crossed and looking up at them both. “Care to tell me why you made me make the detour?”

Alex leans against the rail. “Shaan, this is Henry. Henry, Shaan. Discuss.”

Shaan shakes his head. “Alex, if you waited a little longer I would have still been at yours when you two had gotten back.”

“That’s not very friendly of you, Shaan,” he chimes.

“Fine. Hello, Henry. My apologies for Alex. He’s an acquired taste.”

“I’m sure he is—wait.” Alex absolutely does not miss the startled look on Henry’s face or the way his cheeks immediately go red. “I-I mean, he’s been very accommodating.”

“Shame he doesn’t put his energy to use in ways that won’t give me and my wife grey hair.”

“Oh please, y’all love me.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘tolerate.’”

Alex shrugs. “Same thing.” He claps Henry on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go give him a proper hello.”

He gathers their things and makes his way down the ladder, and when he’s finally eye-level with Shaan, he drops the facade a little. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, Leo just wanted me to come by and discuss the plans for the turn of the season. He has some things mapped out and Zahra and I want to make sure we’re on the same page with you all before we begin.” He turns to Henry. “Where in England are you from?”

“London.”

“A fellow Londoner.” Shaan actually smiles. “We’ll get on easily. Is your friend from London as well?”

“Oh, Pez? Yes, we grew up together. I went to Oxford before moving to Brooklyn to work with him at his nonprofit.”

“I went to Oxford as well. I had plans to get my doctorate but I was working in research and things changed.”

“Geez, are all y’all the same?” Alex mutters under his breath. Both Shaan and Henry give him a look. “What, you’re both from London and you both went to Oxford. Did you play polo, too, Shaan?”

“No, I did crew.”

Explains the arms. Still a rich guy’s sport. “Wow. Okay, anyway! Wanna give us a ride back to the house?”

“Is your shift finished?”

He shrugs. “We’ve got five minutes. My dad’s next anyway.”

“Fine,” Shaan sighs. “But only because I’m heading that way to begin with.”

Alex hops into the flatbed and to his surprise, Henry barely even hesitates before following suit.

Dust kicks up behind them as they drive along, Alex with his arms stretched out along the side as if he’s louding in a pool while Henry keeps himself tucked against the wall. They wave to Oscar as they drive past, who shakes his head in amusement.

Alex does a full vault over the side of the truck when they pull up, half showing off, and takes both rifles from Henry.

“I’m gonna go put these back, you head on inside.”

“Are you sure?” Henry asks.

“Yeah, it’s a one man job.”

Henry gives him a smile before jogging to catch up to Shaan, and for a moment Alex wonders if it was a bad idea to have introduced them. Something makes him feel like they’ll get along like a house on fire, and he really hopes Shaan doesn’t sour Henry’s opinion of him too much.

He shrugs it off.

#rwrb #rwrb fic #firstprince #wip wedensday

[squiddokiddo]

So I know you've seen this one before but I'm trying out a bit of writing and I wrote a snippet for this drawing and I want the fic and the art to be together. Criticism is welcome but please be gentle, this is my first posted fic.

Edit - I originally made the mistake of thinking Whitby was in Cornwall so that line has now been changed.

‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊˚ ꒷︶꒷꒥꒷‧₊꒷︶꒷꒥꒷˚₊‧

"Carry me?"

–• Fandom: Thunderbirds, Thunderbirds are go • Genre: Fluff • Characters: Gordon Tracy, OC (Seasquirt Tracy) • Pairings: None • Warnings: None •–

• • • • •

Gordon had booked the day off to give himself and his so called apprentice a break, they'd both been training hard all week and had definitely earned a little down time. They'd taken a trip to Whitby, an old seaside town located in England, it definitely wasn't his first choice mind you but Lady Penelope had highly recommended the location for a relaxing day out.

Gordon and Squirt had had a chilled morning browsing little village shops and stopping for a light breakfast and coffee in one of the cafés, maybe filling a 12 year old with caffeine wasn't the best idea but it was Squirt's treat and no one was going to tell him off for letting the kid have a little fun, not Scott, not Virgil not anyone. Gosh his brothers could be so overbearing sometimes.

Currently they we're waiting for the sun to reach a high enough point to make the sea warm enough to swim in, in the meantime they'd both decided that sight seeing would be a good time killer, that and hopefully all the wandering around would use up that coffee energy. First stop the 199 steps.

They'd just arrived at the bottom where cobblestone streets turned into paved stairs, Gordon gripped the black painted railings and started his assent, one, two, three, four steps up when suddenly:

"Carry me?"

Gordon halted and peered over his shoulder at the source of the request standing a couple of steps below. Good god he'd wished they hadn't decided to ask this now.

"Aren't you a little old for that, Squirt?" He replied half smirking, turning around to face them.

"Scott carries Alan and he's 16." Squirt protested, jokingly pouting a little.

Squirt was right, there wasn't technically an age limit on being carried in the Tracy family, heck in their line of work it was common to need a little help to get around after exhausting themselves with missions.

"Yeah well Alan's a wimp." He chuckled "All that space flight is making his knees weak." Obviously not a true statement but since when did taking jabs at your siblings have to involve facts?

Squirt rolled their eyes biting back a laugh "Gords, you know that's not what I mean!!" They hopped a couple of steps up to meet their bro.

"I want a piggyback ride, wait no - uhh - a squiddyback!!" They exclaimed reaching their arms up "Please?"

Gordon laughed "Squirt I love you bub but I am not carrying you-" he paused to mentally count the steps "another 195 steps up the hill, come on you can't be that tired already."

He went to climb another step when Squirt grabbed the arm of his T-shirt.

"Pleeease."

Suddenly Gordon realised what this was about, it wasn't about not wanting to climb the steps or being tired or lazy, Squirt just wanted their big brother. Piggybacking was an expression of affection between the Tracy siblings and it hadn't really occurred to him that Squirt hadn't experienced that kind of love before becoming a part of their family.

He thought for a minute, it was a long trek up the hill but he could make an exception just this once. He sighed, turned away from his little sib and knelt down.

"Hop on."

The kid beamed and wasted no time in clambering onto the aquanaut's back, wriggling around and getting comfy as Gordon stood up and steadied himself under their weight.

"All set?" He asked.

"Aye aye, captain!!" They replied giving a little salute.

"Next stop, step 199!!"

• • • • •

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderfam #thunderbirds fanart #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderfluff #gordon tracy #sea-squirt tracy #thunderbirds oc #squiddo's ocs #squiddo's fanfic #kidthunder's art #sfw interaction only

[cassiemfowler]

The Becker’s: Their Story!!! ❤️ First to start off with their names: Nellie Becker, (Wife/Mom), Allen Becker (Husband/Father), Ruth Becker, (Daughter/Sister), Luther Becker, (Son/Brother), (1905-1907), Marion Becker, (Daughter/Sister), and Richard Becker, (Son/Brother). The children’s parents settled in India, where their father worked as a missionary. In early 1912, Richard, the younger son/brother fell ill and upon advice of physicians, (doctor’s), the family were encouraged to return to the USA where Richard had a better chance of survival. They left their husband/father back in India. They boarded the Titanic in Southampton, England, as Second Class passengers. Ruth recalled her mother having misgivings about the voyage and her speaking to the purser to give her reassurance about the Titanic’s durability. During the voyage, Ruth spent her day’s looking after her younger siblings and would explore the various public rooms. Ruth recalled the beauty of the Titanic and how everything was brand new and sparkling. On the night of the sinking Nellie Becker had gathered her three children and headed to the upper decks where they waited for a time, in one of the public rooms. Ruth recalled climbing on an iron ladder to a higher deck, possibly the ladder from B-Deck, Second Class promenade, to A-Deck First Class promenade. It was here that several of the aft starboard lifeboats were being filled. (Whether the Becker’s joined their respective lifeboats from this deck or the boat deck is not clear.). While waiting to board a lifeboat, Nellie Becker was concerned at how cold it was and instructed Ruth to return to their cabin for extra blankets. Before Ruth had the chance to return, Nellie Becker and her two children were thrown into lifeboat 11, and Nellie, frantic, scrambled to join them, calling out to Ruth to get into the next lifeboat. Ruth casually approached the next lifeboat, lifeboat number 13, and asked a crewman if she could board the lifeboat, at which he lifted her up and threw her into the lifeboat. From Ruth’s viewpoint in the lifeboat, Ruth watched the sinking unfold and remembered the Titanic in her final throes, with the decks still lined up with people, many jumping into the ocean. The Becker’s survived the sinking. Aboard the rescue ship, Carpathia, she hunted the decks for her mother. After several hours, a women approached Ruth, asking if she was called Ruth Becker. Upon confirmation, the woman explained that her mother had been looking everywhere for her. Ruth also recalled the sad sight of many women, widows, mothers, daughters, sisters, standing against the rail watching in vain for their loved ones to arrive. Nellie would later claim $2,184.20 against the White Star Line for loss of property. Once in America, Nellie and her three children settled in Benton Harbour, Michigan, until Allen Becker, the husband/father, eventually joined the rest of the family in America, in 1913. By 1920, the Becker family was living in Wooster, Wayne County, Ohio. By 1940’s the Becker’s resided in Princeton, Illinois. (More in the comments!!! Continue!), …

[balladofthewhitehorse]

How about 18 "tell me what you're scared of" for scotfra?💖💖

Teehee >:3c

‘’Tell me what you’re scared of?’’

France rolled their eyes, letting their gaze settle toward some dark corner. The presence of their friend felt too much like the Sun, to look at it would only hurt more. ‘’I’m not scared of anything-’’ They scoffed, waving a hand manner-of-factly; Scotland should know this, France mused as they hovered in the vast hallway. Candlelight flickered warmly, filling the space with such colour - finally woven tapestries adoring the stark stone walls. ‘’-Why do you want to know?’’ A lump rose in their throat, hackles bristling as France rested a hand on the hilt of their sword - Do I look scared?

‘’I just-’’ Scotland shrugged, drifting across the floor with measured strides. A bitter gloomy thing twisted in the pit of his belly, Scotland casting France a hard stare as they continued to look away. ‘’-How am I meant to guard you if you keep pushing me away, France?’’ He groused, voice as soft as velvet - but his face as hard as iron. ‘’I haven’t spoken to you for days, for months and you haven’t said a thing to me.’’ A resentful scoff bubbled from the back of his throat (the dog left out in the cold - Scotland’s gaze sharp as he glared at France’s back, almost bitter). ‘’Is this the thanks you’re giving me?’’ He snorted, grinning sharply at France as he slowly stood up, the line of his shoulders hard and tense. ‘’Hm?’’

‘’Don’t take it so personally.’’ They narrowed their eyes, whirling around to stare at Scotland - hands balled into a fist (he couldn’t stand at the cliffs forever - wasting men and ships, no matter how much France would love to). ‘’I’m not scared of anything.’’ France bristled, gritting their teeth together as Scotland rolled his eyes. ‘’I don’t know if you’ve forgotten-’’ They ground out, all teeth. ‘’-But you sought me out.’’ France hissed, glaring at Scotland.

Scotland grimaced, face going pale as France’s eyes bore into him (digging, like the claw of a rooster - digging and digging until it found blood at last). ‘’Whatever. It was just a question.’’

France was about to reply - when there was a sudden cry through the halls of the castle; A warning, and France was off like a hare. Soldiers were gathering, like a rising tide - lapping the walls of the castle, and France could see a few familiar emblems fluttering in the wind. It was clear that England was here - and he was baying for blood. Reeling back, France pulled their sword out of their scabbard and turned to face Scotland, eyes expectant - patient as Scotland drew in a deep breath, and then nodded. Good, they were both in understanding then. Without another glance, France watched as Scotland moved ahead - a mountain amongst men, going to rally his men for one final defence.

France pursed their lips together - uncertain what they wanted to say, to call out as they lost sight of Scotland. God be with you? Good luck? Don’t get yourself killed? Childish thoughts, to say the least - and thus they left, marching up the stairs to look down over the small bodies beneath. Boiling oil and tar had been prepared, France biting back a grimace (they remembered the way it seared - blistering flesh) as they were slowly lifted up onto the stone walls. ‘’I’ll be there-’’ France whispered, muttering under their breath as their men moved about them like ants and suddenly, France felt as though they were a long distance away.

The siege had begun and Scotland was doing a good job of holding back the wall - but, France knew that England would never stop. He had been railing against the castle defences for months already (a dog at their gates, wild-eyed and howling defiance - surely, someone would need to put him down and France intended to be that person). ‘’England-!’’ They called out, eyes wide as they moved through the dark castle - there was the sound of wood splintering, of metal crashing against metal (a storm had whirled into France’s space, and they drew in a deep breath, like a man who knows that he is about to drown).

Scotland staggered - a red stripe of blood flowing down his face as he glared at England. It had been a mad dash, a scramble really as brother met brother in the courtyard. Scotland knew that it had been inevitable, but perhaps he had hoped that England would be…smaller, somehow. Diminished, once he found himself in the shadows of the great castle Scotland’s men had built stone by stone. ‘’You’re a fucking bastard-’’ He swore, feinting to the left as England’s hammer cleaved the air - whistling with a dark promise, England’s hands tight around the handle of his weapon (much to Scotland’s dismay, hoping to disarm England).

‘’Says you!’’ England snapped, his voice sharp and indignant. Ragged and worn, his armour was tarnished and England felt a pang of resentment course through him as he stared at Scotland in disbelief. For months, England had been starving and thirsting outside the castle walls, a siege of endurance - stamina sapped by the cold damp that had crept into his bones. England could have distinctly sworn that France had claimed that their country was supposed to be warm! ‘’You’re a damn fucking-’’ England snarled as the hammer swung towards Scotland’s face - biting back a yelp as Scotland caught his knuckles with his sword.

‘’Get out of here.’’

England’s eyes seemed to blaze - as the two clashed and crashed further into the bowels of the castle. All else seemed to dim, Scotland and England circling one another; An oddly hypnotic dance of steel and blood as England hounded Scotland up the stairs, teeth grit as they rambled towards the high towerpoints. ‘’Get out?! Get out-!’’ England snarled, war-hammer crashing with a loud clatter - slick with blood, the weapon had flung from his hands, and for a brief moment England stood still, trembling with fury. ‘’You’re my brother.’’

‘’That means nothing.’’ Scotland replied coldly, lunging forward with a flash of steel. His sword slid harmlessly against England’s mail, Scotland quickly turning on his heel to direct another flashing blow at his brother. ‘’You’ve got no weapon, England-’’ He sneered, glaring at his brother - chest heaving with exertion as he began to approach slowly, sword held high over his head. ‘’-Best give up the fight.’’ Adrenaline pounded through Scotland, as he prepared to cleave England’s head from his shoulders - when suddenly, England lunged.

Colliding solidly with Scotland, England grappled for his sword - hands clutched around his wrists as he snarled. The stone walls seemed to rise up around him, and they were teetering on the edge, the earth swaying beneath their feet. ‘’Shut the fuck up-’’ A sound, someone’s footsteps racing up the stairs - England’s head snapping to glare sullenly at the doorway, staring at France with mute disbelief - and then exasperation, groaning resentfully as frustration welled up inside him. ‘’Can’t you ever stay away, France?’’ He growled, arched over his brother (a cage - protective or captive, it was hard to tell and England continued to watch France warily, his hands gripping Scotland’s wrists).

France’s chest heaved as they stood on the landing, their sword stained with blood. England stared at them. His eyes seemed to ask, tauntingly - Are you going to let my brother die?

Heart hammering in their chest, France knew what the answer was. They didn’t hesitate as they surged forward, a battle cry on their lips as they collided with England (Claws finding their way into the soft flesh, for all the shaggy mane there was - blood drawn, an old emnity). They sank their sword into England’s flank, and the sky span overhead.

They tumbled - staggering and half-sliding down the side of the castle as they went flying. Limbs and hair and steel, France felt less like a thing - and more like a concept. Courage and sacrifice, all good things in a person - all good things in France.

The earth that rushed to meet them - never felt more merciful, the sound of bones almost melodious.

England lay shattered, a bloody stain on the dew-wet grass; Overhead, Scotland stared - vaguely surprised-looking shadow to France. Alive at least.

France let out a wet gasp, lungs bubbling as they loosened their grip. At least Scotland was okay.

#hws france #hws scotland #hws england #it does wound me to focus NOT on Eng #but there’s a PortEng prompt coming up ;3 #anyway will i stop hurting France? #no. look at that man. theyre made for hurting #this is a joke i do love them #anyway!!! enjoy!!!! ScotFra!!! #scotfra

[trainalt22]

1920-1922

As the 1920s arrived, it became apparent that there was a need for a dedicated express engine. Edward and the Q classes were no longer able to keep up with the increasing number of passengers, while Glenn was relegated to branchline work. This boom was also thanks to the mainline extending to Vicarstown and, by extension, the mainland. Tourists and holidaymakers flocked to the island in droves. The summer of 1920 was so demanding that Topham had to loan engines from other railways to meet demand. So, by 1921, he was visiting workshops around England for locomotives. One morning, Topham received a letter with drawings for a Pacific, and by the look of it, a Gresley design. The asking price was lower than what some railways were asking for their Atlantics. Topham hastily wrote back, purchasing the locomotive. It was later that month that the engine arrived on Sodor rails, named Henry and painted in apple green. He looked like an LNER engine. He performed well for his first few weeks, but afterwards, his performance took a sharp decrease. When Henry was inspected, it was found that his firebox was far too small, making him a poor steamer, and Topham was furious. Henry was immediately taken off the express and relegated to odd jobs, leaving Edward and the now-worn Q-class tank engine to struggle on their own for the next year.

In 1922, the fat director was brought to Doncaster to see a prototype Pacific for the new A1 class. The engine's name was Gordon, and it was designed to reach speeds of 90+MPH. However, the board of the LNER wanted to name the first A1 engine "Great Northern" after their railway's legacy. As a result, Gordon was going to be scrapped. Fortunately, the fat director intervened and saved Gordon from being scrapped. The NWR acquired Gordon as its number 4 engine, a premiere express engine for cheap.

Gordon worked effortlessly and was grateful to the NWR for saving him. The express, now known as the Wildnor'wester, runs from Tidmouth to Vicarstown and only stops at Crosby. Gordon ran it on time day after day. During this time, the TKER started to reclaim their engines for scrap. By the start of 1923, all of the old S&W locomotives were sold off for scrap. The TKER then turned their attention to the coffee-pots.

Charles hid the only coffee-pot technically in his possession and claimed that the TKER had already scrapped Glenn. He even went as far as to have Edward corroborate his story. The TK&ER were highly suspicious, but with no evidence for or against Glenn being scrapped, it was eventually forgotten on a siding in Tidmouth freight yard - hidden from sight.

#thomas and friends #ttte #ttte gordon #ttte henry #ttte au #Vivamus machinis

[tcvsfiredemon]

Narumayo Week Day 2: Investigations/Caretaking

When Phoenix sneezed it sounded like his entire life force was escaping his body. Maya had learned over the past couple days to get out of his way when he drew in a long, ragged breath, because what came next was a gale force wind of hot air and snot that would inevitably end up in her hair. Luckily he’d graciously waited until they were off the bike to really let loose. A sneeze like that, Maya could understand why medieval people thought demons were responsible.

“Nick, are you sure you wanna do this investigation today? You should probably be sleeping the cold away.”

“It’s fine, Maya. I’ve worked sicker than this before.”

“Have you?”

In the three years she’d spent as Phoenix’s assistant she’d never seen him with so much as a sore throat. Sure he was a major klutz and had been nearly hit by cars on four separate occasions, but for all intents and purposes Phoenix’s body was a temple. The universe must have finally decided to exact its karmic revenge by unleashing the cold to end all colds just days before their latest case.

Really, Maya had hoped this would be a breather for Phoenix, a nice simple robbery case after the whole Xin Eohp saga and all that crazy stuff in England before that. Then Phoenix woke up yesterday with a fever of 102, a splitting headache, and enough congestion to choke an elephant. He had insisted even then that he could work that day, but she’d forced him to stay in bed while she ran around town getting interviews and taking notes, desperately hoping she wasn’t botching the whole thing.

He was feeling better today, but not by much, and while she couldn’t argue that he wasn’t usually better at scoping out the crime scene than she was, the way he was hobbling around with a zombie and making a visible effort to avoid sneezing wasn’t making her very optimistic.

“Just don’t push yourself as hard as usual, okay?”

“I don’t push myself that hard.”

“Nick, have you actually met yourself before?”

They were standing at the door to the upscale apartment of Cynthia Aster, self-help author and (at least until recently) owner of the rare Aster Ruby. She and the defendant, Patrick Xi, were in some weird secret society together, and Aster had let it slip to him that she kept the ruby sealed in a can of diced tomatoes in her pantry. Within days the pantry had been ransacked, the ruby had been stolen, and several perfectly good cans of tomatoes had gone to waste.

As Maya and Phoenix crossed the threshold into the apartment, the first thing she deduced was that this woman was pretty loaded. The place was spacious, all laid out in a weird modern architectural style with no walls and every room at a different height. The stairs that separated them had no railings, which struck Maya as a pretty serious design flaw, but then she wasn’t an architect or anything. There was also a distinct theme to the decor.

All around the place were paintings, photos, statues of hands. Left hands specifically. Words of inspiration were scattered all over the wall, all specifically about being left handed. Maya wasn’t sure what was on the bookshelves, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. Aster carefully vetted them to make sure the authors wrote the manuscripts with their left hand.

“Talk about making one trait your whole personality, huh?”

“Remember, Ms. Aster and Mr. Xi met in a club for left-handed people. You don’t join a club like that unless you’re really committed.”

“Maybe you should join a club for people with spiky hair, Nick. You’re definitely committed to that look.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Maya frowned a bit. Usually Phoenix would have snapped back with some comment about her joining a topknot club or something (which would have obviously been inaccurate, because she had a super cute hair bun, not a topknot). He was clearly off his game.

“So, where to first? We can see it all from right here.”

Phoenix seemed to snap out of a daze. Again, not a great sign. He was often the inattentive type, but never during an investigation.

“I guess we should start with the pantry, where the crime took place.”

“Great, let’s go!”

The pantry, much to Maya’s delight, was an actual room, with walls and a door and everything. It was filled wall to wall with cans of everything that could possibly be canned. Soup, beans, fruit, vegetables, pie fillings, even a few stray cans of bread(ew). You could totally build a fort out of all this. In the corner 

“Wow, this is a room a doomsday prepper would have.”

Phoenix rubbed his temples with his fingers. “Yeah, I think a lot of these cans might have been decoys to keep people from finding the one with the ruby in it.”

“Such a weird plan to hide a gem in a tomato can, huh? Seems pretty out of left field to me!”

She turned to give him a silly look, but he didn’t react at all. She would’ve expected at least a groan in response to such an egregious pun.

“Yeah, I guess…I guess…”

Phoenix took in a big gasp of air and Maya ducked for cover as another massive sneeze erupted out of her friend’s mouth. She looked at him, still dazed, and put her hands on her hips.

“All right, that’s it. We’re taking a break.”

“Huh?”

“I’m gonna make you some soup.”

“Soup? What?”

She was already hard at work digging through the wall of cans to find something good. Some of the soups had sell-by dates of over five years ago, so Phoenix’s assumption that they might be decoys was probably correct. Eventually, she found something that looked good.

“Here! Cream of mushroom!”

“Maya! You can’t just make soup at a crime scene!”

“Who’s gonna stop us? We know the chief of police.”

“Okay, but–”

She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him up to the kitchen. No way in hell was she going to let Phoenix make himself sicker over some lame jewel thief. She sat him down at the kitchen table and ran over to search for a pot and a can opener.

“Just sit there and rest for a bit, Nick. I’m gonna help you feel better.”

“Maya, everything in this apartment is evidence. We’re tampering with evidence”

“And I’m about to serve you up some fresh, hot, savory evidence in just a second!”

Luckily there was a can opener right on the counter, which she put to quick work. She found a saucepan pretty quickly as well, and after futzing around with the high-tech stove for a bit, she had a good pot of soup on the boil. Over at the kitchen table, Phoenix was sneezing up a storm.

“That’s good, Nick, let it all out.”

“You sound like my mom,” Phoenix groaned

“No talking back, young man,” Maya chirped back, tapping the wooden spoon against her hand in a mock-stern way, “close your eyes and the soup will come to you.”

In a few minutes, she’d prepared a nice hot bowl of soup, served in a beautiful china dish that they definitely weren’t supposed to be touching. Holding the bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, she straddled Phoenix and brought the warm liquid toward his mouth.

“Here comes the airplane.”

Phoenix’s head bolted up. “Nope, you’re not baby birding me. That’s where I’m drawing the line.”

Maya jumped off him, her face heating up. Yeah, that was maybe a bit too much. She carefully set the bowl down and handed him the spoon. He took a spoonful and let out the most satisfying sigh she’d heard from him all day.

“Okay, that’s really good.”

She sat down next to him and happily watched him eat. He looked so cute shoveling the soup down with the dainty little spoon she’d found. When he was done he leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

“Feel better?”

“So much.”

Suddenly, Phoenix’s eyes opened wide. “Maya, how did you open the soup can?”

“What? Uh, there was a can opener on the counter.”

“Was it hard to use or anything?”

“Not really? I’ve used can openers before, you know.”

He rushed over to inspect the utensil, then quickly started searching through all the drawers in the kitchen until he found what he was looking for and held it up for her to see.

“Another can opener?”

“A left handed can opener! The one you used was a regular one. Which means…”

“It doesn’t actually belong to Ms. Aster,” Maya gasped, “The thief must have brought his own to get the ruby!”

“And since Mr. Xi is left handed as well…”

“The thief couldn’t have been him! Nick, you figured it out!”

Phoenix blushed and rubbed the back of his head. “Well, we’ll probably need to find a bit more evidence to get the full picture, but it’s a start.”

“Then let’s get to it!” Maya exclaimed, fists pumping and stars in her eyes.

“Okay, but first I have to…have to…”

Phoenix took in a long, ragged breath and Maya jumped for cover.

#narumayo #narumayoweek2023 #maya fey #phoenix wright #fanfic #these keep ending up way longer than I planned

[alex51324]

Wrote a bit of this thing I said I wasn’t going to write

“EDWAAAAAAAAAAAAAARD!” The voice came bellowing through the walls, seeming to almost rock the ship.

“Is that…Blackbeard?” Stede asked his new friend.  Besides being loud, the cry was strangely resonant; he could almost believe it to be the voice of a being with a head made of smoke.  

“Nah,” said Ed.  “I’m Blackbeard.  That’s Izzy.”

“What?” Now Stede heard the tremor that he’d managed to keep out of his voice when he’d asked about the bellow.  

“You know, my First Mate,” Ed—Blackbeard—said, fingering one of Stede’s jackets.  “Say, you wanna try something weird?”

The something weird did manage to do away with some of Stede’s intimidation about learning the identity of his guest.  Blackbeard did, it turned out, put on his trousers—or Stede’s trousers—one leg at a time, like anyone else.  

Bu that progress abruptly vanished when they stepped out of the auxiliary wardrobe to find a large, scaly head poking through one of the cabin windows, just over Stede’s bed.  “Auggh!” he screamed.  

“Iz,” Ed said.  “Get back up on deck.”  He sounded only mildly irritated, like someone scolding his dog—and indeed he picked up a cushion and brandished it in the general area of the creature’s head.  “Go on—I’ll be there in a minute.”

With a snort, the head withdrew.  

“Wh-wh-what was that?” Stede asked.

Ed gave him a puzzled look. “Izzy,” he said.  “Hanging upside down off the taffrail, the big idiot. Sometimes he falls in when he does that.”

“In?” Stede asked, contemplating the creature falling into his cabin.

“Yeah.  He can swim, but if he goes in face-first he’s coughing for days.  C’mon.” He led the way out of the cabin.

Following him, Stede said, “So that’s, ah…that’s Izzy.”  Stede had heard the rumors, of course—that Blackbeard was the only pirate in the Caribbean to have a dragon—but the General History of the Pyrates said it was only that, a rumor. “Your dragon.”  

“My First Mate, yeah,” Ed corrected.  “He’s his own dragon.”

They went out on deck. Ed delivered a brief speech introducing himself as Captain Bonnet and Stede as Blackbeard, and encouraged the crew to applaud, but Stede didn’t hear much of it.  He was a little preoccupied with the dragon—Izzy—occupying most of the forecastle.

They’d taken a field trip to a covert once, when he was in school in England, so Stede knew that Izzy was not, in an objective sense, an especially large dragon.  Crouched as he was on his belly, his shoulder was only perhaps as high as that of an especially large carthorse—though he’d be taller, of course, when he stood, and the length of his neck added to the impression of height.  And sprawled across the width of the deck, his length left ample room for the crew to get past him to the heads, if they so desired, although it would mean a choice between passing rather close to his jaws on the port side, or clambering over his tail on the starboard.   The talons of the paw—hand? –that dangled over the forecastle railing weren’t much longer than Stede’s hand.

For the truly large breeds, a single paw—or hand—might be almost the size of a man, and even a medium-weight dragon would be unable to fit anywhere on the Revenge’s decks.  Strictly speaking, Izzy was decidedly on the small side for a dragon.  

But at this range, he didn’t look small.  He seemed to take up the entire forecastle, and with a slight effort he could have stretched his head as far as the mainmast.

Doubtless, it was for that reason that all of the crew were gathered aft of said mast.  It wasn’t especially likely that any of them had ever seen a dragon before, as more than a distant shape in the sky.  There were very few European dragons in the New World, and the Caribbean islands were too small to support local populations.  There were some on the mainland—the Incan Empire was said to have them in vast numbers, with traditions of dragon husbandry many times more ancient than Britain’s—but they generally kept their distance from European settlements.  

Stede had just about decided that he had to approach the dragon—purely to set a good example, of course—when Izzy said, “Edward, what the fuck are you wearing?”

He’d known that dragons talked, of course.  But he’d had the impression that it was only a few words, like parrots.

But Ed seemed to find nothing unusual in this remark.  “Weren’t you listening?” he asked.  “I’m Stede. He’s Edward.”  

Izzy stretched out his head to look at Stede with one fist-sized eye.  Stede managed not to recoil.  “Er, hello,” he said.  “Very nice to meet you.”

The dragon rumbled in his throat.  

“Are you a, ah, Winchester?” Stede asked.  Those were the small ones, he was nearly sure.  Although they were mostly brown, if he remembered correctly, and Izzy was black, or perhaps a very dark grey.  “Or a cross, perhaps?”

Izzy drew in his paw—hand?—and bit delicately at one of his talons, showing thumb-sized teeth.  “Winchester-Widowmaker cross,” he agreed.  

“Ah.  Lovely.”

Turned away from Stede to look at Ed, the Izzy demanded,  “Are we staying much longer?”

“A bit, yeah,” Ed said. Turning to Stede, he added, “That reminds me, you’re going to need a new goat.  And chickens.  And pig.” To Izzy, he added, “Go catch some fish or something.”  

The dragon  flicked his tail in catlike displeasure.  

“Unless you want some of this salt-meat we took from the Spanish,” Ed added.  

Scoffing, Izzy turned one last glare on Stede, spread his wings, and launched, leaving the ship rocking with the force of his takeoff.  

“Right,” Ed said, clapping Stede on the shoulder.  “Where were we?”

#izzy hands #ofmd #ofmd fic #fic I'm not writing #izzy the grumpy dragon #His Captain's Dragon #not sure if there's any more of this #temeraire fusion