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rustedhearts · 1 year

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Shades of Cool (Boxer!Steve x Librarian!Fem reader)

summary: steve’s new ride inflates his ego (and anger).

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the steve collection ♡

warnings: angst, daddy issues, verbal argument (shocker), maybe a little shoving and manhandling, otherwise cutesy fluff :)

hawkins, indiana, november 15th 1989

Last week, Steve got a Harley.

He had a fight in Chicago, and you sprang to the phone the moment it shrilled at ten-thirty, knowing it meant the fight was over and Steve was on the other line.

"Hey, pretty girl," he mumbled through the phone.

You could tell from the low grumble of his voice—the way his words mushed together all souped up and unenunciated—that he'd taken too many hits to be coherent. But Steve continued to surprise everyone with his relentless stamina and easy energy.

"Hi, Stevie," you practically cooed, the rubber cord of the telephone coiling its way around your finger. "You win for me tonight, champ?"

Steve snickered into the receiver, a hoarse and half-coughed chuckle following suit. "Yeah. Yeah, baby, I won."

A burst of pride sparked through your chest, like it always did. No matter how many calls you got from Steve, announcing his inevitable victory in the ring, they never got old. You never got tired of hearing his delirious mumbling, of picturing the busted lip you could hear through his words. The sound of his voice graveling through the phone never failed to send cold shivers down your spine, and tingles through your nerves. You were always a giggly, grinning mess when you bid him goodnight.

"And...got a surprise t' show you 'morrow when I come home," Steve declared, and your heart hammered in your chest with impatience.

"Can't wait to see it."

What you hadn't expected was for Steve to come ripping down your street on a black Harley Cruiser. You straightened up from your place on the sofa, chin tucked over the back to watch the street for sightings of your bloody boxer. The bike came roaring to the curb of your front lawn, idling for a moment before Steve kicked the stand down and eased the engine off. You leapt to your knees, pushing the curtains further apart to watch with wide blown eyes as his leather-gloved hands rose to pull off the helmet.

A heap of chestnut locks flopped free from the helmet, billowing in the wind. Steve tucked the helmet in the crook of his arm, wrapped in the black leather of a thick jacket zipped to the collar. He turned, concealing any view of his ass from you—but then you could see him, in all his bruised and bloodied glory: fat lip, swollen cheekbone, busted brow bone. He slipped a pair of black shades over his eyes on his ascent toward the front porch, and you scrambled to your feet to beat him there.

Yanking the door open, you beamed in delight at the sight of Steve—looming tall in a pair of sturdy steel-toed boots and his new black leather attire.

"Hey, pretty girl," he drawled, cocking a lopsided grin.

You closed the gap between the two of you, mounting his firm figure in one bound. Arms wrapping around his neck, legs around his torso, nose burying its way into the pine-scented warmth of his neck. Steve steadied himself on the rail of your front steps with one hand, pressing the other against the small of your back with a grunt. Once he had steadied, Steve chuckled gruffly.

"Missed me?"

You sighed into his neck, pressing a desperate kiss to the underside of his jaw. "You have no idea."

Steve lowered his chin to hook over your shoulder, bridging the minuscule distance between you. His eyes pinched closed behind the darkened shades, a huff of air expelling from his nose.

"Me too."

♡ ♡

"So...I mean, I love it, don't get me wrong but...why the Harley?"

After a good forty-five minutes of a tight embrace on your front porch, the two of you wandered toward the curb to check out Steve's new toy. Steve crossed his arms, grinning down at the gleaming black hunk of metal and iron.

"Just a little celebratory gift to myself. Ready for a ride?"

Steve hopped off the curb, boots scuffing against the asphalt of the street as he rounded the bike. You paled, watching him open the back hatch and pull out a pink helmet, smaller than his with your initials in a pretty cursive font along the right side. He met you on the curb again, wiggling it in his hands.

"Come on," Steve cooed, a grin playing on his lips, "got 'er just for you, angel."

You pouted uneasily, reaching out for the straps, just for Steve to playfully bat at your hands until they fell back to your sides. He bumped his knuckles under your chin gently until it lifted, and the helmet found its way over your skull. It was heavy and thick, and your head felt like a bowling ball on a string when he snapped the buckles together under your jaw.

Steve's smile spread his mouth wide, hands tapping the sides of your helmet gently. "There. Beautiful, baby."

He planted a gentle peck on your pouting mouth and tugged you by the hand toward the bike. He mounted the leather seat, both feet planted on the ground as he patted the space behind him. You braced yourself on his shoulders as you stepped up onto the footrest and slung your leg over. Once you were seated, Steve reached for your hands, bringing them to rest against his stomach with your arms circled around his waist.

"Hold on tight, 'kay, baby?"

You squished your cheek against his shoulder, bobbing your heavy head.

"Not too fast please, Stevie," you squeaked.

"'Course not, angel."

The bike roared to life, and an involuntary squeal ripped from your throat, arms tightening around Steve's body. He tried not to groan from the way your elbows dug into his ribs and brushed against his bruises. Soreness dragged on him, but Steve was too excited to show you his new toy to bother taking a moment to rest. He gave the throttle a squeeze, and the air seeped from your lungs at the growl of the humming bike between your legs.

You hung onto Steve for dear life the entire way through Hawkins, barely catching a glimpse of streets and shops whizzing by, unable to pry your eyes open. When he slowed to a stop and parked on the curb, it took a moment for you to register the world stilling. Steve chuckled, rubbing his gloved hands along yours.

"Doin' okay, angel?"

You groaned, nodding despite the dizziness fogging your brain. "Mhm."

He gave you a moment to settle before prying your arms away, pushing off the bike to stand on the curb and unclip your helmet. When it came off, you immediately reached to smooth your hair and Steve cracked a smile, wrapping his hand around your jaw to squish your cheeks and angle your mouth to his will.

"Look beautiful, baby."

You burned at his affection, eyes fluttering closed again when he captured your mouth in a wet kiss. You whimpered against the swipe of his warm tongue on your lower lip and Steve chuckled.

"Come on, I'm starving."

♡ ♡

Now, you only had a few days together before Steve had to take off for another fight in Boston, and you'd been pouting about it since he got here. Steve did all he could, spending every spare moment giving his full attention to you. You accompanied him to the gym to train, then out to lunch and dinner after. You brought him home to lounge in your room, though your parents were against the idea of him spending the night. You went to his tiny apartment and spent hours tangled together in bed.

And he drove the bike everywhere you went. To the gym, to the library to pick you up, to your house, to every diner and restaurant you went to. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't noticed the certain air of cockiness riding the bike seemed to add to his demeanor. The way he smirked when eyes followed the pair of you floating away from it, the way he slung his arm around you like putting on a show after helping you off the bike.

Of course, the new addition to his image was attractive. In fact, you'd had a few dreams about him bending you over the leather seat with the engine revving (your fantasies weren't always the safest or most practical).

But for the past few days, Steve had been irritable, and you'd been pouty. The combination didn't mesh well.

The tiniest things sent Steve over the edge—he had a short temper, as you'd come to learn. While it was never directed at you, it still affected you. And when Steve was irritable, he drove fast. How fast he drove depended on how irritable he was feeling. He could go from fast to way-too-fucking-fast before you had a moment to catch your breath behind him.

And for your pouting...well, Steve was leaving again. You only just got him back, and you knew when he'd return in a few more days, he'd just have to leave again.

"Fuckin' Christ," Steve muttered around a cigarette, stomping ahead of you toward the bike parked in the lot of his apartment building.

You scurried to catch up, adjusting the strap of your purse over your shoulder as it slipped with speed. Your skirt ruffled in the wind, and you struggled to keep up and keep it down at the same time.

"Can't we take the car?" you huffed as you approached the bike, and Steve fished his lighter out of the pocket of his leather jacket to light the cig.

He mounted the bike, resting back as he replaced the lighter and sucked in a drag of smoke. The scowl on his mouth deepened, and his eyes slid over to you still standing in the parking lot.

"Why?" Steve pulled the cigarette away and blew the smoke toward the sky.

You shifted, adjusting your purse again. "I'm...I'm wearing a skirt, Steve."

He eyed the skirt, bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. "Yeah, so?"

You crossed your arms, a familiar pout finding its way to your face. Steve sighed at the sight of it, eyes rolling.

"Baby, come on," he groaned, hand coming to rest on the clutch.

You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, gazing wearily at the sleek, black Harley like at any moment, it would rev up and bite you like a jaguar on the prowl. Steve tapped his finger on the clutch and tossed his cigarette toward the pavement.

"You..." Your voice as small, hesitant.

Steve jerked his chin forward, brows raising. "I what?"

A pitiful whine left you, and you dropped your arms, shoulders slumping in defeat. "You...you're gonna get mad, and then you're gonna drive too fast."

Steve's brows dropped, knitting together and accompanying his deep frown.

"What? M' not mad. M' gonna be if you don't get on the fuckin' bike and I'm late—"

"—Steven," you cut him off sharply.

Steve instantly leapt off the bike, shuffling over to you with a heavy sigh. He took your hands where they dangled at your sides and gathered them between his palms. They came to press against his chest with his guidance.

"C'mere, baby," he grumbled. You stepped in close, peering at your hands embraced by his.

"M' not mad," Steve said, head shaking. "Why d' you think I'm gonna get mad?"

Your chest tightened a little, and nerves clawed their way up your spine. You didn't want to hurt his feelings. But if you didn't tell him, how would he ever know what he's doing wrong?

"You always get mad."

Steve softened greatly, bending at the neck to press a kiss to your forehead with another heavy sigh. His thumbs rubbed at your wrists, the tip of his nose making a soothing circle at your hairline.

"Jesus, angel, m' sorry. It's just been tough. It's this job, you know? It's...it's...—"

"—I get it," you interrupted again, tipping your head back to flash him a small smile.

He cocked his head. "You do?"

You nodded, perking up on your tiptoes to peck his mouth. "Course I do, Stevie. It's fine. Come on, let's take the bike."

Your hands slipped from his grasp, and he hooked his chin over his shoulder to watch you head toward the bike. Your skirt fluttered up and gave way to the backs of your thighs and the bite marks Steve left last night.

"You sure?"

You mounted the bike, gathering your helmet in your lap to unclip the buckles. You flashed him a dazzling smile—a smile so pretty that he couldn't see through it.

"I'm sure, baby."

♡ ♡

And you were right.

After four hours of training—where your ass went numb from sitting on the padded bench so long and your brain felt like mush from reading the same book you'd been trying to get through for a week—Steve stomped into the locker room with another scowl on his face.

You followed him in, book tucked behind your back, and eased against the cold metal of the lockers. Steve whipped his gloves into his duffel bag, clawing at the black wraps around his hands to undo them. You could practically see the steam radiating off his flushed, glossy skin. You could feel the thrum of his aggravation, could see it in the way his eyes hardened and lips thinned.

"You did great in there," you commented.

Steve didn't even look up. He balled his wraps up and shoved them into his bag, turning to yank open his locker for a change of clothes.

"Not great enough," he huffed.

You frowned, bringing your book to rest against your chest. Steve pulled a sweatshirt over his sticky skin. You knew he preferred to shower at home, where he could press you against the wall and rut into you without the off chance of someone listening through the wall. Steve never liked to share you, even in theory.

"Come on, Stevie, that's not true. You're too hard on yourself—"

"—I have to win," Steve snapped.

You flinched, jumping when the locker door slammed shut and rattled the row of them. He finally looked at you, though you preferred when he wasn't. His eyes were empty, glassed over with the familiar, stubborn haze they hold when Steve starts thinking too hard. When he beats himself up, and as he admitted a few weeks ago, starts hearing his father's voice in his head.

"Do you understand that? If I don't win, I go nowhere. I stay here, in this same shit-hole town I've always been in, and I go nowhere. I can't just be great, Libby. I have to be the best."

Steve slung his bag over his shoulder, brushing past you in a petulant stomp toward the door. You blinked at the empty air where he once stood, digesting his growled words. You didn't think Hawkins was so bad. You liked your small town life here. And you were here, weren't you?

Didn't that mean anything?

"See you tomorrow, Libby!" Big, the hulking, bald-headed man Steve called his coach waved to you from where he was wiping down the ring across the gym.

You waved back, barely mustering a pitiful grin to toss back at him as you followed Steve toward the exit.

"Y-Yeah, see you."

In the parking lot, Steve opened the hatch on the seat of the bike to shove his duffel in. You'd packed it neatly so it would bunch up small enough to fit this morning, and now that Steve had haphazardly thrown things in, it was too bulky for the compartment. You lingered on the curb as you watched him slam the hatch up and down, attempting to force it in.

"Steve, it's not gonna—"

He groaned, shoving himself away from the bike toward the wall of the gym beside you. In an instant, his hand darted out to punch it, and you gasped at the sharp crack that followed the impact of his skin against brick.

"Steve! What the hell?"

Steve's hands flew to his head, running through the length of his hair in exasperation. "Stop! Just...stop!"

He waved you off, wandering to the end of the sidewalk near the road. You watched him go for a moment, biting back tears. You knew he'd get angry, he always did—but why was he suddenly angry with you?

"Steve," you sighed, heels clicking in a hurry toward his pacing figure.

Cars moved at a glacial pace along the road, rotating between the town shops. You stopped behind Steve and placed your hand delicately on his shoulder, attempting to soothe his tense muscles despite your wobbling lower lip. Despite your chest feeling like it could cave in at any moment.

"Steve, I don't understand why you're so upset."

A snicker of laughter came spitting from Steve, and you recoiled back when he whirled around on his heel. He suddenly seemed so big.

"Of course you don't," he sneered. "Of course you don't get it. Why would you? You don't have people breathing down your fuckin' neck all the time, telling you: be better, be better, be better."

Each word came punctuated with a sharp smack of his knuckles against his palm, and you winced as he advanced with fury in his eyes. You took a skittered step back toward the gym, teeth sinking into your trembling lip.

"But w-why are you taking it on me?" you blubbered, tears stinging in your lash line.

Steve came to a stop, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes. He shuddered out a sigh. "I'm sorry. I don't know, I'm sorry."

You smacked at the tears rolling down your cheeks, though the salty taste had already started seeping into your mouth.

"You don't know?"

Steve huffed sharply through his nose like a bull, ripping his hands away from his eyes to stomp toward the parking lot again. "No, I don't fuckin' know!"

You followed, tears turning hot with frustration.

"So I'm just supposed to take it? Huh?" You reached forward and shoved Steve's shoulder, but he kept going, hands balling into fists at his sides. "I'm supposed to let you drag me around and yell at me when you're feeling stressed out?"

Steve's boots kicked up gravel when he came to an abrupt stop, and your teeth clench together with a hardened glare that challenges his.

"I never fuckin' said that," Steve bit out.

You stood tall in your tiny checkered heels, stomping one involuntarily when you curled your fingers into fists. "You didn't have to!"

Steve's tongue prodded at the inside of his cheek, hands coming to sit on his hips as he tipped his head back. He scoffed, shaking his head to himself in disbelief—and that's what really did you in.

"You know what, Steve? Screw you."

Steve let his head fall back, settling his empty eyes on you. "Oh, screw me?"

"Yeah, screw you. You come home, you jerk me around, and then you leave. Then you come home again, jerk me around more, and leave again. And what do I get, Steve?"

Steve's nostrils flared with a tightening of his jaw, eyes bouncing around the flushed features of your contorted face. He'd never seen you so upset. Sure, you had a few spats over the past few months—but he'd never seen you yell like this. And deep down, he knew it was his fault. He was just too stubborn to admit it.

"What the fuck do you want from me, Libby—"

"—I want you to stop taking your shit out on me!"

Steve huffed, stomping the rest of the way toward his bike. You were right. Of course you were right. But you still just didn't understand.

You didn't understand that Steve spent every night alone in his hotel room, a hundred miles away and aching, wishing you were there. He slipped in bathtubs, too weak to stand with all the bruises on his abdomen, too dizzy to stand the steam. He got sick on more than one occasion before a fight on the off chance that he might lose, because if there's one thing that terrified Steve, it was failure.

He broke so many phones that Big started only half-jokingly suggesting Steve be put in a room without one, because Steve picked up the phone to call you but got too scared you wouldn't answer. He thought that the longer he was away, the better off you'd be. The longer you'd have to see how fucked up he was, the easier it'd be for you to leave him. He wasn't a good man, and sooner or later, you'd see that.

This job was the only thing Steve was good at, and if he wasn't the best, Steve felt like he was nothing.

"Steve," you sighed, watching his eyes dart around and his harshness crumble, "just...talk to me. Talk, not yell."

Steve shook his head, forcing himself to look away from your pink, swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks. "I can't."

You frowned, wiping more tears away. "What? You can't?"

Steve shoved at his duffel still sticking out of the hatch until it could somewhat close before mounting the bike. He dipped into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his sunglasses, sliding them over his aching eyes. All the yelling made him suddenly realize how terribly his head hurt.

"Get on the bike, baby," he ordered sternly. He kicked the stand up and brought the bike to both wheels, revving the engine with a twist of his hand around the handle.

You crossed your arms, sniffling nosily. He watched you jerk your chin up, defiance painted across your glossy face.

"No."

Steve glared at you through his shades. "Get on the fucking bike, Libby."

You dropped your arms. "No! I'm walking home, asshole."

To his surprise, you spun around and started stomping toward the road, every step coming with a bounce of your hair and flutter of your skirt. Steve hurriedly cut the engine and kicked the stand down, jogging to catch up with your brisk walk.

"Hey—hey! You're not fuckin' walking."

You yanked your arm from his hold the moment he grabbed you, but Steve was insistent. He wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you back before you could reach the crosswalk. You pushed at his arm, but it was anchored around you, a barrier between you and your destination away from him.

"Steve, let go!"

He ignored you, and the more you pushed and pulled at his arm, the more Steve felt his defenses crumbling. Did you really want to get away from him that badly? Had he truly been that terrible? A tightness overwhelmed his stomach, clenching and squeezing like a sickness. Something stung his eyes and collected in his ears like an ache.

"Steve, let me g—hey! Put me down!"

The world turned upside down and your head spun when Steve suddenly threw you over his shoulder. But you gave up on your assault, any fight in you deflating just as Steve's did at the sudden realization of your very public fight. The tears returned in your eyes, stinging with salty warmth, and by the time Steve bent down to set you gently on the bike, they were starting to gather in your hairline.

Steve brushed your hair down with two heavy palms, swiping under your eyes to free them of tears with his thumbs. You sniffled, eyes fluttering shut at the firmness of his palms cradling your face.

"Please stop cryin', angel," he mumbled, his ordinary grumble morphing into a soft whine.

You sniffled again—a pathetic, pouting mess in his hands. Steve swooped down to press a kiss to your swollen lips. When your frown persisted, Steve kissed again. And again, and again, and again, until you were giggling snottily and pushing the heels of your palms against his shoulders. But the frown had been replaced with a halfway smile, and that was all that mattered to Steve. He pressed his thumb into the corner of your mouth.

Silence ensued. The whoosh of cars slugging by, the sporadic chirp of horns, and the distant chirp of birds were the only sounds that filled it. Your head tipped to lean into Steve's hold. His hands still smelled like sweat and leather. The bike was warm under your legs.

"I just get...I get so angry," Steve whispered.

Your eyes popped open, blinking up at him. "Why?"

Though he did his best to hide it, a pinched look passed over Steve's face. He slid his hand across your cheek and into your hair, urging it behind your ear.

"I don't know. 've always been like this, you know? Ever since I was a kid. Guess I know who I get it from."

Steve snickered, but you shook your head and brought your hand to cradle his against your face. You pressed a kiss to his wrist, stroking his forearm.

"No, Steve. You're nothing like your father."

Though he hadn't said it explicitly, you knew what the stories of Steve's father insinuated—he was abusive. He beat Steve for every minor inconvenience, and now Steve walked through life thinking everything he did was wrong. He always worried about being good. He always wanted to be good.

For a moment, Steve didn't know what to say. He certainly didn't believe you. Right now, he felt exactly like his father, who Steve watched from his bedroom doorway as he berated Steve's mother and made her burst into tears. He had his father's temper. He always did.

"Just talk to me, Stevie. I don't like when we yell," you told him, pressing another kiss to his wrist.

Steve leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know. I know, baby. Me neither."

You sniffled, nudging your nose against his. Steve cracked a small smile at the affection.

"I guess I'm just...starting to feel the pressure," Steve sighed. "It's starting to feel like...this shit's real."

You nodded. "I know. I guess it's starting to scare me, too."

Steve's brows furrowed. "What, why?"

"I already barely get to see you. What's gonna happen when you make it big?"

Steve inhaled deeply, rubbing his thumbs against your cheeks again. "Then you come with me. Wherever I go, you come, too."

You tipped your head back, meeting his eyes. "You wouldn't mind?"

Steve chuckled, pulling back to get a good look at you.

"Baby, are you crazy? I want you with me every second of the fuckin' day."

You giggled, head tipping toward your shoulder. Steve lunged forward and smacked an urgent kiss against your cheek, still sticky with tears.

"But...what about work? What about the library?" you mumbled.

Steve shook his head, pushing your head back in place with his hand. He pressed another kiss to your mouth. "We'll figure it out. No matter what, it's me and you, baby. Okay? Just me and you."

You reached up, a smile playing in your lips, and placed your hand against his cheek.

"Just me and you."

You had no idea what you were in for. Maybe if you did, you wouldn't have made that promise.

♡ ♡

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avatar-of-the-blank · 5 months

Note

What do you think each entity tastes like?

OOOH, LIST TIME! I LOVE LISTS

ITS LONG SO I PUT A CUT HERE TO NOT CLOG DASHBOARDS

THE BURIED

WELL. LIKE DIRT. NATURAL BUT OPPRESSIVE OF ANY OTHER TASTE EXCEPT FOR DIRT.

THE CORRUPTION

LIKE YOU TOOK A LEMON WARHEAD CANDY AND CRANKED IT UP TO 11. OVERPOWERINGLY SWEET AND SOUR AT THE SAME TIME, MAKING YOUR TEETH ACHE AND ROT AND YOUR FEATURES SCRUNCH UP.

THE DARK

LIKE AN OLD DINERS' HOT COCOA. NOT A POWDERED MIX, NO. DELIBERATELY MELTED CHOCOLATE, OVERTAKING THE WHITE CREAME IN IT WITH ITS THICKNESS. THE WHIPPED CREAM ON TOP MELTED IN IT, NOW JUST BUBBLES AT THE TOP OF THE SMOOTH WARM ABYSS IN A MUG.

THE END

IM FEELING BLACK LICORICE? I ALWAYS FIND THE END TO BE SUCH A GENTLE ENTITY, LIKE A HAND YOURE SCARED TO HAVE TOUCH YOU, BUT WHEN IT DOES.. I FIND THERES THAT APPREHENSION AROUND BALCK LICORICE, A STIGMA OF IT THAT ITS THE MOST REPULSIVE TASTE. I PERSONALLY FIND IT LOVELY.

THE FLESH

IF IM SPEAKING FROM EXPERIENCE? EUGH. SOUR, WARM, AND WET. CONCEPTUALIZE BITING INTO A PAPER TOWEL JUST USED TO CLEAN RAW CHICKEN JUICE FROM A GRILL'S LID.

AS A HYPOTHETICAL? LIKE A BLUE RARE STEAK, WELL SEASONED. UGH, EVEN THINKING OF THAT DOESNT GET THE MEMORY OF THAT SHOULDER OUT OF MY HEAD.

THE EYE

ALMOND SCONES DUNKED IN COFFEE WITH JUST A LITTLE MILK. A SMART FEELING FLAVOR, MILD AND EARTHY, NOT OVERWHELMING THE SENSES LESS IMPORTANT THAN SIGHT.

THE LONELY

RAINWATER, COLLECTED ON A COLD AUTUMN EVE IN A CLEAR MASON JAR, FILTERED OF COURSE. THERES NO FLAVOR, ITS WATER, BUT IT FEELS NATURAL TO DRINK, ESPECIALLY SINCE YOU DONT HAVE TO BOTHER THE TAP TO COLLECT THE DRINK.

THE STRANGER

COTTON CANDY GRAPES! HAVE YOU EVER HAD THEM? IF YOU WERE TO SHUT YOUR EYES AND BITE THEM, ITD FEEL LIKE YOU WERE BITING INTO A COTTON CANDY EYE. BUT ITS NOT, AND THE EYES WOULD DECOEVE YOU. ITS NOT WHAT IT TASTES LIKE, BUT ITS THE EXACT SAME TASTE.

THE SLAUGHTER

JUST A FEAST. IMAGINE VEGGIES AND STEWS AND MEAT AND BREAD IN ABUNDANCE, THE FLAVORS MIXING AND THE SCENT ATTACKING YOUR NOSE AS YOUR DIG IN, A FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO MAKE A DENT IN THE MEAL

THE HUNT

SUMMER WIND. LIKE YOURE A DOG HANGING YOUR SNOUT FROM A CAR WINDOW, MOUTH OPEN AND TONGUE FLAILING AROUND WILDLY AS YOUR OWNER PRESSES PAST 70 KPH.

THE VAST

THIS ONE IS HARD. HOW CAN YOU TASTE THE INFINITE? HOW COULD YOU FEEL THE EXPANSE OF EVERYTHING IN YOUR MOUTH.

MM. MINTY GUM. LIKE REALLY MINTY GUM RIGHT BEFORE YOURE ABOUT TO FALL ASLEEP, RIGHT AFTER YOU TOOK A SIP OF 3 AM WATER.

THE DESOLATION

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN CAMPING WITH THOSE PEOPLE WHO STICK THEIR MARSHMALLOWS IN THE DEAD CENTER OF THE FIRE? AND THE POOR THINGS COME OUT GOOEY AND BURNT ON EVERY SIDE? THE METAL ROD THEYRE ON IS GLOWING AND THEYRE SLIDING OFF THEM. LIKE THAT, BUT DIP IT IN MILK CHOCOLATE.

AND THEN BURN THE CHOCOLATE TOO.

THE WEB

HOME BAKED COOKIES. FROM YOUR HOME. I DONT HAVE AN EXPLANATION HERE, THIS JUST FEELS LIKE THE RIGHT ANSWER.

THE EXTINCTION

SO IVE HAD A CONTAINER OF A CANDY CALLED TOXIC WASTE IN ONE OF MY ROOMS WHICH IVE BEEN DREADING TO TRY. I DONT KNOW WHAT IT TASTES LIKE, BUT I KNOW THE EXTINCTION TASTES JUST LIKE THAT.

THE SPIRAL

I ACTUALLY HAVE A DEFINITIVE ANSWER HERE, SINCE I KNOW! WOOD PAINT, WHIPPED CREAM, HEMP SEEDS, HAIRSPRAY, MOCHA COFFEE, YELLOW, TYPE A- BLOOD, THE AIR IN YOUR ATTIC, METAL STAIRWAY RAILINGS, IRON, OBTUSE RUBBER GOOSE GREEN SNAKE GUAVA JUICE

#tma #the magnus archives #michael distortion #the spiral #the stranger #the corruption #the vast #the eye #the flesh #the buried #the web #the dark #the extinction #the

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queenpiranhadon · 2 months

Text

⭐︎⎸⎸ 𝐒𝐰𝐞��𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 ⎸⎸⭐︎

A/N: You all voted on this poll, so I shall deliver. ;) Here's my masterlist! Divider made by @cafekitsune

Warning(s): Angst, unrequited love (kinda), amnesia, past (?) relationship, lovers to strangers to lovers, depictions of murder and bombing (nothing really happens though), mentions of depression

Pairing(s): Bucky Barnes x GN!Reader

“Hey.”

It was dark. Too dark for your comfort, but you still found solace out in the inky blackness that shrouded you, finding some twisted reassurance in the way all you could see was your own two hands in front of you, the faulty light that illuminated the looming Avengers complex in the distance, and the railing you rested your forearms on.

And now, you saw the glint of metal in your periphery- no, not metal, vibranium.

“Hi.” is all you whisper back, refusing to make eye contact with the man beside you.

Your heart throbs, a dull ache compared to the raging thoughts in your head, the reason you came out in the dead of night in the first place. Bucky Barnes, your first love, and perhaps your last. You vowed you’d never see him again, yet here he was.

“Why are you avoiding me?” he grunts, giving up on trying to make eye contact with you and opts for leaning on the railing next to you.

Bucky had been away on a mission, before he was the Winter Soldier, before he was the White Wolf, back when he was just Bucky. And that Bucky had been your friend. After he had left Hydra, he met you, on the street, making your way to a family-owned cafe, picking up coffee for both you and your boss, and a donut for yourself. At the time, you were a senior in college, working an internship under Tony Stark. You were special- special enough to stay after Stark debuted as Iron Man to the world, working under him – researching biotech and adding updates to his suit when the situation required them.

Bucky had been there, in an alleyway, looking broken as he stared at the wall across from him. And you, the sweet angel you were, abandoned your coffee and asked him if he had a place to stay.

It wasn’t like you to pick up every homeless man you saw on the streets, your small apartment would be ransacked if you had- but something was different about Bucky. Something special. So you took him in, making sure he ate, bathed, and had a place to sleep.

And after a few months, Bucky became more than a friend. You had grown on him, cracking through his walls, and providing the warmth he needed for his cold heart. But the effort it took you to get there was painstakingly slow, the man had refused to eat your food until you threatened you wouldn’t either until he had done so. It was toxic, sure, using guilt to get him to do what you needed, but it had worked. And you two had been happy.

You never told anyone about your new boyfriend, the man living in your house- knowing that judgement you would face had someone known that you started dating a random man you found off the street. But you loved him, with your whole heart, and nothing could change that.

And then one day, he disappeared. You looked everywhere for him, showing up to the police with his picture, sobbing, wondering if he could be dead- or worse.

And then you saw him, six months later, not in person, but on TV. For killing man by the name of T’Chaka, and for bombing a building.

You weren’t the same after that, an empty shell filled with lies and denial, telling yourself that your Bucky wouldn’t do that. The same rough hands you loved so much, the ones that caressed your skin as you went to bed every night, enveloped in each other’s warmth, couldn’t be the same hands splattered with blood, the ones that held the lives of so many people.

Tony had graciously let you off work, noticing the state you were in, but decided not to press as the cause of your misery.

And then a civil war broke out through the Avengers, and Tony needed your help. So you obliged, creating tech that would assist him in the fights he had coming. But you weren’t prepared for what was to come after all that.

You had encountered Bucky at a party, alive and well, one hosted at Tony’s home. And you approached him.

“Bucky! Oh my god, I’m so happy you’re safe.” you had said, wrapping your arms around him, trying to feel the warmth you used to, yet it wasn’t the same. You sobbed, spilling your worries out onto him, asking him why he didn’t talk to you, why he didn’t come back.

And after everything, all he had said was “I’m sorry, who are you?”

He had forgot.

Your heart had split into a million pieces then, the fragile glue you had used to try to keep your sanity together shattering as you whispered a feeble “never mind” before retracting away from him and slipping into the crowd.

You avoided him for weeks after that, shooting down any attempt of communication between you, your heart clenching painfully whenever you glimpsed him.

And now it was just the two of you, outside, on a railing.

“Because it hurts” is all you say, in response to his question, deciding to focus on the present, not the past.

He frowned slightly, a crease forming through his eyebrows, your fingers twitching to smooth it, as you always had. But you didn’t. He said nothing though, waiting for you to continue.

“You really don’t remember, huh?” you whisper softly, a small huff exiting your lips, a hollow sound.

He shakes his head again, swallowing thickly. “Most of my memories have been coming back- except for this one.”

A choked sob leaves your mouth, playing off as a laugh as you feel the tears building in your throat.

“I never meant anything to you, did I?” the words leave your mouth without much thought, before you shake your head smiling sadly.

“It doesn’t matter any ways, I know it’s not your fault.” you say, turning away from him, walking back to the Avengers complex. “Be happy Buck – that's all I need from you.”

Bucky stares at your retreating form, silent, wanting to reach out for you, reach out for the memories of you, but they were still so far away, out of reach.

If only you knew how much he wanted to see his sweet angel again.

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fatalfairies · 5 days

Text

𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐀𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍,𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 [ MINI ONESHOT ]

summary: you were his salvation and saviour. He would go to the ends of the Earth and kill or die for you to prove his devotion even your venomous love points a sword at his throat.

themes: villainess!reader,random ocs,reader n gojo’s relationship is kinda toxic,violence,poison,angst,the ending is cliche eew. inspired by the manhwa,roxanna.

wc: 3.3 K

“Jane,have you ordered the poisons I had told you to do so ?” You spoke with your usual mellow tone to your personal maid standing behind you with her head bent down and carefully holding a small glass cup filled with a deep purple liquid inside it.

“M’Lady,there have been some issues at the borders because of the heavy snowfall there which is posing an obstacle,delaying the exporting of the poisons you had ordered.” She stated truthfully as you irked internally hearing her.

You looked at your distorted reflection on the tea inside in the dainty teacup as Jane walked to you placing the glass cup with the dark liquid inside and gently placing it beside your teacup.

You picked up the glass cup with the dark liquid picking it up,the strong scent of the liquid entering your nostrils as your nose scrunched up at the vile smell,it has been years yet you haven’t gotten used to it. You poured the dark liquid inside the porcelain teacup getting mixed with the tea instantly destroying the soothing herbal aroma which was initially laced to the tea.

“Send a message through Maximilian to the borders and let them know that if the materials are not transported by morning after tomorrow. They will be left helpless in the dark forest to serve as the food of the dark beasts.”

You said sharply without sparing a glance at Jane as you picked up the porcelain cup and gulped down the bitter liquid down your throat forcefully in one go.

“..Yes,M’lady,as you command.” Jane meekly obeyed with a nod. “You may leave now.”

The young maiden left your chamber silently with a nod without any word. You stood up,walking to the balcony and opening the huge door as the chilly wind entered through the open doors swaying your loosely tied long hair. You gripped the intricately carved marble railing of the balcony as you looked down the vast gardens of the estate.

Your eyes scan the garden observably like an eagle finding its prey,your eyes setting down on the two familiar silhouettes. A tall well built figure doned in all black with a heavy fur coat hugging his upper body,his hair was black with broad lines of grey hair indicating he was a man of old age. Your father dearest. Beside your father was a far taller young man his wide shoulders overlapped by a hefty dark leather coat,hair resembling the colour of the snowy winter swept back neatly and the most striking about him besides the man himself was a longsword in a tucked a scabbard made of metal with a striking blue gemstone at centre of the pommel of the sword. The entirety of the sword was supported by a leather baldric worm over his left shoulder.

There were other knights of the estate roaming around the garden but your eyes were fixed on the particular snow-haired man. You had seen him for the first time when he was a weak teenage boy with messy hair,dirty torn clothes and tiny cuts all over his face,arms and legs. You had found him unconscious in the vast forests of your family filled with dark and dangerous beasts. It was his luck that he was found unconscious and not dead.

You didn’t know that it was the sympathy you had back as a young teenage girl that provoked you to take him to your father or something else but your father saw a light in him that he unfortunately failed to see in any of his many sons which ultimately did stir up the hearts of your many half brothers.

Your father was by no means a saint in fact he was quite the opposite,he was a man who the devil himself had forged. He was the patriarch of the Zerion family ruling it with an iron fist and his children were nothing to him but pawns for his ultimate desire for power. However,you couldn’t deny you were his daughter,his own blood. Too bad for him,blood runs thicker than water and you were ready to achieve his downfall by any means no matter the cost.

Satoru Gojo,the name of the man who you didn’t know if he was your friend or foe and the very man who served at the sword of your father. His right hand.

But you know better. You know better than any of the fools in this household. To your father,he was just a pawn who presented your father with anything he desired, be it an enemy’s head or conquering the dark beasts that roamed the dark forests to use them to attack on his enemy houses. But the moment he will slip,he will be discarded to death’s door just like how some of your half brothers were along with their useless mothers.

Sure,you know it and Satoru knows the fact just as truthfully then why not make the most out of it.

You snapped out of your thoughts as your piercing eyes met with the deep azure eyes of the snow-haired man. A silent exchange of nothing filled with intangible tension. A smirk gracing your lips and the same reciprocated by him.

“Father,I was informed you had called me ? Is anything troubling you ?” You asked with your soft voice which held no care for him as you stood near the doors of his vast office chambers with him seated at his desk as you walked towards him,your heels pressing on the carpeted marble floor. Your eyes met your father,devoid of any emotion as he spoke. His voice, rough and authoritative. “No,it is nothing of such a matter. The cause for I have summoned you here is you have a mission,a very important one which will be beneficial to me and ultimately our family.”

Selfish bastard.

“You will be attending the annual Masquerade Ball this year—“

Your eyes gleamed,going unnoticed by your father. Receiving the permission to attend the Annual Masquerade Ball meant you are officially being recognised as a representative of the house you belong from.

“Your mission is to retrieve every essential information from the heir of the house of Veryx since their house is proficient in sorcery and magic,it will be of immense benefit to us. You are free to use any means be it seduction or anything else,whether he survives or is not of any importance to me.”

Stupid old bastard.Afterall,all you’ve done your dear father only recognises your skill to seduce and nothing much. Your jaw clenched ever so lightly as you look up to him with a slight smile as you nod.

“I shall not disappoint you,father.”

“Ah,before that. Gojo shall be your partner to the Annual Masquerade Ball. That is all. Make the preparations. You may resign from my office now.”

Oh ? Satoru Gojo will be my partner ? This just got so much more interesting.

You nod as you turn back and start walking to the exit of this suffocating office filled with the smoke of the cigar your father often smokes as you knock on the door signalling the guards to open the door.

“I expect nothing but success from you,daughter.” Your father says just as you're about to leave, making you turn your face at him and give a sweet smile. “Yes,father.” You say shortly as you exit the office.

On your way to your chamber,you notice the very silhouette who had been in your mind approaching you.

Tall,wide shoulders,white hair and piercing azure eyes. His signature sword on his back. You were quite sure he had just returned from a mission and is making his way to your father’s office.

Upon your sight,he halts as he greets you followed by a smile.

“Good evening,Lady Y/N. I must have been blessed by the Goddess of Luck today to be graced by your presence today.” You smile at his remark. “Well,you’ll believe it even more once you hear what father has to say to you. Now,I won’t waste much of your time,Gojo. I don’t want you to face your father's wrath.”

With that you walk away leaving him all alone just like you always do,he thinks.

“Jane,I suppose the poison I had asked to be delivered today has arrived ?” You inquire with a rather strict tone as you are seated on a chair in front of the tea table decorated with all sorts of cookies,biscuits,cakes and a glass with a teapot filled with your favourite tea. Your gaze was fixed onto her as your long,crimson-painted nails tapped on the surface of the tea table.

“Yes,M‘lady. They have arrived safe and secure.” A smile formed on your face hearing the words as you clapped your hands together.

“Excellent. Start including them in my regular dosage from now on and increase the quantity of the poison.”

You have been consuming poison since the very year you met Gojo. At first it felt impossible. Even consuming half a teaspoon tightened your throat to the point you couldn’t breathe anymore,your eyes glossy and your head dizzy with a nauseous feeling overwhelming as you felt death was dragging you to hell. You surely wouldn’t deserve heaven. But you had no other choice,mostly everyone in this house has physical prowess but you needed something which no one else had and if that required your very life at stake then so be it. Any fluid of your body is the deadliest poison be it your tears,saliva or sweat.

Paired with your beauty and wits,it made you even more dangerous than the very poison running through veins. In return,it makes you one of the most lethal members of your house if not the most and that is the only way to survive in this household. Be strong or die weak. That is why you lost the dear lives of your brother and mother years ago. Your brother’s heart was too soft to follow the cruel traditions of your family which ultimately led to his execution as a disgrace of the Zerion family and your mother unable to contain took her life leaving you all alone.

But every has its antidote and yours was Satoru Gojo. Quite literally,one of the many reasons your father preferred him the most. As a man blessed with the ability to be immune to any poison,it made the conquering of the poisonous dark beasts far easier.

Your maid hesitantly nods, not daring to question you because she knows,you will not listen nor can you be stopped. She bows to you and leaves your sight as you enjoy your last pure cup of tea for today.

You are seated on your bed inside your opulent chamber,dressed in a silk black nightgown,your luscious locks of hair cascading down as you look at the love letter on your hand. As a lady of such formidable beauty,you have too many admirers to count but the anonymous sender of this letter is rather consistent. These letters mean nothing to you but sometimes such flattery is nice despite its worthlessness in your eyes.

You place the letter on your bedside table as you leave the bed,donning a heavy jacket and slipping on your velvet slippers as you quietly escape your room at the dead of the night when the entire estate is lost in sleep.

You make your way through the large halls as quietly as a cat as you finally reach the door of the chamber you were looking for and very softly knock on it. The door quickly yet quietly opens as you look up at the man standing inside the chamber as you look at him. Shirtless,only with a pair of trousers on,his hair messy and dishevelled covering his forehead as you look at his azure eyes.

“Come in,Lady Y/N. We don’t want any scandals now do we ?” You roll your eyes dismissively as you enter his chamber,it was dark and the only source of light was the moonlight poking through the glass window panels.

“You are giving me your personal attention after 2 weeks.It was nothing but agony what I had to go through.” He complains looking at you.

You walk close to him,you are amused as you observe his visage. “Are you mad at me ?” Your cold hands brush against the soft skin of his face,brushing your thumbs on his lips,parting his lower lip.

His eyes close at the touch of your palm on his face,leaning on your touch he so desperately craved.

“No,you know I could never be mad at you.” He says seriousness laced to his voice as he opens his eyes

You knew you were cruel to him. The way you denied his glance every time he looked at you,the way you treated him like he was nothing more than your father’s right hand. The way you treated him as though he belongs to his father and not you. And yet he deemed you as his saviour,his master. All that he does for your father is what he would do for you yet why do you not let him ? Is he not even worth putting his life on stake for you ?

“Are the troops ready ? The Annual Masquerade is in a week.” You inquire as you remind him how close you truly are to your goal.

“Yes. In fact,the heir of Veryx is a good accomplice of mine. Killian Veryx,the heir to the house of Veryx and his house will fully assist you.And I am always at your service,my dearest Saviour.”

All these years,he only trained with such determination only so he could be strong for you,so that he could serve you,devote himself to you.

“Thank you,Satoru. I couldn’t be more in debt to you—” You say,with genuine gratitude to him for all he’s doing yet you will always be selfish to not love him as he deserves to be loved so.

“Shh. It is me who couldn’t be more in debt to you.Even with my life,I couldn’t do what you have done for me.” His voice is soft,almost too soft and his eyes glossy.

You didn’t deserve him.You knew it but what you were even sure of is that you’re selfish,always looking out for your own pleasure and never the only one who is truly devoted to you.

You pull him closer to you just like he craved and pressed your lips to his. He kissed back almost as though he’s a sage who’s finally euphoric to have attained enlightenment. To you,this was only a bribe to soothe his heart,atleast that’s what your mind says but the mind doesn’t know that a devotee can’t be bribed by their god.Every deceit,every bribe,every torture from a god to their devotee is nothing but love.

Your kiss deepened as you felt the salty tears escaping from his closed eyes mingle into your kiss.

“I did not take you to be this foolish father. Meeting your ultimate demise by the hands of your own blood ? How utterly dramatic.” Your villainous laugh erupted throughout his office as an endangered expression was painted all over his face.

“You wicked snake,where is Gojo-!” Your father dashed towards you in fury as he fell to the ground blood seeping out his chest as a as he looked up in shock to see the very man he trusted more than his own blood piercing his already bloody sword inside chest deeply as the old man was brought to his knees,coughing out blood as you and Satoru looked down at him like predators eyeing a prey before taking its life.

You turned back to look at Satoru who placed his jacket on your shoulders,the warmth of his jacket warming your cold body. “Are they all disposed of,Satoru ?” You asked with a devious grin on your face as your father was helplessly stuck in the magic circle formed by his blood through the help of Killian Zeryx and his army covering the borders of the Zerion estate. Your father was paralysed as he watched the downfall of everything he ever achieved,the ironic taste of his blood inside his mouth was a taste of his own medicine.

“Goodbye,father.” You say as you push the candle holder on the curtains of the window,the curtains immediately start to burn which would eventually spread to the room just like half of the estate.

Your heels clicked on the cold marble floor as Satoru escorted you out of the office room, closing the door behind him harshly. You smiled thinking what was once your father’s office was now soon to be his grave.

You had visited your father for the one last time in his office after returning from the Annual Masquerade to inform about your success in the mission and that’s what you did,but guess your idea of success was different from his. Well,a dead man tells no tales.

Your eyelids felt heavy as you struggled keeping them open,your physical vessel was finally succumbing to the poison as you were being carried by Satoru outside the estate which had started burning.Your hands gloved with lace caresses his face weakly.

“Why not leave me in this fire and go live your own free life ?” You said weakly as he looked at you desperately, finally escaping the estate,where all his troops which once belonged to the Zerion family,the troops of the Zeryx family and Killian Zeryx himself were present.

Without you there was no life,even if there was it had no colours,no luxury,no enjoyment. He would burn the entire world even if it meant it would warm you. He gently laid your weak body down inside a carriage and opened your mouth gently to feed you the antidote to neutralise the poison which was running inside your body.

Your heart barely beats as a look of devastation contorted on his features. All that he did just for you,just to see a truly happy smile on your face and now the very existence which maintained his existence was slipping away like sand. His shaking hands were intertwined with yours weak and cold ones as everything felt silent. Too silent. His tears silently fell on your face like a waterfall. Time seemed to stop as he looked at you through glossy eyes as leaned down pressing his forehead together with your cold one,his throat hurting yet a scream couldn’t erupt out of it.

He was not ready to accept you were gone,that your hands would never caress his face ever again. His heart couldn’t accept that. He sobbed hysterically as the Zerion Estate was burning to ruins yet the warmth of it did not warm your cold body.

His arms wrapped your cold body in an attempt to warm up your body,to feel the slightest sign of life from you. If he could trade his life for yours he would do so without a question but fate loves to play cruel.

“I..guess this time you are my saviour huh ?” Satoru’s eyes shot open at your familiar voice as he wasn’t able to compose himself,he smiled more tears escaping his eyes,his hands cupping every inch of your face to check whether he is hallucinating or not.

You looked at him weakly,your eyes somehow open,your heart beating slowly yet steadily and Satoru’s tears staining your face.

As always you are yet again his saviour despite you admitting otherwise. Without your presence,this world is nothing but a prison of torture to him,a world devoid of everything but agony. Afterall in the world where nothing matters but you,you are his only salvation,your enlightenment,only saviour,only lover.

#fatalfairies #gojo ff #gojo x you #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #gojo x yn #jjk gojo #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #gojo oneshot #jujutsu kaisen x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x yn #jujutsu kaisen ff

36 notes · View notes

popatochisssp · 7 months

Note

GAH!!! I’ve had this question on my mind for so long, but do the boys have any particular tastes when it comes to interior design? Minimal, eclectic, etc… whatever boys you want to choose! Thank you!!!

This was interesting, I had to go on a bit of adventure through interior décor styles because I’m not too familiar with all the terms, but I definitely had fun~

Forgive any misuse of interior design words below, I am not an expert! XD

(Featuring many images stolen from Google)

Sans (Undertale): Sort of a revival post-modernist, not quite as loud as the original post-modern look in terms of colors, but still a mix-and-match of shapes and materials, spacious areas, not afraid of décor or accenting a space with unique pieces that don’t perfectly coordinate with the others. Comfort and space over rigid adherence to an aesthetic.

Papyrus (Undertale): Memphis style designs really capture his imagination, lots of shapes and bold, bright colors, circles and checkerboards and zig-zags. It’s fun, he likes fun things! Abstractly-shaped furniture and weird objets d’art—could use some more stuff with cool flame-patterns, or maybe some spikes here and there, but he can experiment to get the right balance in there!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Into modern styles, mostly, he does like the minimalist look but absolutely goes in for strategic splashes of color to brighten things up. Sleek shapes and clean lines are great, but absolutely must be offset by some rich lively colors for an open, welcome feel, can’t let it feel too sterile.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Favors sort of a regence look, tends toward curving lines and intricate elegance in the little details. Chair arms that swirl, fleurs in the carving of a cabinet, decorative patterns and motifs to tie everything together as a cohesive whole. He finds the charming elegance comfortable and easy to settle into.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Definitely more of an artisan/arts and crafts style kind of guy, cares less about the Look of things than he does the craftsmanship of it—he wants things to be well-made and able to stand up to consistent use, so most of what he favors are sturdy pieces and designs without ostentation or elaborate details. It may not be the prettiest, but it is homey and comfortable and ready to be actually lived in.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Empire style, he is all about the ostentation and elaborate details, silk and velvet, ebony and gold, it has to be bold and artful and dramatic (just like he is). If something’s a little too plain and simple, he’ll pass on it or find a way to dress it up prettier.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Contemporary design is more his thing, sleek lines and sharp angles, with a strong aesthetic preference for more industrial materials (glass, metal, marble, etc). Tends to avoid most color, sticking with black and white, and just a few decorative objects here and there to draw the eye. He likes the clean look over a more comfortable, lived-in one.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Big fan of art nouveau, swirling lines and curving forms. Stained glass lamps, art, and windows are big hit with him, as well as wrought iron railings or table frames and the like. He likes colors and things that feel like they flow, mostly, and any intricate detail-work that catches the eye.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Cottage style is more his speed, a little rustic and a lot cozy, with a special emphasis on plush furniture. He’s all about the comfort and the homey feel, nothing pristine that an accident or a bit of wear-and-tear will ruin quickly.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): More of an English country sort of guy, big on patterns and florals, but also into a bit of delicacy and charm—some more ornate accent chairs here, decorative curtains there, unique antiques and plants everywhere. Definitely cozy and comfortable but done in a very thoughtful and deliberate way.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): Clutterbitch—wait no, I mean maximalist. He likes having a lot of stuff and putting it on display, and bright colors (especially turquoise!) make him happy to look at, so he’s drawn to that kind of thing when customizing a space. Lots of knickknacks and prints related to his hobbies, maybe a novelty end table or two, shaped like a record or a cloud or something. A bit chaotic but he probably knows where everything in it is, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): He goes for a bit of a modern farmhouse look, soft neutrals with warmer rustic touches. Likely to spruce it up a little further with some bright yellows and greens, but mostly in the accents—flowers, artwork, et cetera. Also likely to decorate with lots of candles and mason jars and anything he comes back with from the home goods store, because he is very passionate about the home goods store.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Tends toward Tuscan style, warm tones, wood and tile and wrought iron, sturdy and well-crafted furniture. Not opposed to some intricate designs here and there, but not that intricate, just enough to look a little nice. Maybe a bit nicer than the absolute basics, but he’s not trying to impress anybody, he just wants cozy and comfortable, and maybe he’s earned the right to a tiny bit of fance here and there, y’know?

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Something of a traditionalist, with a strong appreciation for clean, elegant, and cohesive styles. The classics never go out of fashion—dark wood, damask patterns, ornate detailing, maybe some fine red drapery and a chandelier or two, but nothing too ostentatious. Less is more, but no need to go full minimalist to show your class, after all.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Definitely about the shabby chic, clean and simplistic styles but with a touch of wear or softness to keep it inviting. Not a sterile space that can’t be lived in, but still a bit neat and thoughtfully arranged!

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): More a fan of the urban look, exposed brick and beams but some softening elements incorporated too, like abstractly shaped furniture and décor, and lots of lighting. More minimalist than cluttered and probably not a huge fan of rugs, but he definitely wants a good balance between hard and rough, and soft and wavy aesthetics.

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): He can’t actually see it, but tends to favor Mediterranean styles. He likes a lot of sunlight, open floor plans, and wide doorways, and he’s a little less picky about his furniture but anything with ornate designs and detailing that he can physically feel to appreciate is a bonus. Function over form, though, comfort and utility is always foremost in his consideration.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Fond of mission style, slatted wooden furniture, simple and clean designs and only a couple accent colors that work well with them—autumnals are a favorite. Some nature-inspired touches like plants, artwork, and other accents to bring a little of the outdoors in, but not so much as to be cluttered.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): Mid-century modern, for the most part, uniquely shaped items to stand as conversation pieces, but still primarily designed for utility. A little off-beat and retro, but still a homey and comfortable place to chill in.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): Big into art deco, metal and glass, geometric patterns and angular designs with bold, rich colors. He finds it to have a very fun and classy feel and likes things that make a statement—so he’s likely to incorporate a lot of centerpieces and décor wherever he can to draw the eye.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Full-on industrial, brick and metal and hardwood, ideally with open and lofted spaces. It’s kind of what he’s gotten used to and gained an appreciation for along the way, so it may not be the most innately homey-feeling place, but he’s comfortable in it. Likely to accent the space with art—wall or sculpture—rather than rugs or blankets.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s a minimalist. He doesn’t actually have a physical body most of the time, so his taste in decorating a space tends to prioritize aesthetic over what it would be like to actually live in it. Still, he is fond of aesthetics so he’s sure to pick out at least a few interesting and attractive centerpieces—light fixtures, table décor, an accent pillow, something—to make it a little prettier.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): Sort of an eclectic/boho thing going on, lots of color and design and pretty much anything fun that catches his eye-socket. He’s very into crystals and wall hangings and art (or plants!) that can be strung up to dangle from the ceiling, so any space he’s involved in decorating is bound to look a little messy, but it’s comfortable and fun so it works out in the end!

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Give him that Hollywood glam, glossy high-shine surfaces—glass, gold, mirrors—mixed with soft velvets and satins. Mostly black and white but with a prominent accent color or two to really make the eleganza pop, he’s decorating to impress and show off his taste in design.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): Ends up falling into a bit of a steampunk style in terms of décor, lots of metal and lighting, plenty of stuffed shelves, and clockwork junk and tools lying around. He certainly has nothing against brass and leather either so y’know, if that’s what you wanna call it, there it is.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Country house design is more his speed, very fond of gingham and natural light and an overall homey feel. It’s not what he’s used to, per se, but that’s kind of…better. He likes light and open spaces, big tables for activities and soft furniture for sitting, but nothing so clean and new that it doesn’t feel like it’s meant to be used.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): International/modernist is mostly what he goes for, emphasis on steel and glass and concrete, and sharp minimalist lines. If he’s going to splurge on any patterns or color, it’ll only be in a few select pieces, nothing too outrageous.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): He prefers a bit of a rustic look to things, with a high preference for natural materials, like stone and wood. Lofts are cool, as are sturdy shelving and exposed beams, but he’s especially into a good view, so if there’s high windows or just a lot of them, he’ll be happy.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Tends toward a dark romance style, deep rich (but of course, dark) colors, soft lighting, and graceful, sometimes ornate lines. Not one to overclutter with décor and accents, mostly simplistic, but a few items here and there—quilts and dried flowers and overstuffed pillows.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): Whimsigoth, a fondness for the ornate and intricate and elegant, but a tendency towards eclectic amounts of décor—wall hangings, candles, bones, and books all artfully arranged. Very into patterned furniture with texture, from the pattern being either pressed or stitched into the fabric. A little messy at first glance but he’s actually very deliberate with his arrangements for the most balanced look.

#anonymous #headcanons #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell/fellswap #horrortale #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

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leading-manhattan · 3 days

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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Jack's not surprised that the nightmares came for him. It was a damn miracle that he avoided them the night before and his luck never lasted long. The dreams are unrealistic yet no less terrifying. No matter how impossible they were the fear that came with them was still just as pungent. In the latest hellscape of his mind's creation he's being brought back down to that horrible cellar. He can feel the Delanceys' bruising hold on his arms as they drag him along and his struggles are ineffective as they laugh at his frantic attempts to get away. While he's led through the unfamiliar corridors they morph and twist into the dirt-caked hallways he's spent years of his life trying to escape. The Refuge was eternally embedded into his brain and no matter how hard he tried to shake it the wretched place continued to haunt him. It makes sense that it'd make an appearance here, Snyder and basements have never meant good things for Jack Kelly.

The long, narrow hallway mixed crudely between the Refuge and the World leads towards a lone door marking the end in more ways than one. The door is chipped and rotting, some disgusting blend of cracking wood and rusted metal, and it's been left slightly ajar. Something primal in Jack tells him that if he walks through that door he'll never walk out. Run, his mind wails at him, Run, run, it chants as he's brought closer and closer to his impending doom. No matter how hard he struggles the Delanceys' grip doesn't so much as budge and before he knows it they're only a few yards away from that horrible door. It creaks open further on its own accord, slow and deliberate, and even though the other side is a mass of pitch black Jack knows exactly who's waiting for him. He can hear the telltale tap, tap, tap of the cane against the floor taunting him.

Jack wakes up flailing and drenched in sweat before he can reach the door. He scrambles back across the rooftop until he knocks into bars of the fire escape and realizes that gone is the terrible hallway and in its place is the open air of the roof. His chest is heaving with gasping breaths even after he recognizes that it was all a nightmare. He curls up against the iron railing while he tries to catch his breath. "You's fine, Kelly," Jack mumbles into his knees, "Get over it." It's not that easy. He can try all he wants to command his emotions but he's well-versed in just how little control he really has over them. He wraps his arms around his legs and tugs them impossibly closer to his chest in a futile effort to keep himself from shaking apart. He's not proud of how viscerally nightmares effect him but he's powerless against their iron grasp. They exist to remind him of what he's suffered through and the horrors that lurk around every corner, crouched low in every back alley ready to pounce if he ever dares to let his guard down. The dreams are especially jarring now. Without the other newsies he was vulnerable, kids like them didn't survive on their own. It seems like with every passing moment Jack is becoming more and more aware of just how monumentally he's fucked up.

Usually around now Crutchie would stir, roused by the noise Jack's making or the lazily lightening sky, and he'd stumble his way over with a limp more pronounced because he hadn't had time to really wake up yet. He'd ask if Jack was okay but he'd never pry. Instead they'd just sit together until Jack felt steady enough to start getting ready for the day. Even though Crutchie never said anything he clearly could tell that the dreams clung to Jack. Crutchie'd just spend the rest of the day glued to Jack's side in a comforting show of support.

There's no Crutchie today.

Jack gets up.

He feels disgusting, layers of sweat and dirt stuck to his skin, but he's grateful he didn't undress any before falling asleep last night. His whole body is throbbing and he isn't sure he'd be able to get dressed if he had to. It's too early for the morning bells to have rung yet, the sun hasn't even peeked over the horizon and the sky was still gray, but Jack isn't sure he can stomach it if he stays up here and listens to them forget about him again. No, not forget. Cast aside. So instead he scoops up a few dimes from the shattered jar and he climbs down the fire escape, bypassing the window into the lodging house to instead descend all the way into the alley below. Each rung reverberates painfully through his body and by the time he's carefully lowering himself down onto the cobblestone he's panting from the effort.

This isn't the first time Jack's been beat to hell. Far from it, actually. He's used to how your whole body can feel like one giant bruise a few days after you got your ass handed to you. The first few days after are always the most painful. That doesn't change the fact that he feels like his ribs are trying to claw into his lungs or that his shoulder shrieks every time he moves his arm even a little. His back feels like it's made of fire and each step makes him feel like his legs are gonna give out on the next. He knew that Snyder and the Delanceys had worked him over pretty badly in the cellar but now he was really feeling it. He wishes he could stay curled up in the penthouse but he has more important things to do.

Jack kills some time by just wandering the streets. The circulation gates won't open up for about an hour but he would've driven himself crazy sitting around at the lodging house listening to his boys come together so easily without him. His limbs still feel frail as he shuffles down the sidewalks of Lower Manhattan but despite that he finds some peace in the quiet morning. In the gentle white light of the coming dawn Jack takes the chance to breathe for what feels like the first time since he strut into Pulitzer's office. For just a fleeting moment he's allowed to exist outside of the strike, outside of the newsies, outside of himself. For a moment he's just a kid taking a stroll and while he can't entirely shake the weight that lives heavy on his shoulders the world permits him this one second of relief.

It's over before he knows it, golden light finally spilling across the sky and filtering through the tall buildings of the city. That's all it takes for the weight of the world to crash back into him and he changes course for the circulation gates, dragging his feet in hopes to make the trek just long enough that he won't cross paths with any of the newsies today either. Jack doesn't want to see the way they'll look at him. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep a brave face again if he has to see their scowls and glares, distrust and betrayal thick in the air between them. Even just thinking of it makes his empty stomach churn unbearably.

The sight of the circulation gates is an unwelcome one but he still refuses to let himself stop, not even taking a second to gather himself before he slips through the already open gates and prays that maybe he can get through the day with little incident. He's relieved to see that his molasses pace paid off and the place is at least void of any stragglers. Just him and the rotten men more than happy to watch the newsies crash and burn. Wiesel and the Delanceys are sitting over at the distribution desk as always, watching with that same sick pleasure as Jack drags himself over to grab his papers for the day.

Jack feels disgusting as he digs the two dimes from his pocket, offering them compliantly. "Quiet lately, Kelly?" Wiesel quips but Jack just slides down the line without retort. He just wants to get through this, all the energy in him focused solely on surviving the day. But Jack's paid for his papers without his usual banter for the second day in a row and he should've known the Delanceys wouldn't let that slide.

Morris slams the slim stack of newspapers into Jack's chest and laughs when Jack scrabbles to grab them, gasping as the constant pain wrapped around his chest blazes. The blow easily rips the air from his lungs, bruised ribs flaring up in bursts of white-hot agony. "Who would've thought it was this easy to tame the famous Jack Kelly, eh, Oscar?" Morris jeers, chortling with his brother.

"You wanna see how tame I am?" Jack wheezes back through a clenched jaw, baring his teeth like the animal they wanted him to be. He could be an animal, he's had to fight like one to make his place in this world.

Oscar saunters up behind his brother, propping an elbow up on Morris' shoulder so they could both stare smugly down at Jack. "You're beat to hell and back, Kelly, you wouldn't stand a chance." Jack was well aware of that.

"I ain't scared of yous." Jack sniffs, tilting his chin up to paint an air of confidence he didn't really feel. He's pretty sure a strong breeze could knock him over but he'd never bow to the Delanceys.

"Yeah," Morris agrees far too easily, both Delanceys' smiles growing sinister.

"But you sure are scared of Snyder." Oscar nearly sings it he's so giddy to throw it in Jack's face.

Jack opens his mouth to refute it. He desperately wants to deny it but his nightmare is too fresh on his mind. Instead he cringes as images of the cellar and the basement clash in his head, both equally coated in blood and shadow. He can feel Snyder's looming presence over his shoulder, poised to strike, even though he knows the man is nowhere to be seen. The Delanceys cackle like hyenas and Jack sneers as shame bubbles up inside of him.

"If we'd known it would be this easy to shut you up we would've invited Snyder over a long time ago," Oscar chuckles, Morris beaming with a sick pride at his side. Jack tries to stomp down to spike of terror that pierces through him as he snatches up one of the paper bags and settles the strap across his chest. It was an empty threat, he knew that, but the idea is still so unsettling that the fear from his dream is stirring back up. He feels like a stupid little kid but not even the familiar spikes of anger are enough to drown out the terror clogging his veins.

"Fuck you," he throws back, shoving his papers into his bag and stalking off before the Delanceys could say anything about his sorry excuse of a come back. They'd found his weak spot and they all knew it but he would be damned if he just stood there and let them rub it in his face.

He stomps back through the streets, his righteous anger and the underlying embarrassment that fueled it the only things keeping his steps steady as he storms through Manhattan to start hawking at his usual spot. He just needs to keep going, persevere and push through until he can meet up with David to split whatever meager earnings he can manage with this small stack of papers. He'll toss the rest into the emergency jar again and maybe if he's lucky he'll be able to scrounge something up for dinner before he rinses and repeats. That's the only motivation he has to pry himself off the cold roof each morning; he has to make it up to them. If nothing else Jack needs to make sure that his boys know how sorry he is, that he's just as angry with himself as they are.

Jack's step falters when he sees a familiar head of dark hair at his usual corner, the determined fire falling away the second that David's eyes meet his. He had expected David to keep selling with Race or maybe one of the other boys. He hadn't expected to see much of David at all after their confrontation. Jack swallows thickly, willing his legs to start moving again when David's cold gaze flicks away and he continues to call out feeble headlines like he'd never seen Jack at all.

Jack fumbles as he pulls out a paper of his own, clumsy fingers trying to separate the different editions while he fails to pull himself together. He's being ridiculous. He hasn't even known David that long. He shouldn't care how coldly the other man looks at him, it shouldn't matter how disappointed and angry David is. It shouldn't crush Jack's heart the way it does. He throws his arm up into the air, waving around a newspaper like a white flag, and screams whatever hyperbolic headlines that come to mind.

David doesn't so much as turn his way.

Because David is there the morning drags by. Jack is hyper aware of David's every move no matter how far apart they get. Even when David is a few blocks down by the street corner Jack startles every time he hears the other boy call out a headline, stumbling over his own words and fumbling more than one sale when he gets distracted. It's a long and torturous day of selling and Jack is nearly ready to sob in relief when he finally sells his last pape. He's grateful he didn't buy in bulk like he did yesterday.

David finished selling before Jack did, which was unusual in its own right, but David had stuck around to wait for Jack to finish. Jack only hesitates a little before he makes his way over to where David has made himself comfortable on some stairs in front of a shopfront. "Where's Les?" Jack asks when he's close enough, forcing a smile to spread with some imitation of ease across his face.

"He's with Race," David replies curtly from where he's sat stiffly on the steps. Despite the fact that he was sitting Jack still felt like David was staring down at him. David digs into his pocket and pulls out his earnings, impatiently gesturing for Jack to join him on the stairs so they can divvy up the money and go their separate ways. Jack obeys without a second thought, practically collapsing onto the steps and biting back a sigh of relief when his aching legs finally get a break.

They haven't made much. Even combined the coins don't amount to anything special. "Shouldn't we wait for 'im then?" Jack muses. If they were going to split their earnings then it would be smart to wait until Les could add whatever he made into the mix. Maybe David really did catch on yesterday and he was just making the job easier for Jack, having Les sell separately so they could keep all of what he made instead of letting Jack count it out himself.

"No, Racetrack is keeping whatever Les earns." David sighs, shooting Jack an irritated glance.

Jack blinks, "What? Why?"

David sighs again, "You guys need the money more than we do." Jack opens his mouth to protest but quickly quiets when David raises a hand to silence him, "With the strike and the raised prices newsies are barely making a fraction of what they usually do. So far Les and I are still bringing in enough to be okay, especially with my mom and sister picking up odd jobs where they can. We're fine, but you guys aren't." It was equal parts David just stating fact and David trying to forcefully remind Jack of just how important this strike was. It was obvious that David still wanted answers, trying to dig them up no matter how clear Jack made it that he had no intentions of sharing.

"We'll be fine," Jack argues. It’s a weak argument even to his own ears but he does his best to project his usual bravado into it regardless.

"Yeah, once we win the strike," David agrees tersely. He wouldn't back down either.

Jack shrugs, not bothering to come up with a response to that, and skillfully counts out the coins between them. It's a lot harder to split the earnings fifty-fifty with David watching so intently and such a small amount to work with but he snatches up his share the second he's finished in hopes that the swift movement will be enough to keep David from noticing. He bounces to his feet just as quickly, wincing as his whole body protests, and shoves the money into his packet. Jack looks down at David where he sits visibly startled by Jack's swift movements and his rush to make an exit, "I'll see you tomorrow, David," Curiously, David makes a face. His nose wrinkles in clear disgust when his name slips off Jack's tongue but Jack turns on his heels and slips into the crowd before David has a chance to even open his mouth.

That's the first part of Jack's two-step plan complete for the day. Step two is dump the rest into the emergency savings and then once again he'll be left to figure out just what to do with all the time left in the day. Jack never thought he'd be without the other newsies like this so he never had to worry before about just how much of his life revolved around them. He spent every day surrounded by them, spending time together during every second of spare time he had, and now that they wanted nothing to do with him he had no idea what to do with himself. They didn't want his help, they didn't even want him, and he's so lost without that purpose to guide him. Who was he supposed to be if he wasn't the leader of Manhattan? What was he if he wasn't a newsie?

He doesn't want to linger on those questions, he doesn't know what answers he'll come up with if he manages to find answers at all, so he focuses only on weaving around the bustling bodies filling the streets and making his way back to the lodging house. It requires more attention than it typically would. Usually he'd twist and dance around the people with grace, flitting around each passerby like it was something he was born to do, but every time he shifts his body finds a new way to complain and every time he's jostled by an elbow or a shoulder his vision blurs with the fresh spark of pain.

Jack's covered in a fresh new sheen of sweat and grime by the time he makes it back to the lodging house just a measly three streets over. He's never felt so dirty and rotten in his life. What an accomplishment that is; he's sure Snyder would be proud of himself if he knew where his efforts had landed Jack this time. Looking at the building in front of him Jack desperately doesn't want to go inside. Call him a coward but he wanted to avoid any more confrontation. He never wanted there to be a confrontation to begin with. Not here, never here. They fought and roughhoused and argued but very rarely were they genuinely cross with each other and even rarer was it for Jack to be at the center of it all. He hated this. He deserved this.

He glances over towards the alleyway he'd left from earlier that morning but with the way his whole body shook with fine tremors he knew there was no way he would make it up that fire escape. Not with how his shoulder was screaming at him and how his legs felt like pudding. He'd sooner fall to his death than actually make it to the roof and that wouldn't do anyone any good. Probably.

A ball of apprehension settles in his chest as he looks back to the front doors. Well, it didn't look like he had much of a choice now, did it?

Jack tries to steel himself as best he can before he enters the lodging house, shoulders back and head held high despite how desperately he wanted to crumble into pieces. The second he steps through the doors he's met with the loud chatter of boys off to his right in the cramped common area. It's not much, just a bunch of open space, but they make the most of it. No one acknowledges him and Jack wonders if they even realized he was there as he heads back over to where Kloppman is stationed. Kloppman glances up at him, offering a soft smile in greeting, and Jack digs the coin out of his pocket and counts out enough to pay for two more days. It leaves only a pitiful amount for the savings jar but he'll even it out again when he can.

"What's this, boy?" Kloppman asks curiously, finally taking notice.

"Just payin' you back what we's owe you is all." Jack sniffs, pushing the money pointedly across the counter.

Kloppman stares back for a few beats, "You eating?" He asks instead of taking the coins.

Jack shrugs, "Enough." He grins, hoping that he can sell the picture he's painting. And Jack is an artist, a damn good one, so Kloppman only shakes his head and accepts the payment with a cautious glint in his eyes. As long as Kloppman lets Jack keep paying off their debt than it doesn't matter how much of Jack's bullshit he believes. "Don't worry about me, Kloppman," Jack reaches up and flicks his hat, smile still painfully fixed in place, "You oughta know by now I don't go down easy." It's enough of a reassurance it seems to chase the suspicion from the old man's gaze so Jack takes it as a win and turns on his heel to flee upstairs.

He doesn't make it far before Racetrack's voice calls from across the room, "Hey," Race yells before Jack can even get close to the staircase, "Yous got a visitor!" He doesn't sound fond of having to play the messenger and when Jack looks over to ask what the hell Racer's talking about he suddenly realizes why they were all huddled together to begin with.

About of dozen or so of his boys are sat around, scattered about on the floor and leaning against the walls, and in the center of it all was Katherine herself. Jack realizes with a sudden clarity that he hadn't actually expected to see her again. It's especially unsettling that she's in one of the only places he's ever had the chance to call home when he certainly didn't want her here. Her sharp eyes scan him over and it's never felt as violating as it does now.

"The hell are you doin' 'ere?" Jack huffs, grabbing onto that ever-present anger that's kept him upright and holding on tight.

Katherine glares back at him, picking herself up from where she's folded elegantly on the floor and meeting his gaze with the same deft confidence she always paraded around with. At least now Jack knows just who she got it from. "We need to talk about the next step of the strike, of course," Katherine says matter-of-factly as she dusts dirt from her skirt. She visibly falters, her eyes briefly drifting to the floor before she pulls herself together to meet his gaze again, "And I wanted to see you." She admits. A brave thing to do surrounded by a bunch of teenage boys but none of the newsies start whistling and hollering the way they usually would have.

"Yeah, well," Jack sniffs, tilting his head and projecting as much bitter indifference as he can, "I ain't wanna see you. I don't make a habit outta meetin' up with liars."

Katherine looks briefly offended before she scoffs. "I didn't lie," she bristles.

Jack rolls his eyes, gripping the strap of the newspaper bag he still hasn't returned so tightly that his nails dig into his palm and his knuckles go white. "Oh, what'd'ya want me to call it? You just purposefully hid the truth from the rest of us, is that it?" Katherine is satisfyingly cowed by his rebuttal, eyes flicking back to the floor. Good. Who does she think she is coming in here and telling him to his face that she'd never lied to him? He'd asked her name and she'd given him a pseudonym. She intentionally hid her identity from them and in doing so she'd allowed her father— her father— one more piece of ammunition against him. He supposes he shouldn't be wondering who an heiress thinks she is. She knows exactly who she is and she never once expected to face the consequences of her actions, did she? No, it was Jack who had to do that for her.

"That's not fair," Katherine hisses after a brief silence, stepping away from the boys to shorten the distance between them. The boys drift along after her, curious and not at all ashamed of it. She doesn't close the gap but she stops just a yard away with the newsies still spread out behind her. Jack felt like he was a single man fighting against an army.

"Life ain't fair," Jack snaps back, hoping that the way his shoulders shake comes across as anger and not pure, hopeless exhaustion.

"Are you seriously going to give up after everything?" Katherine switches the topic quickly, pulling the conversation in a more favorable direction instead of admitting that Jack was right. She'll make a damn good journalist, he'll give her that. It obviously ran in the family.

"I'm not givin' up," Jack wishes the boys would stop fanning out. They were shuffling around, keeping their distance so that it wasn't suffocating while slowly but surely encircling him and Katherine. He felt like he was being herded by a bunch of predators, cornered in a way that made him instinctively want to bare his teeth and snap his jaws. "I just know when I's beat." They were beat the day they were born but he'd never stopped fighting then, had he? Soft murmurs surround them but Jack can't hear them well enough to decipher the words through the blood rushing in his ears.

"It isn't over yet-" Katherine tries to insist. "Yes it is!" He doesn't quite yell but it's enough to stop Katherine in her tracks. "Yes it is. At least for me." He couldn't do it. He lost. He couldn't risk taking a single step out of line. Not when Pulitzer clearly knows that the way to get Jack to back down is to threaten the boys. To threaten David. Not when Pulitzer was willing to bring Snyder and the Refuge into the fight. The very idea makes his blood freeze in his veins.

"We need you," Katherine says.

"No you don't," Jack rolls his eyes.

"You are impossible, Jack Kelly," She snarls, stomping her foot like a petulant child and still somehow looking absolutely stunning. "You are so ready to give up on these boys because of what? A little slap on the wrist? You won't even try to fight for them?" Katherine gestures to the gathered newsies around them and Jack feels exposed trapped in the circle of bodies. It feels like they're drawing closer, boxing him in, and the air suddenly feels thick and heavy.

Jack scoffs, "We both know I wasn't givin' up on nobody." He can't believe she'd accuse him of that. She'd been there. She watched her father dangle his boys' safety over his head the same way she just watched as he had Jack dragged away to make sure it was understood how sincere the threat had been.

"They wouldn't have had any reason to arrest anyone but you-" Katherine has the audacity to sound frustrated with him, clearly starting to reach her wits' end, but Jack is too tired and hurt and starved to sit back and let her tell him how the world works. She's never really had to live in it, after all, she had no right to lecture him.

"I couldn't risk it!" Jack finally screams, the building tension firing out of him like a shot. His voice easily sends the room into a deafening silence that echos in his aching bones. "You think people like them give a damn if we's done anythin' wrong?" Jack laughs incredulously and he can see the concern starting to blossom across the surrounding faces but he just can't find it in him to fucking care anymore. "You think I deserved it every time theys nabbed me? They can do whatever they want to kids like us and I ain't throwing my boys to the wolves." He snarls.

"What are you talkin' about?" Race pipes up, stepping up and looking between Jack and Katherine with a furrowed brow, clutching his cigar between his fingers.

Katherine startles, staring at Jack with pure disbelief, "You didn't tell them?"

"They ain't need to know." Jack insists. He can feel his legs shaking and he needs to sit down but he can't see a clear way out.

"Know what?" Finch cuts in with exasperation.

"What? Don't want us to know the dirty little details of how Pulitzer bought you?" Race murmurs, voice drenched in bitterness and betrayal.

Katherine stares at Jack with an expression that Jack can't discern. Some of the fire has drained out of her but the way she looks at him now makes him feel like some train wreck she just can't manage to tear her eyes away from. Maybe that wasn't too far from the truth. "He didn't," She says slowly.

"Don't," Jack tries to sound angry but he's just so fucking tired. His voice comes out raw and pleading and he can feel the fury he's tried so hard to latch onto start to slip through his fingers.

"What do you mean?" Specs presses, shooting Jack a concerned glance before returning his attention to Katherine.

"Pulitzer didn't buy him. He threatened you. All of you. That's why Jack spoke out against the strike at the rally," She explains and it's like once she's started she can't stop. She doesn't turn away from Jack while she speaks and he can't find it in himself to look away from her while she spills his secrets like they meant nothing. "Pulitzer told Jack that if he didn't call off the strike then he'd have the rally flooded with police. That he'd have as many newsies as they could grab carted off to the Refuge if Jack didn't comply." It's only when she finishes that Jack tears his eyes away and glares daggers into the dirty floor freshly coated in the muck that the newsies brought in after a day of selling.

"Why didn't he come say anythin'?" Racer presses and Jack can hear the pleading note in his voice, begging for answers that he's been deprived of from the only person who seemed willing to give them. Jack knows that the younger boy must have taken Jack's betrayal personally, more so than even the others, and his heart hurts listening to his brother practically beg for some sort of explanation. Jack doesn't say anything, he keeps his mouth shut and stands there in shame as Katherine tells them just how pathetic he'd been. How pathetic he is.

"Pulitzer had him thrown in the cellar." Katherine says it so bluntly. Somehow even though the words are spoken with a sympathetic undertone it sounds so harsh. "He said it would give Jack time to think about it."

The room echos with a round of scoffs and snorts of laughter devoid of any humor. "Yeah," Race drawls and he sounds so lost, "I'm sure he did."

"How's a bunch of stuffy office lackeys lock Jack up? And why do you knows all this?" Jojo demands inadvertently drawing everyone's attention back to the conversation at hand. Jack really wishes that there wasn't so many bodies blocking his escape.

"Ah, well," Katherine hums, "Those Delancey boys were there, and the man who runs the Refuge. Warden Snyder." She confesses, conveniently glancing over Jojo's other question but no one seems to notice after what she's just dropped on them.

"Snyder?" Albert mutters in a soft, horrified tone. That's all it takes for the room to break out into a new round of shouting and disbelief.

"Next time I see the Delanceys I'll drive my fist through their faces!"

"If they think theys can just beat on one of our own they got another thing comin'!"

"If Pulitzer thinks that's all it'll take to stop us-!"

"Those bastards!"

"She's Pulitzer's kid." Jack doesn't raise his voice but a hush quickly falls over the room once more. "That's why she was there." He lifts his head to stare at Katherine, feeling listless and defeated. "I think you should go." It's not a suggestion.

Katherine looks ready to fight, fists at her sides and jaw clenched, but the tension drains out of her before she even opens her mouth, "Okay," She agrees but of course that isn't the end of it. "This isn't the last you'll see of me but I understand if you need some time." She keeps her head high and exchanges a few soft goodbyes before she makes her way out of the lodging house with grace and dignity. Jack wishes he could follow after her if only so he didn't have to deal with the aftermath of their very public argument.

"Jack,"

"Don't," Jack pleads for the second time in less than an hour. His eyes drift shut and he wants so badly to just climb up to the penthouse and curl up for the rest of the day. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He doesn't want to have this conversation. "Please."

Race doesn't pay him any mind, "Me and Jack are gonna have a talk, alright? Keep everyone else out for a little bit." He addresses the room, not even acknowledging the overlapping murmurs of agreement as he steps up to Jack and places a hand on his shoulder. It's Jack's bad shoulder, because that's just his luck, and he can't stop himself from wincing and flinching away from the gentle pressure. Race looks at him with sympathetic eyes, "They really wanted to gives you some time to think about it then, huh?"

Jack huffs a bitter laugh, "Yeah."

"Come on," Race moves to lead the way and the rest of the boys part easily to make a path. They all stare at Jack with caring eyes that Jack hadn't expected to see directed at him any time soon. He follows after Racetrack numbly, dead on his feet as he heaves himself up the stairs. The mask he's worn to convince everyone he was persevering was cracked after Katherine so carelessly laid out his dirty laundry and the anger that's been fueling him all this time has flickered out. All that's left is exhaustion, pain, and shame. It's nearly impossible to keep himself from collapsing while the colossal defeat tries to drag him down.

He stumbles after Race into the boarding room and allows himself to collapse into the first bunk he can reach. The tremors that have wracked his body for days don't relent even as he's finally able to relax. Jack carefully lowers himself down onto his back, wincing when the flimsy mattress presses against the welts and contusions from Snyder's cane. Race lowers himself onto the bed beside him, sitting down at the foot of the bunk as softly as he can to avoid jostling Jack. Race is kind enough to give Jack a few minutes to just breathe, settling into the new position and letting the pain fade back into a steady thrum that Jack could almost ignore if he tried hard enough.

"What happened, Jack?" Race implores, eyes wide and sincere and softer than Jack's seen them in days. So Jack tells him. He tells him about going in to Pulitzer's office, tells him about Katherine, about Snyder, about that damn deal. Tells him that the cellar was more than a timeout while keeping all the dirty details to himself. He paints the picture in broad strokes, leaving all the finer work absent and sharing only a vague idea. He doesn't want to talk about what happened down there. After days of feeling so alone and so, so scared Jack finally just lets it all bleed out of him.

"Theys beat me, Race," Jack chokes back a sob. He can't cry now or else he won't be able to stop and he can't break down right now. They both know that he doesn't just mean physically. Jack's always been good at taking a beating. Despite that he's never stopped being soft. He can take anything the world throws at him but when it's the people he cares for caught in the crossfire he shatters. He's supposed to be stronger than this. He's the leader; they need to be able to trust him to take care of dozens of kids and yet he can't even keep his eyes dry for Christ's sake. Though, he supposes, he threw trust out the window back at the rally.

"Why didn't you say somethin'?" Race sounds so sad and Jack hates it. Racetrack was such a bubbly and witty guy to hear him so upset and small makes Jack feel so vile. It's so fundamentally wrong and it was Jack who did this to him.

"What was there to say," Jack grits his teeth against the lump forming in his throat, trying desperately to swallow it down and blink away the tears rapidly filling his eyes, "I ain't proud to say they won, Racer. You's all right to be pissed with me."

"We's still pissed with you, Jack, but this is different. It sucks what you did but we'd've understood if yous just told us," Racetrack insists easily, scooting a bit closer until he was pressed into Jack's side. "You didn't have a choice."

"Yeah I did," Jack argues.

"No you didn't," Racetrack shakes his head, fiddling with the cigar still settled between his fingers. "No one would've expected you to do anythin' else in this situation. He threatened all of us and then threw you in a basement with the Spyder. We may not like it but there wasn't really anything else that could've happened." And while that doesn't necessarily make Jack feel any better the weight that's been crushing him still somehow feels just a small bit lighter.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispers up at the top bunk hanging over them.

"Yeah," Race mutters, "Me too." They just sit in silence after exchanging those gentle apologies, pressed together and just soaking in the company that they've deprived themselves of. Jack basks in it, the warmth of Racer's hip against his ribs the only friendly touch he's had in far too long. He just takes this time to breathe and enjoy the comfort of his brother at his side. It's not long enough when Racetrack shifts, leaning over so he can properly look Jack in the eyes, "How hurt are you?"

"Nothin' broken," Jack promises, "Some pretty bad bruises and a welt or two but I'm alright." He knows better than to tell Race that's he's fine. Not after the near-breakdown he just had in front of the other boy and especially not when Racer knew that he'd had some one-on-three time with Snyder and the Delanceys. Race doesn't really look convinced but Jack continues before he has a chance to pester him more about it, "I swear to you. They busted me up but I's okay. Couldn't risk makin' it too obvious they nabbed me right before the rally, I guess."

The logic is sound enough that Racetrack relaxes some but he still doesn't look happy. Jack supposes that that's fair. He's just grateful that Racetrack doesn't seem adamant about poking and prodding at him. He'll live but that doesn't mean he doesn't still hurt. "It took you a while to get up the stairs," Race still wasn't as eager to drop the subject as Jack was.

"Yeah, well, been workin' harder than usual." Jack shrugs, groaning with a grimace when his shoulder slides across the mattress. Bad idea. He doesn't need to look at Race to see that the concern has returned full force.

"Yeah, I saw you give Davey more than yous agreed yesterday." Well, shit. Race is staring at him, not even bothering to pretend like he didn't just call Jack out on his shit. Jack doesn't need to wonder why Race hasn't said anything until now. Racetrack was pissed, furious with Jack in a way that he's never been before, and he'd probably thought it served Jack right to cut his profits like that in a futile attempt to make amends.

"You didn't tell 'im, did you?" Jack hopes not. That would mean that David had to know that Jack did the same thing again today. Jack isn't sure how David will respond to Jack's deception but he's sure it isn't positively. David would've been pissed with Jack for pulling something like this before everything with the rally but now? David would probably be outraged for a multitude of reasons.

"Nah, Dave would've said somethin' to you if I did." Racetrack assures and he's right. They didn't call David Mouth for no reason and since the start of the strike David's inability to stay quiet has only gotten worse. There's no way David would have let Jack get away with it again if he'd known, he would have chewed Jack out while he split their earnings himself. "You been eatin'?" Jack's forgotten how perceptive Racetrack could be.

"I'll live," Jack says in lieu of an answer. Racetrack takes it for what it is.

"Will you? With how you's actin' I doubt you'll make it to the end of the week." Race huffs, his irritation flaring when it becomes clear to him just how moronic Jack's been acting while they've been estranged. "The hell were you thinkin'? When's the last time you ate somethin'?" Race was working himself up now and Jack was just too drained to do anything more than watch.

Jack very nearly shrugged again before he remembered how much it hurt last time, "I've gone longer," He says in hopes to calm Race. Instead Racetrack throws his hands up in frustration and Jack just barely suppresses a flinch.

"Will you just give me a straight answer, Kelly," Race snaps, turning a glare in Jack's direction that makes his stomach drop uncomfortably. He wasn't too fond of Racer looking at him like that after everything that's happened. "That could mean anywhere from a few hours to a few days." Precisely.

Jack knows there's not much point to it but he's trying his best to avoid worrying Racetrack as much as possible. They may have been fighting before this very moment but it makes Jack squirm when people fuss over him. He hates the way Race looks at him with this hopeless uncertainty whenever he feels like he needs to take care of Jack but he just doesn't know how. Jack is supposed to take care of him, not the other way around, and he doesn't want to put that responsibility on anyone's shoulders if he can help it.

"Alright, fine," Race huffs, peeling away from Jack and pushing himself off the bed. "You don't have to tell me but I'm gonna go grab you somethin' to eat." He's clearly still not happy about it but he's also decided that he's fighting a losing battle. Jack winces, cringing slightly when Race turns to send him a hard look, "What?"

"Ah, maybe," Jack pauses, pushing himself into a sitting position with a low groan. He grins at Race sheepishly, raising his good arm to rub at the back of his neck, "Maybe don't grab anythin' too solid, yeah?" He's not sure he could stomach it. Both with how empty and shriveled his stomach feels and with how the residual anxiety and dread from this whole ordeal is still churning nausea in his gut.

Racetrack's expression softens and he nods, "Yeah, course." And with that he makes his leave, slipping out the door and leaving Jack alone again. The vacant bunks don't feel taunting like they did before and even though he's without company he doesn't feel so crushed and discarded like he did that morning. It's not perfect and he's still drowning in guilt and despondency but things seem like they might be starting to look up and he holds onto that.

He still feels oddly vulnerable in the empty room so Jack waits a couple minutes after Race leaves to make sure the other isn't going to reappear any time soon before peeling himself up off the bed and stumbling over to the window. Getting up onto the roof is an event and one of his legs gives out halfway up the ladder but he makes it up without any new bruises. Personally, he considers it a victory. The afternoon heat isn't nearly as sweltering as it'd been the day before and a gentle breeze drifts through the air, chilling Jack's sweat-soaked skin. He settles himself down on his bundle of blankets, sitting up against the edge of the roof and allowing the tension to finally bleed out of his body.

#|| circulation gates #| jackie |#| davey |#| racer |#| lodging house |#jack kelly #david jacobs #racetrack higgins #newsies fanfic #newsies fanfiction #newsies live #newsies broadway #newsies #livesies #angst #hurt/comfort #// injury

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aidanchaser · 6 months

Note

trick or treat!!

So you didn't specify which fandom aannnddd while I know you're not all aboard the ladybug train, I have been working on a little thing that I think you'll enjoy~

Unwrap for a surprise

He didn't understand how she had fully disappeared inside, not until he stepped through himself.

He found himself in another world.

The ceiling rose high over his head, held up by a central pillar of glass and moving pistons. Around the column was a dashboard of sorts, full of dials and whistles and levers. To his left was a window, and even a steering helm, like he was standing on the deck of a ship. The metal catwalk railings echoed softly beneath his feet as he stumbled forward.

"This is..."

She leaned against the railing before the helm and grinned at him. Her long black coat was open, revealing the red lining and her red blouse, decked in black spots. Her pigtails bounced as she cocked her head and the long red ribbons seemed to dance as she moved.

She looked at him expectantly, a near desperate hope shimmering in her blue eyes.

"But how?" he asked. "How is it bigger on the inside?"

She swallowed, and her hope seemed to dim. But her smile didn't budge. "It's a T.A.R.D.I.S. It means Time and Relative Dimension in Space. So it gets to play with space and time. Do you want to give it a try?"

Adrien took a moment to process the rapid-fire information. "Do I want... Do I want to fly your space-time-traveling machine?"

"Sure."

Adrien stepped forward and ran his hand over the railing around the central console. He looked up at the pistons, currently still, and tried to imagine what it would be like to leave, to be free to go anywhere. Not just anywhere in the world--anywhere in time.

"I don't think my father would approve of me running away in the middle of the night with a girl I just met."

Her grin seemed to flatten. Something he said hurt, but he couldn't fathom what. "You know me," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't even know your name."

"I told you, it's Ladybug."

"That's your real name? Not a code name or anything?"

"It's the only name I have."

He fidgeted with his ring uncertainly, and her eyes seemed to drift down to it, drawn magnetically to his ring.

"So is this what you do? Just pick up random people along time and space for a joy ride?"

She drummed her fingers against the railing. "I had a partner. He's gone now, though."

"So I'm just filling in."

She turned away from him and stared out the windshield. The streets of Paris were visible in panorama, and on the right the Agreste manor loomed behind its iron gates.

"None of this is familiar to you?" she asked.

He wanted it to be. Adrien ran his hand over a lever and a blue switch and tried to imagine a memory of being here, of having this freedom. Ladybug talked to him like she knew him, but he couldn't make himself believe any of it. It was too wonderous, too fantastic. Nothing in Adrien's life had ever been this good.

"This ship can really go anywhere? Any time?"

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. He wondered why she wore a mask. It almost made her more recognizable, made her stand out from everyone else. His heart skipped a beat as her blue eyes bored into him.

"Anywhere," she said.

"Then let's go."

#trick or treat event #chitchat #kelofmindelan #ml #writing #i dont have a tag for this project yet #its still in its early stages #its just a lot of scraps and notes nothing cohesive #i hope you enjoy it

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engineer-gunzelpunk · 10 months

Text

Locomotive Rights in Australia (Victoria): Part 1

(One of the patron saints of the Locomotive Rights movement in Victoria, VR S-Class Pacific S300 Matthew Flinders, who was scrapped before he could be saved. The scrapping of the S-classes spurred the IRL steam preservation movement in Victoria)

Here I am, riffing off @joezworld's posts about Locomotive Rights as they developed around the world. Here is my personal take on what happened in Australia in regards to this issue.

(Disclaimer: Needless to say this is all fictionalised and not to be taken as a comment on any historical personage or real life locomotive. No slander is intended, this is a headcanon extrapolating Locomotive Rights in the GunzelVerse, and the TTTE/RWS AUs I write about in them, "This Is Sodor: The Iron Age" and "Red And Black Steam on Southern Metals".)

(I use the term “Lokodammerung”, literally meaning “Twilight of the Locomotives” in regards to the mass scrapping of locomotives. The Great Scrapping seems too cold, while “Dammerung” has a sad and apocalyptic timbre, which I what I wish to convey.)

If I don’t cover WAGR(Western Australia), SAR (South Australia) or QR (Queensland) , its because they are not my special interest in locomotives and I don’t know all that much about them. My apologies for the exclusion and I will try to rectify it in the future with time and research.

The situation of the railway and locomotive rights in Australia is a very strange and complex one, coded in State’s rights, custom and ideology more than anything systematic. It would be best dealt with State by State.

In spite of the celebrity of NSWGR C-38 Pacific 3801, it didn’t translate into a proper acknowledgement of non-faceless vehicles as people in of themselves until the 60’s. And even then, it was not an even process. The push actually began in the States of Victoria and New South Wales separately and converged later.

Prehistory

Upon Federation, every single State had their own specific gauge, an expression of the fervent desire for independence of the colonies before they were brought together as one nation when Australia was made into a Federation in 1901. Attempts to bring the country to a single gauge failed as each state battled with open hostility to the idea.

In the specific case of the colony of Victoria, the Broad Gauge (known widely as the “Irish’ Gague at 5’3’’) had been decided upon but as BG rolling stock and locomotives were purchased, a change of leadership brought a change of decision as to what sort of railway gauges would be used. NSW decided upon Standard Gauge of 4 ft 8 ½ inches like what was used in Britain. Victoria in a fit of pique having already paid for their goods, refused to reconsider a change of gauge.

(The Victorian terrain also suited the BG quite well, the long, broad and steep inclines requiring a more stable kind of gauge provided by the BG).

Oz is also an enormous place compared to the UK. The State of Victoria alone is the size of Great Britain and around 2700 times the size of the Island of Sodor; the states themselves cover a lot of territory compared with states in the USA. Each is its own country virtually, which makes it difficult to organise, and with the difficulties in the per-internet age toward reliable communication between engines of different states (the old break-of-gauge problem!) , it was remarkable that a resistance movement got started… and started it did.

I will now speak mainly of the State of Victoria and it’s locomotives, as this is my tendency. Without rail, Victoria could have never have been the State power that it was.

***

It was said that by the late 19th century, a Victorian human was never more than 25 kilometers from a railway line, and this was thanks to lobbying by politicans promising lines to voters… and the locomotives that requested them. As the state and the railway companies were flush with Gold Rush money, they had plenty of cash to spend to do so. The famous “Octopus Act” allowed a virtual spiderweb of iron to embrace the State, creating a near total domination of goods and passenger traffic.

Thus the locomotive was able to range quite freely within Victoria wherever they pleased, and combined with strongly built depots the sizes of which eclipsed the fleets of the NWR (the North Melbourne Locomotive Depot alone shedded 120 locomotives, compared the the total number of locos at the NWR, which was around 80 at the same time before the Norf depot was demolished) developed a certain state of educated consciousness that meshed quite nicely with the tendency towards radicalism and trade unionism.

This was aided by the amalgamation of private lines post the Railway Mania era into the governments aegis, so branchlines remained open and ready until the local version of Beeching later on turned a lot of them into tramways.

Encased within their little Broad Gauge bubble imposed by the patriotic fervor of the colonies pre-Federation, locomotives could not be as easily replaced by out-of-state loaners. The early days tended towards foreign imports that were then used as templates to be built locally… and built locally they were as a matter of state pride. A lot of VR locomotives were built at Newport Works and at Phoenix Foundary, Ballarat.

The standardization plan brought forth under the reign of Chairman of Commissioners Richard Speight in the 1880's introduced five new classes of locos (A, D, E, the so called New R-class later renamed RY, and Y) that were built locally with the aid of Kitson and Co. of Leeds, England involved in the design phase, with the view that parts could be used interchangeably across classes.

This contributed to create a certain kind of mentality within the VR locomotives of a sense of separateness and self-sufficiency which cleaved with the ever present state rivalry with their Northern neighbor, New South Wales. The overall treatment of locomotives was one of a certain kind of affection, they were tools to be sure, but more than that. It was somewhat better than the British tendency to treat the locomotives as nothing more than iron pack mules, but this was not coded into law. Status of the locomotives was by custom rather than law, which was to have consequences later on.

For a time, things were very, very good for locomotives within Victoria. An American-railways inspired Railway Commissioner , Sir Harold Clapp (the Oz equivalent to a Director, as the VR was run by a board of Commissioners spoken for by a Chairman of Commissioners), the First Thin Commissioner, had been Vice President of the Southern Pacific railways in the US and brought heavy reforms to a VR seemingly stuck in the 19th century; amongst his ideas were the integration of American design principles to VR locomotives and rolling stock, creating a distinctly rugged look to the locos with their bar-frames and pilots as well as a general increase in size, to better fit the uneven terrain of Victoria with its regular inclines of 1-50, 1-44 and even 1-30.

The amiable K-class Consolidations and the sturdy, hard working Xs and N Mikado classes were introduced in this period.

This reached the peak of design with the creation of the mighty 3 cylinder S-class Pacifics of the "Spirit of Progress" fame and then Heavy Harry at Newport, who was meant to be the first of three other H-classes built for express passenger work across Victoria. The American inspiration can be seen in his rugged bar plate frame imported from the US, the specific use of the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western Railway's name for the 4-8-4 wheel configuration, "Pocono" for him and his very strong resemblance in appearance to fellow 4-8-4s the NYC Niagara and Union Pacific 844 Living Legend. (The other two H-classes were partially built, then scrapped during the war. So Harry had two stillborn brothers, a point of lingering grief for the big engine.)

(For more info on the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western 4-8-4 "Poconos"", see here)

Classes tended to be modified rather than outright replaced, like the A and D classes (each went through at least 2-3 waves of modifications and were marked with special names designating them as such, such as A1 , A2 and Dd ) as a cost-saving measure and often lasted a long time relative to their cousins in Britain, such as the 1915 built A2 -class 4-6-0 No 986 “Pluto”, who was only withdrawn in 1963, even though the R-class Hudsons were sent from Glasgow to replace them in 1951. In their naivety, they never thought the humans could ever turn against them.

Unfortunately, Victoria with a change of Commissioners was to echo Great Britain in the bizarre way that steam was phased out and reforms brought in. Wartime Austerity and the increasing costs of running the railways were used as excuses for local "mad choppery".

Country lines deemed unprofitable were cut, maintenance was reduced and fewer and fewer services were run, which tended to alienate people from the railways.

The VR also had some people within it that like their UK equivalents, had a deep suspicion of socialism and thus sought to break the back of the trade union of drivers and firemen by literally taking away their locomotives, and replacing them with easy to drive diesels and electrics with easy to train drivers, with the excuse that they were cheaper to run, cleaner and just overall better.

(The railwaymen’s strike in 1950 was supported wholeheartedly by the locomotives of the VR, who’s maintenance had been sorely neglected in the post war austerities; the strong presence of the unions and their relationship with the bitter, fallen prince of the fleet-turned-radical Heavy Harry and the fact that an entire depot was claimed by the Communist Party at the country town of Donald gave them more impetus to phase out steam power).

Others genuinely did believe that the time of steam was passing and the future needed to be embraced. They didn’t hate the locomotives personally, it was just that they were deemed obsolete. The steam locomotives were relics, and relics didn’t deserve a place at the main table in a rapidly changing world.

So they had to go.

With no real legal protections that other locomotives had in other countries like the USA, Europe and the Soviet Union, the Victorian locomotives were vulnerable to the encroaching end. Custom and public affection by itself cannot protect against sanctioned injustice.

14th of July 1952 was the beginning of the end for steam in Victoria. The first diesels, the pug-nosed B-class had arrived in Victoria, were built by Clyde Engineering in NSW (ironically, the same home Works that birthed the mighty NSWGR C-38 Pacifics) from an American design. The complacent VR locomotives were caught by surprise by the lean and hungry diesels who were now bedecked in the same blue and gold livery as the S-class Pacifics, who’s time was running out quickly.

The Lokodammerung had reached the Broad-Gauge southern fiefdom and showed no mercy.

The fact that this left a lot of people unemployed, destroyed a lot of side industries that made up the railway (workshops, suppliers, etc) and the costs of conversion left them unmoved. If they didn’t care about humans, they sure as hell weren’t going to care about locomotives, even if they talked and thought as humans.

As if to underline the point with extreme sadism, the mighty S-class locomotives were withdrawn and scrapped with not a hint of ceremony or acknowledgement of their hard work. That the diesels were painted in their old livery served to underline the viciousness of the insult to the VR steam locomotives.

It was an ideological point clearly made even to the humans. The enginemen seemed to read it correctly and the locomotives felt it deeply, shocked that their lieges were to be the ones sacrificed as an example to the hungry god of Modernisation.

(The R-Class was often blamed in railway enthusiast circles for giving the VR an excuse to introduce diesels, but this is backwards logic placing blame on a convenient foreign imported scapegoat. They were ordered and then the decision to bring in diesels was made and excuses were built around their seeming lack of performance when they were abused and poorly treated.

As locomotives, they did not get the chance to show their virtues… as they were deliberately worked into ruin on grain haulage jobs they were never suited for by the VR, so by the time the preservation movement got their act together, only two of their number were actually in operating condition and only 7 of 70 were saved. That the R-class clan thrived in restoration clearly indicates they have had the last laugh, they outlasted the VR!)

To Be Continued...

#ttte #rws #thomasallgrownup #victorian railways #GunzelVerse #GunzelVerse Headcanons #weird train rants #ttte extended universe headcanons #ttte alternate universe headcanons #Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals #This Is Sodor: The Iron Age #ttte headcanons #ttte headcanon #thomas the tank engine #ttte au

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