#seam locomotive

[magical-magyars]

釜石線　ＳＬ銀河　（上）　洞泉～陸中大橋　（下）　陸中大橋～上有住　鬼が沢橋梁　　2022.11.6

LOCATION  openstreetmap

[bizarrebazaar13]

re: @israfelfrost’s tags on this post (about love wrecking the timeline), here’s the Amelia/Alexandria lore.

so. if you’ve played sunless skies, you might remember that Amelia dies in the prologue. her death is actually what kicks off the plot of the game, because she was the captain of your locomotive, and that responsibility now falls to you. she dies after being attacked by a word of living fire from the blue kingdom, and she burns to death from the inside out.

in fallen london, Amelia is married to Alexandria. the text for meeting and marrying Amelia is full of foreshadowing about her eventual death. she is so doomed and Alexandria loves her so so much. god.

sunless skies is set in a possible future of fallen london- explorers have breached the avid horizon, the sixth city has fallen, and London is now in the high wilderness.

evolution was very formative to Alexandria as a character, and the story ends in Irem, which allows you to see, and shape, possible futures. not to give too much away for the fic I have yet to write, but Alexandria witnesses Amelia’s death, among many other potential terrible futures for himself and the naturalist and other people he cares about. and he decides to fix it. it works… sort of.

there’s timelines where Alexandria and Amelia never leave the neath, and ones where they do and Amelia still dies, or Alexandria dies instead, or Alexandria saves her, or any number of other possibilities, and they’re all kind of happening at once. add in parabola and discordance fuckery, and their future is literally unstable and falling apart at the seams.

[inspiredwriterstory]

HELLO INTERNET! WELCOME TO THOMAS THEORY!

The show that is not original in the slightest but doesn't care! Before we start I figured I should explain some things. This is not meant to be taken seriously and if I say something as a joke, please don't attack me. I'm not trying to hate on these creators. But with that out of the way lets get into this!

Now for those who don't know somehow The Stories of Sodor is A Thomas and friends fan series made by the Australian YouTube Victor Tanzig in his own unique take on Thomas and friends and his work is PHENOMENAL. The man won an award for it in The Steamy awards! But in season 5 I got to wondering about Mr Hall's Seam Diesel Conversion, otherwise known as SDC. Basically you put a motor in a steam engines boiler to save money which in theory should work, but I'm not so convinced. I think that behind the scenes Mr Hall is unintentionally bankrupting BR.

So if we go online the average cost for a Diesel engine varies but since most the engines on Sodor are mainline tender engines I just used the class 40 diesel motor as a baseline. Now I couldn't find the exact numbers as the price would only be calculated for the whole locomotive at about $3,00,000. So we'll just say about $1,000,000 as my best guess. Now that's a LOT of money for conversion not including the gears and modifications that need to be made. On top of that engines like Emily are extremely old and would probably need complete rebuilds to make the old metal they have able to keep up with the stress. Now the recent April fools episode leaked from Victor's Patreon isn't canon however Patrick makes a good point about engines needing to be completely changed to fit bigger engines as technology advances or else they can't keep up.

So there you have it folks! Mr Hall has unintentionally bankrupted British Rail! I think metal fatigue is gonna be the least of your worries. But hey! That's just a theory! A THOMAS THEORY! Thanks for listening!

[manyblinkinglights]

Okay, this isn’t what I’ll look like on the dancefloor (the glowing stuff will all only show in layers to various aspects of the beat, it’s way too bright now because the Luma shader “leaves the lights on” when it’s not under Furality control), but here’s me in my final configuration... that’s pieces from Kudalyn’s Festival outfit, atlased embarrassingly a lot for assets that came in 4K. (I DIDN’T HAVE MUCH ROOM LEFT ON MY UVMAP ALL RIGHT...) (I took them down from 4K->1K and then uhhh did 20% of THAT... sigh... well the majority of people will be seeing me from greater than arm’s length away, so, it’s uh, fine...) I deboned the assets because I didn’t want to mess with my underlying rig, so the feathers/leaves don’t waggle around. That’s just... work... that’s work... that’s work, and this is a hack job outfit thrown together over a three-day weekend... if I have the energy this week maybe I’ll put bones in the ones on my wrists at least. I also fixed the locomotion layer so now you do the shortfall animation to look like you’re hovering while collider flight is active, fixed my suddenly broken forefoot pickup IK assist, fixed some other problems I caused, etc., the only things I’ve forgotten/didn’t get to were 1) getting access to Substance to fix my seam padding, 2) didn’t fix where I deleted the forearm twist bone weight paints on the biped, 3) didn’t fix the taur’s upper arms weight paint where it kind of sucks and just needs a lil blurring. Do you see how small that list is?! Three things?! On a project of THIS MAGNITUDE?

Also: the taur’s wristlets and the biped’s anklets are in exactly, exactly the same place, so it feels really visually coherent when you swap, while they’re visible! Video doesn’t show. But it’s nice. Oh, also I made a No Party option that shrinks all the accessories and swaps your material to a “lights out” no designs/glowing version; No Party mode also removes your ability to drop your taurclone, you just go into the poses “as yourself” while No-Party.

[huggableflesh]

Super hero setting ramblings: H.E.R.C.A.L.E.S

The Acronym stands for Homeland Economic Regulation of Commercial Anomalous Legal Exchange and Supernatural goods.

Alright imagine its the early nineteen hundreds the second world war of anyone's life times just ended and the economy was finally starting to recover, superhumans were rapidly coming back home from war not just to acceptance but reverence from the people or at a minimum begrudging respect and acceptance one of the worst economic crashes in recent history was clearing up things looked good and they only got *better*. In 1945 a small child Catalyzed with a power that bordered on miraculous.

Wishbone, a name created when they were five that would stick with them well into adult hood their power was the ability to grant wishes. Not quite at will, not quite at a target of their choosing it's limits weren't exactly known but it was semi uncontrollable from what people could tell

People around them, or sometimes no where close were finding themselves holding a no strings Attached wish. Golden yachts, mountains of diamonds, cornucopia of infinite food and hotels that could somehow always make space for new guests and we're self cleaning. Wishes we're being granted left and right maybe not exactly how they were asked for or in a roundabout way but they were granted.

Then came the next child born to change the face of a continent was in Africa, One Amara Nkase at the age of five Catalyzed the ability to teleport things other then themselves . Despite discovering this ability they didn't realize how few limitations it had until one day they wished long and hard for a cold drink on a hot day and found a can of coke suddenly in their hands.

The girl discovered that while inability to teleport themselves or other people was a major limit of theirs, it was one of the *only* limits they had.

Rapidly with the help of their parents the girl had formed a business empire that had made every other form of shipping and locomotion obsolete almost instantly, for a time world hunger had been solved entirely. In-between infinite sources of food and entire aspects of public infrastructure being supplanted so Wholey it looked like the world was heading towards a golden age.

Sadly it wasn't too last, after 40 years wishbone died and Amara had fallen into a coma, in less then a year decades of what seemed like utopia started tearing at the seams.

Their powers didn't stop immediately, no wishbones wishing trinkets still worked and things born of wishes didn't suddenly cease to exist, it's just they no longer were connected to that seemingly infinite power source that charged all of the miracles people had been taking for granted.

people fell into panic, Cornucopias of infinite turned into cornucopias of "Only a few storage containers worth" of food.

The portals that previously were programmed to respond to outside stimuli, allowing the area it lead to be changed with the simple wave of a colored flag or a code became stuck to the last setting they were on.

The world went to shit fast, it was if electricity and running water suddenly stopped world wide (not to say that didn't happen in a few places).

But that's a different story, as governments scrambled to get the industries that had been growing moss for the last forty years back on their feet many many governments decided that never again could their country become so wholey reliant on the abilities of a single super human to function.

It wasn't the same in every country, nor did it have the same name but most places scrambled to get something akin to it.

In America we have H.E.R.C.A.L.E.S which dictates that the closest relevant governmental authority may place arbitrary restrictions on any business based on the sale of goods or services reliant on abilities unique to an individual.

The intent of bill was to prevent the economy from ever growing so dependent on a single schmuck with super powers that their death causes a national disaster, this isn't quite an outright ban but if any rogue Catalyst edges too close to too many major business they may end up being forced to have a maximum amount of clients they can take at a time or minimum prices they're allowed to sell their products for in order to make them arbitrarily expensive luxuries.

Later this bill would be expanded to effect any supernatural power not potentially available to the wider populace, which is to say pretty much all of them.

Now then from an out of universe context this law was created mostly as an explanation for why most businesses aren't employing superhumans with non punchy powers left and right or why no superhumans with incredible but not quite combat useful powers has made a killing.

Notably I also didn't want to make the government stupidly evil, the ban doesn't include charity or government contracts which are often used to supplement businesses while intentionally making sure to not drive them out of business.

No heroes with as massive consequences as wish bone or Amara have showed up or if they did they didn't get the chance to effect the world like they did.

[skvaderarts]

Petrichor Chapter 55: Correspondence

Chapter 55: Correspondence

Note: Here you go! A little late but MUCH better than the original draft, OMG! Enjoy!

(-~-)

The train ride couldn’t have been more uneventful, a fact they were both eternally grateful for. This was not the day for trouble. There would be more than enough of that to come. It was in the very air they breathed. It was guaranteed.

It took them next to no time at all to vacate the station after its arrival, the locomotive arriving on time despite the turn that the weather was trying to take. It seemed that the sky couldn’t make up its mind today. One moment it was drizzling, and the next it was clear, but the dreary haze that hung in the air never settled or dissipated. It wasn’t quite foggy out, and it also wasn’t exactly misty, but neither of them could properly explain what it actually was. Only what it wasn’t. Thankfully it was largely irrelevant. The last thing that was going to stop them today was inclement weather. They had come too far for something like that to be a deciding factor. This was far too important.

Vergil was wholly unwilling to squander this opportunity. Not a chance in hell.

As they made their way further down the street, each step that they took bringing them closer to their objective, Dante couldn’t help but notice the air of apprehension and -was that anxiety?- that hung in the space between them. He expected Vergil to be a little nervous as to how she would react, but he couldn’t recall ever seeing him act quite like this. Quite this undone. He was unraveling at the seams, barely holding together. And yet, it was still subtle and easy to miss without an observant eye or prior knowledge of Vergil’s general disposition. A skill that his brother had mastered out of necessity. For better or for worse. A clever ruse that Dante saw right through.

Everything about his body language screamed discomfort. When they stopped to wait for cars to pass, he tucked his hands into his pockets in the most defensive manner possible; exhibiting a total loss of his traditionally calm and collected demeanor. He diverted his eyes at every given opportunity. His breathing was shallow and almost inadequate, the Darkslayer doing everything in his power to not seem as suddenly out of breath as he actually was. For a moment, Dante considered actually asking him if he was unwell. He was viscerally uncomfortable, and it was utterly undeniable.

But before a single syllable could leave his unopened mouth, Vergil let out a soft, resounding sigh, an air of defeat to it that was as subtle as it was absolute.

“I see the way that your eyes linger on me. Is it that obvious?” It wasn’t a question. It was an act of self-conformation. Vergil knew the answer to that question long before it had left his lips or even vacated his mind. Yes, he did look as half-dead as he felt inside, his thoughts tearing him asunder. He almost wanted to ask Dante what it was that he was doing that had given up the ghost so undeniably, but he resisted the urge. It wasn’t that important to him. Why lie to himself; to either of them?

The truth was that he wasn’t even sure if that was something he should make an effort to hide. Perhaps that level of honesty, that kind of vulnerability, was just what the situation called for. Maybe it would help indicate his sincerity. How utterly consumed with remorse he was in regard to how things had ended up between them. How completely and wholly sorry he was.

“Do you really want me to answer that or…?” Another question answered with prior knowledge of the response that it would garner. Dante wasn’t good at gambling, not by a long shot, but he was willing to bet that he knew the answer to that one. And the quick -perhaps too quick- glance in his direction that he received from his older identical twin brother spoke volumes as to the correctness of his prediction.

“No. Of course not.” Vergil’s response was calm. Artificially calm. A measured reaction to conceal his raw nerves. Dante wondered for a moment if his brother realized that he was trying to distract him from the inevitable. Did Vergil see what his twin was doing and make the choice to linger in his own thoughts regardless, opting to look down the barrel of the loaded gun instead of away from it? No matter how frightened he might be. What good would running do now? He would never be ready for this. No amount of time or waiting would ever change that. Dante could feel that. It was a fact.

It seemed like a very Vergil thing to ponder to him.

“Yeah. Didn’t think so.” Dante shook his head and shrugged, a slight chuckle leaving his closed mouth as they continued towards their destination. The numbers on the streets and buildings that they passed were counting down rapidly, quickly approaching their intended destination. It wouldn’t be long now. This would be… interesting. “I think it’s up ahead.”

The duo traversed a few more city blocks before coming to the stoop of a townhouse that looked more or less like every other one on the street. Ordinary and mostly unadorned. The kind of street that screamed “HOA” or something akin to it. Well kept but otherwise somewhat boring and samey. Very ordinary. But as they approached the stoop and made their way up to the door, the pair couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just… off. Not dangerous or sinister, but just not quite right. Unnerving.

Maybe that was just a side effect of being near Vergil in his current state for too long.

Vergil took a deep breath before closing his eyes and knocking on the door, opening them again as he waited to have his suspicions confirmed. As he expected, no one came to the door. He was afraid that might be the case. Oh no.

“Are you sure this is the right address?” He asked as he glanced over at his younger twin. Dante stood behind him, still making his way up to the door. He wanted to give Vergil space just in case she answered the door right then and there. Had they gotten the numbers the wrong way round or something of that sort? It was a possibility. Neither of them was familiar with this neighborhood, let alone this city.

“It’s the one Morrison gave me, so I sure hope so,” Dante said, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion and discomfort. Now he was concerned. This hadn’t been what he’d expected to happen. Well, at least not what he had hoped would happen. He’d registered that it was a possibility, but he’d doggedly hoped to be proven wrong. “He’s never let me down before. His intel is always solid. I trust him.”

Vergil nodded a single time in succinct agreement. He knew next to nothing about the man, but he could tell that he and his brother had known one another for a very long time, and Dante’s confidence in his companion and his capabilities were reassuring enough. He would trust Dante’s judgment. He believed him when he said that the intel was solid, but perhaps it was best to keep his expectations low. Depressingly low.

“I am willing to assume he’s done his due diligence. He seems professional. And I expect nothing less from him.” Vergil said as he peered around the property. The blinds were closed. He couldn’t even tell if the property was currently inhabited. But one thing he did know was that she wasn’t here. No one was at the moment. “But no one is here.”

They knocked again. And waited. Nothing. He knew that would be the result, but he tried anyway. It was all he really could do, given the circumstances.

“... Do you think maybe she just left to go to the store or something?” Dante offered as a possible explanation. Even he wasn’t sure that he believed that was the case, but it was something. Even if that “something” might only be wishful thinking. It was the only positive alternative that came to mind. He didn’t want to think of any of the alternatives.

Vergil fell silent for a short while, folding his arms around himself in a manner that Dante had rarely seen prior to that moment. It was exceedingly rare for his older twin to wear his insecurity and discomfort so visibly. He was making no effort to hide how this discovery was making him feel. There was no anger or hatred present. Only a hollow hole of sadness that Dante wished he had some meaningful way of filling. It had been a while since he’d felt so utterly useless. He didn’t like it.

“I… Don’t feel that she’s been here.” Vergil stated after a while. He knew what her presence felt like. Her touch. Her scent, for lack of a better way of putting it. He recognized her essence anywhere and this place was utterly devoid of it. She hadn’t been here in some time now. If she’d ever been here in the first place. “Not at all.”

“Excuse me, are you looking for someone?”

Both of the Sons of Sparda lurched to the right in almost perfect unison, having somehow not noticed the presence of an older woman on the adjoining porch until she’d just spoken. She was standing inside her own residence still, but she slowly slipped out of the door and stood on the porch, holding the door partially open so as to easily go back inside anytime that she chose to. She eyed them almost suspiciously, seemingly curious as to what they were doing here. She’d certainly never seen them before.

“Yes. A woman. I’m told that she lives here.” Vergil stated calmly, taking her in. She was human. Of that much he was certain. But she certainly had managed to sneak up on the both of them. Had he truly been that preoccupied with his thoughts? He needed to get ahold of himself. This was a new low. “I’ve not seen her in… a very long time.”

Dante considered bringing up the fact that a better description of the individual they were looking for might be helpful in this case, but decided against it. He would simply let Vergil talk. He wasn’t going to interrupt and risk accidentally complicating things. Not for the time being, at least.

The older woman seemed to consider his statement, obviously aware of something that he wasn’t, but unsure as to whether or not she should share what she knew. And understandable sentiment, but one he found himself starkly disapproving of in this particular situation. But he resisted the urge to ask her further questions for the moment, electing to take a more measured approach, much to the obvious relief of his yonder twin who had obviously been expecting him to be less patient. Dante hadn’t thought that Vergil would harm her in any way, but it was amusing to know that he was capable of pretending to be much more patient than he actually was in order to not scare off his mark. First impressions mattered. He only got one shot at this.

“Hmmm… A woman used to live next door. Up and left half a year ago out of the clear blue sky in the dead of night with barely so much as a goodbye. Might be the one you’re after.” She held her ground, speaking almost hesitantly. This was information she clearly wasn’t sure that she should be sharing. She almost seemed to instantly regret doing so. She was in it now. No going back.

“Do you have any idea where she went?” Vergil asked calmly, attempting to hide the way that his heart began to pound and flutter at the prospect of making any sort of progress. The potent mixture of dread and anticipation that he felt rocket through his body was enough to slay a titan.

“What are your intentions when you find her?” Her tone was stern but not unfriendly or accusatory. She genuinely seemed concerned as to the safety of her former neighbor, perhaps afraid that she might be talking to a stalker or some other form of ne’er-do-well. “She’s a quiet sort. Something of a recluse. Didn’t leave her flat much, truth be told. I only ever spoke to her down by the street at the mailbox. But she did help me bring in my groceries from time to time. Swell lass. I won’t see her troubled. She already seemed like she was haunted by the ghosts of her past. Something in her eyes. She’s seen something.”

Vergil visibly flinched at the older woman’s observation. He… genuinely didn’t know what to say to that. Perhaps a bit of honesty was in order. There was little progress to be made here by lying. And if that was the case then… 

“I might be that ghost.”

Dante gave him a somewhat surprised look, clearly not expecting him to admit that. She seemed to show a similar reaction, but he obviously didn’t know her well enough to be certain. Either way, she folded her arms and shook her head in disapproval, seemingly suddenly exasperated by his mere presence. This conversation had just taken an undeniable turn for the worse.

“Then why go looking for her? Why go and reopen old wounds that might’ve finally scabbed over?” She seemed upset on behalf of the woman whom she was clearly trying to protect, her question cutting straight to the heart of the matter. Vergil resisted the kneejerk instinct to inquire as to why that mattered to her and held his tongue, pondering the question himself. But he already knew the answer. His own personal answer, at least. There were many reasons he was doing this. For V, first and foremost, but also for himself, something that he’d questioned the validity and morality of several times over that day alone. And there was only one honest answer he could give to that.

“Because there are truths that she deserves to know. Wounds that I’ve inflicted with my actions, intentional or not that I would be a coward to leave unaddressed. Wrongs that I’ve committed that only I can make right.” Vergil looked down quietly for a long moment, clearly pondering something that Dante could only imagine. He remained quiet, giving his twin the space he clearly needed to think of the proper way to describe the bottomless well of sorrow that he saw in his eyes every time he spoke of her. He had to look into the abyss and pull something back from it. After some time, he looked back up, his eyes meeting his brother’s and then those of the old woman who stood upon her front stoop, clearly still pondering her own better judgment. “And I owe that to her. Regardless of what it might cost me. I am many things, but I am not a coward.”

The little old woman stared at him in silence, the back of her hand slowly raising up to cover her bottom lip. She exhaled deeply before opening her door wider and stepping back inside with haste, closing the door behind her with a resounding slam. It seemed that she had heard enough and wasn’t willing to stick around to hear anything else. The sound of what he thought might be the latching of a lock all but confirmed that. But just as the twins glanced in the direction of one another to share a look of quietly concerned contemplation, the door unlocked again and she stepped out a second time, closing the door behind her. She walked over to the ledge and stretched her arm out to Vergil handing him what appeared to be an old, very torn envelope, the address barely visible due to the damage at a glance. What was he supposed to do with this?

“She sent me this card for my birthday. The only one who remembered it.” An ever so subtle tinge of melancholy colored her face for a moment before she shook it off, the envelope she’d just given him clearly holding some significance to her. She’d kept its contents, but it seemed that even relinquishing that torn old envelope in of itself was painful for her. That card had clearly meant a lot to her. “Tell her thank you for it when you see her. Assuming she’s still there when you lot arrive. I get the impression she’s something of a free spirit. Don’t think she stays anywhere very long. Like a bird.”

Vergil gripped the thin piece of paper tightly in his hand, being mindful not to accidentally destroy it or crumple it into a state beyond recognition as he took in its significance. He understood now. He couldn’t sense anything as he did so, but he pushed that aside. It had been a long time since she’d held it, after all. Trails went cold quickly when they were muddled with other things. Probably the reason he’d been unable to find her in the first place… 

But he did recognize one thing as he held it in his hands and took another look at it. Her handwriting. Slightly smudged, but just as much hers as he remembered. She never wrote in half measures. Her words were simple but just as kind as one would expect from her, given that they were a gift to someone else.

“Please know I’m with you on your special day, even if only in spirit. I hope you’re well, Edna. And I hope you stay that way for many years to come. Thank you for being you.”

A declaration of friendship if ever he’d seen one. A small preamble to what he was willing to imagine had been a beautiful card, a truly special gift that had clearly been treasured by its owner. This was a favor. He had been extraordinarily lucky to have it relinquished into his custody. The older woman who he assumed was Edna had taken a chance trusting them. He wasn’t sure what to even say to that. “... Thank you.”

Edna nodded, pulling as stern and threatening of a look as she could manage. She wasn’t the least bit intimidating, but he wasn’t going to assume anything. He’d been surprised by what people were capable of before. This wasn’t the time to find out she was a retired devil hunter or some such. He didn’t need that kind of excitement in his life. He was just fine, thank you. “I’m wishing you luck, lad. Just… Do right by her, okay?”

He looked at the paper again before nodding a single time in solemn respect. She’d done him a favor, something he hadn’t experienced from many strangers in the past. He wouldn’t soon forget that. “I intend to.”

And he would stop at nothing less than that. Of all the promises that Vergil had ever made to himself, this was the one he would keep. No matter what it took.

Vergil turned and looked at Dante, his brother’s arms folded as he leaned against the front railing that led to the door of her former residence. Quietly awaiting his twin’s response as he pondered everything he’d just seen and heard. He looked in her direction and gave her a small smile and a wave that she reciprocated before stepping across the threshold into her home a final time and closing the door. It was time for them to leave. She wasn’t going to hold them up any longer. Clearly, they had work to do.

(-~-)

Phew! Much better! I’m actually happy with how this one turned out as opposed to what I originally had in mind. Thank goodness I went with my gut and did this instead. This just feels more significant. More heavy. More what I was going for. I like this. Yea.

I’ll see you all next Friday on… the 13th?! LOL in the spooky month, no less. I see you October. I like your style lol! Thank you for allowing me the time to do things right, everyone. And for your infinite patience. I knew I could do better, and you all deserve that. I think this is a win-win for everyone! I’ll see you in the comments! Take care! Bye!

[linkining]

The progress of a C56 I bought over the last few weeks. It's tender shell came badly burned but structurally sound. After checking the locomotive for shorts (finding none) i cut out the most damaged sections, the side walls of the coal bunker, and scraped out any further melted plastic. Then, with a sheet of scrap styrene I bought cheap, cut two new pieces to size before gluing then painting them. I intend to leave the visible seams as hiding them would make redoing this repair very difficult, and i feel i could have done better with more skill in future. In the meantime, she looks so much better.

I named her Kirisame after the touhou protagonist Marisa Kirisame.

[bruhstation]

had a long conversation with coqui about german and french trains.... and let me tell you my eyes lit up when I saw the SNCF class CC diesels. absolute marvels in design

so wonderful.... so unique.... I love how instead of having smooth 2 dimensional snouts the lower part is more protruding while the window part is placed a little more behind. if you look at them from the side they look like lightning bolts or zigzag patterns. and not to mention those colors!!! silver with colorful accents? simply splendid. pleasing to the eye. these are some of the most elegant and fresh diesel designs I've ever seen

I initially thought this État 2029 Parthenay unit is colored silver that looks like it has gold/brass seams because of the lighting. and I thought that it looks so divine.... so mighty.... and those big wheel configurations? really fitting with the overall design. I've never seen an engine with more than one axle. so I looked at some more photos and it's actually black, but it still makes my eyes sparkle because damn black liveries are elegant. something about the overall design of this ancient steam locomotive is just idk how to describe it..... mighty?

I've only known about uk and american locos before. but now that I've seen the marvels of engineering from other countries I must say that they all need more appreciation because just LOOK AT HOW GORGEOUS THEY'RE ALL ARE!!!!!

[zeebreezin]

The Deliverance is known throughout the Empire, and yet further beyond. Her great glowing frame draws eyes skyward wherever the locomotive is seen, be they looks of awe or terror. The finest of all her Majesty’s fleet, crafted with sun-blessed design, the Empire’s most loyal say. Victoria’s bloodthirsty watchdog, say others, armed with weapons that leave wounds mankind could never heal. Perhaps, then, it was surprising how few people had ever walked aboard the Deliverance.

The light never ceases. It pours from the vents, from every seam in the Deliverance metal hull. Every surface seemed glazed in white-gold radiance, and it left the taste of iron and pith on the tongue. Stolen light ricochets off the unnatural hue, screaming, torn pieces of stars rattling in cages locked deep in the hull. Dark goggles are mandatory for all on board, of course. Even a momentary glance at the Deliverance’s interior with unprotected eyes could strike a man blind, or reveal necessary truths.

Onboard, the locomotive is perfect.

Each member of her crew is the best of the best, specially chosen and carefully sculpted to do their task without fail. Dozens of hands work in perfect harmony. Every action aboard the Deliverance falls into time. The rhythm of her engines is a metronome, and her captain is a flawless conductor. Footsteps fall in time with the great engine gears. Each turn of a wrench mark quarter beats, in scan with the turning of logbook pages. Heartbeats and breaths were harmonious. The crew all blink in unison, the same mark in time for each and every one. They all fell into time with the engine’s will, with the rhythm of the light, with the Harbinger’s orders.

Even the shaky, tear filled breaths of new recruits, those still bending into their perfect place fell into time with the phantom song.

The alternative was too much to bear. Hesitation was impossible, for it would break the rhythm. No mistake could last more than a beat. Falling out of time was a fate worse than death.

The Deliverance is a perfect vessel. The Harbinger left it no other choice.

More thoughts……. Ough…

I need to start selling people on the Scintillating Harbinger . You all need to understand how bad of an idea it was to put Beverley in the sky.

[the-hydroxian-artblog]

When a robot has more guns inside of it than could theoretically fit in it in fiction (aigis persona 3, love her dakka but she is lithe and dakka no go in body good how work) do you think it is a good robot or a bad robot in terms of robot Like she has two square missile launchers in one pic with no seams how? A lot of robot stuff probably need everything in the alloted human-acceptable space for locomotion and stuff already how do you fit gun in it

this question is Omega-phobic and the correct answer is "rule of cool always justifies hammer-space”, next question

[noblecrumpet-dorkvision]

D&D Homebrew Monster: The Deadly Die

This construct takes the form of a six-sided cube, with faces of thick bronze framed by metallic filigrees. The edges of the cube have seams that reveal whirring gears within as it rattles and shifts and emits both steam and smoke. Each of the cube's faces has between 1 and 6 circular pips that give the cube the appearance of a six-sided die. Each pip houses a magical crystal that can unleash a blast of energy at foes.

The deadly die, as its called, rolls after enemies using an internal motor that jerks it in its desired direction, paired with moving panels that can kick off the ground. Once resting on a face, it can blast enemies from each of its sides.

Dungeon lords and artificers keep these magical clockwork monstrosities as guardians for their lairs and workshops, well out of the way of their fragile instruments. Many have a command word that will render them inert for a while.

Deadly Die

Medium construct, unaligned

Armor Class 15 (natural armor) Hit Points 114 (12d8 + 60) Speed 20 ft.

STR 18 (+4) || DEX 6 (-2) || CON 20 (+5) INT 4 (-3) || WIS 13 (+1) || CHA 1 (-5)

Damage Resistances fire, piercing and slashing Damage Immunities poison, psychic Condition Immunities charmed, exhaustion, frightened, paralyzed, petrified, poisoned, prone Senses tremorsense 60 ft. (blind beyond this radius), passive Perception 11 Languages None Challenge 6 (2,300 XP)

Die Configuration. The die is cube-shaped and fills its entire space. It has pips on each face that house its beam cannons. Each side has a different number of pips ranging from 1-6, with opposite sides totaling 7 pips.

Rolling Locomotion. The die moves by jerking internal tumblers, rolling in 5-foot increments in cardinal directions, landing on the flat faces of its cube-shaped form. For every 5 feet, the die rotates 90 degrees in that direction. This rotation changes the orientation of its various pips. It cannot change the direction it is facing in any other way unless it is forcibly moved. Each time the die is forcibly moved without precise manipulation, the die's facings are randomized.

Elemental Susceptibility. If the die is dealt 5 or more lightning damage in a single turn, it must make a DC 10 Constitution saving throw or become stunned until the end of its next turn. If dealt thunder damage, it hops 5 feet in the air and falls down with its facings randomized.

Actions

Multiattack. The die makes up to one attack with its die beams from each of its sides. If one of its sides is on the ground it can also use its jump action.

Die Beams. Ranged Weapon Attack: +6 to hit, range 60 ft., one target within a 60-foot cone of one of the die's sides. Hit: The target takes damage and suffers effects based on the number of pips on the side the beam originated from:

1 pip: 6 (1d6 + 3) force damage and the target must make a DC 15 Strength saving throw or become paralyzed until the start of the die's next turn. 2 pips: 10 (2d6 + 3) radiant damage and the target must make a DC 15 Constitution saving throw or become blinded until start of the die's next turn. 3 pips: 13 (3d6 + 3) necrotic damage. The target's maximum hit points are reduced by the damage taken this way. 4 pips: 17 (4d6 + 3) lightning damage and the target can't take reactions until the start of the die's next turn. 5 pips: 20 (5d6 + 3) cold damage and the target's movement speed is halved until the die's next turn. 6 pips: 24 (6d6 + 3) fire damage.

Jump. The die pushes off of the ground, propelling it up to 10 feet in any direction. When it lands, its faces are randomized. If the die ends its movement in another creature's space, it collides with them. That creature must make a DC 15 Dexterity saving throw or take 14 (4d6) bludgeoning damage and be pushed 5 feet in a random direction.

[aliciameade]

All Through The Night

Title: All Through The Night Author: aliciameade Rating: E for Everyone Gets an Orgasm Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Here come the prompt fulfillments (and Bechloe)! “Takes place in the PP3 world where they share a bed. They’ve been out drinking and clubbing, and when they get home they try to sleep but are way too turned on. It’s probably Chloe’s hand that makes the first move and it doesn’t take long for Beca to follow...” - @not-so-average-fangirl​

Also on AO3

“‘m tired,” Beca mumbles as she’s the first to lean heavily on—and fall through—the front door of their apartment. She giggles, too, as she half-trips her way into the kitchen.

“I’m horny,” Chloe says, barely a slur in her words. 

“You’re always horny.”

Chloe laughs at Beca turning around to roll her eyes at Chloe with her words.

They had fun tonight; a night out at a club in Brooklyn, one that had a line a block long to get in which they were allowed to skip when they both flirted with the bouncer.

It had been a night of margaritas and dancing, a much-needed stress-reliever after Beca’s week dealing with rampant sexism in her office and Chloe spending several days dealing with animals and the weird things they ate.

They have a night like it every few weeks when their schedules align, a time to blow off steam and forget about the responsibilities for a few hours.

They’re some of Chloe’s favorite nights, Beca with her hair—and guard—down, both of them pleasantly buzzed but not messily drunk, and being more accepting of Chloe’s physical closeness than other days.

Not that she rejects it those days, but on these nights, she doesn’t just welcome it, she seeks it out, even initiates it.

Chloe can still feel where Beca’s hands had wandered around on her lower back while they danced. Can still see the way Beca’s lips curved into a smile that Chloe thought was unfairly sexy.

Beca’s always unfairly sexy. Unassumingly sexy. Chloe knows she doesn’t think she’s sexy; she knows she doesn’t think she’s unattractive; Beca is at least confident to a certain degree. But she knows owning her sex appeal is something Beca struggles with.

It boggles Chloe’s mind as to why; she’s never met someone as sexy.

Which might be why her confession of horniness spills from her lips so freely when they get home: she is horny. She’s been with Beca, close to her, touching her, being touched by her, all night.

She’s a simple woman: she falls in love with her friend, moves to another state for her, moves in with her, shares a bed with her, touches herself when she thinks about her. Gets turned on when she has a few drinks and gets a little close to her in a bar.

“I am not always horny,” she defends, weakly, as she watches Beca struggle to get undressed.

It’s kind of perfect how the light from the street comes in through the one window in the apartment to land on Beca like a spotlight in the otherwise dark apartment. She steps out of her heels and sheds her jacket, letting it drop where she’s standing. Her shirt goes next followed by her skirt and she must deem that a sufficient removal of clothing because she stops shedding clothes and crawls into bed wearing a black lace lingerie set that Chloe is kind of surprised to see Beca wearing for a girls’ night out.

Beca makes it to her side of their quaint pull-out bed and collapses into her spot. “Tell that to your vibrator.”

Chloe feels the back of her neck heat up with rare embarrassment. “What do you mean?”

“I know it’s not your phone you’re charging in the drawer of your nightstand,” Beca says with a wave of her hand in the general direction of Chloe’s bedside table.

Chloe’s laptop rests on it, plugged in to keep it charged. A USB cable dangles from it and disappears into the bottom drawer where it is, indeed, charging her favorite vibrator.

She straights her shoulders and keeps her head held high. “I’m not ashamed of that.”

“Didn’t say you should be,” Beca says with a bit of a smirk. “It must be a good one; you’re always charging it. Or does it have a shitty battery?”

“It...doesn’t have a shitty battery,” Chloe says. Other parts of her are starting to heat up more than they already were. Talking to Beca about her sex toy is walking a very fine line for her.

She tries to change the topic by getting undressed herself, trying in vain to make excuses as to why Beca’s just staring at her while she strips down in the neutral zone between the kitchen table and their bed. She drops her skirt to the floor with everything else before climbing into bed and under the covers.

Beca continues to stare at her for an unnaturally long time until she yawns and turns onto her side to start working her way under the covers, too, a clumsy locomotion of huffing and puffing with limbs that don’t quite want to do what she asks of them until she’s finally under them and still.

Chloe settles on her side, too, closer to Beca than she usually begins the night. They always end up physically touching by morning, usually a hand on an arm or back. Sometimes it’s more intimate when Beca lets Chloe scoot close to fit herself against her frame, arm around her waist to hold her close. It’s usually done with the excuse that someone had a bad day, and it’s never shrugged off.

Chloe scoots close tonight, too. There was no bad day; a bad week, yes, but it had been a good day. Tonight, she just wants to maintain the closeness she’s had with Beca all evening and she lets her eyes fall closed to savor how it feels to have so much of her skin touching Beca’s.

She can’t imagine any world, any other friend, with whom she would do this. She would never get into bed, under the covers, in her underwear with another friend, also in their underwear, just to cuddle.

If she were to do that, it would be for one reason and one reason only.

The thought slips through her mind; she doesn’t want it to. She tries so hard to not think about having sex with Beca when Beca is present, let alone in the bed next to her. She fails often, but she always tries to stop it.

She loses the battle quickly tonight. She is, as she declared, horny. She’s been horny for hours. Her underwear have been wet since their second margarita.

Beca is so warm against her and smells so good, smells just like she always does after a night out. Like shampoo and perfume and sweat which Chloe thinks maybe she shouldn’t like as much as she does. But all it does is make her think about is that it’s how she would smell after Chloe made her come with her face buried between her thighs.

Her traitorous, alcohol-loosened body betrays her and the thought makes her hips shift in search of friction, makes her arm tighten around Beca’s waist.

Beca doesn’t seem to notice; her reaction is little more than a sniff and an adjustment of how her head fits on the pillow. She doesn’t seem to notice that Chloe’s thoughts literally have her struggling to refrain from grinding herself into Beca’s ass.

Chloe hates herself.

She hates that she can’t let Beca go, that she can’t get her out of her mind. Not just sexually but every way; she wants to make Beca breakfast in bed on her birthday as much as she wants to make her moan her name.

Her hips twitch again and this time, Beca sighs.

It’s probably just a coincidence, or maybe irritation that Chloe keeps disturbing her.

She tries to keep still, closing her eyes to will herself to fall asleep and releases her tight hold on Beca’s waist with the hope that it will cut the tension building inside her.

She wiggles backward an inch or two, too, to let some air between their warm bodies, though she keeps her chest in contact with Beca’s back. That’s too delicious to forego. She elects to relocate her hand to rest on Beca’s hip instead and maybe not-so-accidentally drags it across her stomach to get there rather than picking it up and placing it there.

Beca sighs again, and shifts, too. It’s more obvious now that her hand is on Beca’s hip. Her own hips move again, the motion reconnecting them for the briefest of seconds and she feels Beca’s move, too, almost like an echo.

It makes her already quick pulse pick up its pace. It makes her lazily curve her fingers to let her fingertips graze idle patterns over Beca’s hip rather than resting heavily against it.

She hears Beca again, a quiet but sharp breath in the dark, and Chloe wonders what’s happening. She adjusts herself, wiggling her arm further under the pillow they’re sharing to be more comfortable on it and her hand collides with Beca’s under it. She half-expects Beca to withdraw her hand to give Chloe the territory but instead, Beca’s hand closes around Chloe’s to keep it there.

Everything stops for what feels like eternity and Chloe holds her breath.

Eventually, Beca’s grip eases and her hand shifts to turn palm-up to let Chloe’s fingers slot between hers beneath the pillow.

Her free hand, the one at Beca’s hip, feels a bit like it’s on autopilot. Beca isn’t shunning the way her fingertips draw lines and curves over her hip, up to her waist, over her stomach, down the outside edge of her thigh, to her knee.

Her fingers slow there, tracing her kneecap, half-contemplating, half-driven by adrenaline and ever-increasing lust. She slows her looping pattern until her fingers rest along the seam created by Beca’s thighs. She’s only an inch or two above her knee but Chloe’s heart is pounding like she’s in the middle of wild, unbridled sex.

Beca’s grip on her hand is tight and Chloe finally notices how quickly Beca is breathing.

The possibility that Beca is turned on right now, too, hadn’t even entered her thoughts until that moment and an excited type of panic floods her veins.

She squeezes Beca’s hand and Beca squeezes it back in acknowledgment and Chloe takes that as permission to continue, to go further. She lets her fingers drift higher, in disbelief that she’s touching the soft, warm skin of Beca’s inner left thigh

In the dark and out of sight, she misjudges how long (or not long) Beca’s thigh is and there’s black lace beneath her fingers sooner than she expected it.

Beca gasps and Chloe immediately removes her hand; she hadn’t meant for it to happen that fast. She’d meant to stop and check in with Beca again, to give them both another chance to consider what was maybe about to happen.

“Don’t,” Beca exhales and Chloe’s about to apologize when Beca’s other hand finds Chloe’s wandering one. “Don’t stop,” she whispers and pulls Chloe’s hand back down.

Chloe’s brain feels like it melts.

Beca shifts next to her and she realizes she’s parting her legs, her left leg straightening and her right hiking up.

“Bec,” she breathes, her entire body pushing forward to be as close to Beca as possible. Her lips find Beca’s shoulder and to kiss it is automatic.

Beca’s hand has stopped guiding her, dropping it low on her stomach, and Chloe realizes this is Beca’s version of one last check-in. She’s said what she wants. It’s up to Chloe now.

Chloe knows what she wants.

She lets her hand slide down, fingertips moving over top the rough black lace.

Her heart threatens to beat out of her chest with every millimeter lower she reaches until she finds and follows the dip in material, fingertips still light, and finds slick lace.

The sound Beca makes is something between a gasp and a whimper and it makes Chloe’s hips push forward, which pushes Beca’s forward right into firm, direct contact with Chloe’s fingers against her swollen clit through the lace.

“Fuck,” Chloe whispers, turning her face into Beca’s neck, her need to kiss her skin impossible to ignore.

Beca’s hips don’t stop after the one domino-effect thrust. They keep moving like a pendulum and Chloe gives in fully.

She flattens her fingers and presses them fully against Beca to learn it’s not just one wet patch on her underwear.

Beca’s completely soaked and that alone nearly makes Chloe orgasm.

“Bec,” she repeats after drawing a line up her neck to her ear with her tongue. “You feel amazing.”

Beca just hums in response and Chloe hears her breathing hard, already panting despite the slow pace of the contact.

She strokes her fingers over the ruined lace, feeling this part of Beca for the first time. Learning new curves. It leaves almost nothing to her imagination; she can picture it without ever having seen her. Her fingernail finds and catches the edge of Beca’s underwear and she tugs on it gently.

“Can I?” she asks before tracing her tongue over the piercings in Beca’s ear, something that makes Beca’s neck twist in what Chloe assumes is a good way. She does it again and she feels Beca nod. “Yeah?” she asks, a nod not quite being enough. She could misread a nod.

“Yeah,” Beca says, quiet voice sounding not quite like herself.

Chloe realizes she’s never heard this Beca voice. One that is aroused. One that is asking for Chloe to touch her.

Chloe holds her breath as she does it; she has to so she can focus on how it feels to slip her fingertips under Beca’s wet, useless underwear to feel her smooth, hot, slick skin for the first time.

That’s when Beca moans the first time.

Chloe’s so turned on it feels like she’s touching herself at the same time. Her fingertips find and brush over Beca’s clit and she releases the breath she’s holding. It’s swollen and protruding and begging for Chloe’s fingers to frame it and start stroking.

“Holy shit,” Beca says through another moan, legs moving to try to open further until she has her left foot planted and her knee up, completely open to Chloe’s touch.

Chloe marvels in it, in the way Beca’s hips roll, again and again, grinding herself against Chloe’s hand with increasing desperation. She lets her fingers slip lower to find her entrance, another curve to discover, and she lets the tip of her middle finger tease the entrance.

“Please,” Beca whines—she whines—and alters the angle of her hips to take Chloe inside when Chloe’s still wondering if it’s okay to do.

It’s Chloe’s turn to moan when she realizes she’s completely inside Beca, the palm of her hand now pressing close to her body. The palm that Beca’s already grinding against.

“Fuck me.”

Chloe thinks she could be imagining it, but Beca repeats it. “Fuck me, Chlo,” through a moan.

There’s no imagining that. No imagining learning the way her name sounds when Beca moans it.

“I am,” she says, hand immediately picking up and matching Beca’s rhythm. “I am, baby.”

Beca moans again and she wonders if Beca likes the pet name or if she likes Chloe fucking her.

Or both.

“So good,” Chloe murmurs against Beca’s neck that she can’t stop kissing. She knows she’s starting to leave marks on it. “You feel so good.” She sounds like a broken record but it’s the truth. Beca feels amazing. She’s so wet and so soft and Chloe slips a second finger in with the next thrust which makes Beca’s head tip back and her back arch. “Fuck, Beca,” she goes on, drunk in a new kind of way as she stops trying to be quite so graceful and starts fucking Beca more roughly.

She likes it if the way her voice catches in her throat is any indication.

Chloe can hear it, hear what it sounds like for her fingers to sink into Beca again and again, as the heel of her palm comes down against her clit over and over.

It’s wet and lewd and she never thought she would be really fucking Beca, legs open wide and moans spilling from her lips, in the middle of the night in their apartment. Or any time, anywhere. She never could have imagined Beca’s reaction. The way she keeps trying to part her legs wider until she gets so frustrated she rolls onto her back.

It shocks Chloe because it’s the first time they’ve looked at each other since getting in bed and Beca’s staring up at her, lips parted as she moans every time her hips roll into Chloe’s hand, which only speeds up with the extra room she’s given.

There’s no more hiding in any way, no more maybe pretending wasn’t really happening. Beca’s eyes are on hers and she’s moaning like she’s about to come.

“Kiss me,” suddenly spills from Beca’s lips.

Chloe almost stops to say, “Gladly,” but instead, she does exactly as asked, kissing Beca—for the very first time—hard, instantly finding her tongue with her own.

The change in position forces Beca to let go of Chloe’s hand so Chloe can prop herself on her elbow.

It also frees up both of Beca’s hands and Chloe nearly comes when she feels Beca’s hand pushing under her bra to play with her breast. 

As quickly as it happens it stops and she would complain, but she has nothing to complain about. Even less so when Beca’s hand finds her again, this time by sliding right down the front of Chloe’s underwear until her fingers are rubbing Chloe’s clit.

Chloe just moans into their lurid, sloppy kiss. She was going to come whether anything touched her or not but this is the best possible option.

Beca’s moans are slipping higher and higher in pitch and Chloe focuses, best she can, on keeping her rhythm steady, pounding her fingers into Beca again and again as her own clit starts pulsing.

She tips over the edge before Beca does, falling into her and moaning loud and carelessly as Beca makes her come.

“Oh, my God, yes,” Beca says against their kiss. “That’s so hot, that’s so hot,” she starts chanting until it gives way into a loud moan of her own and her body rocks into uncontrollable bucking and Chloe can’t believe she’s feeling Beca’s body pulsing around her fingers, can’t believe Beca’s are still pressed against her body.

The silence when their release passes is deafening. 

The only sounds are from their heavy, labored breathing and Chloe’s torn between saying something about how good it was or about how long she’s wanted to do that, and instead opts to lift her had and kiss Beca again.

She doesn’t know if she’ll get to ever again once this bubble pops and she wants one long, lazy, shared kiss of contentment to remember it by.

It turns out, Beca’s on the same page. She kisses Chloe back with a slow thoughtfulness that the rush of passion didn’t allow for, and when it draws to its natural end, Chloe shifts off Beca to flop, spent, onto her back.

She hears what sounds like a huff of laughter next to her but Beca doesn’t say anything. She does feel Beca’s hand a few seconds later fumbling for her own and smiles as their fingers entwine where they rest on the bed between them.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Chloe wakes up to the smell of bacon and the scent of Beca. Her eyes flutter open and a mass of messy dark hair is in her face tickling her nose. She smiles as she takes stock of the situation. Beca’s still in bed with her, heavily asleep according to the pattern of her breathing that Chloe knows so well. Their hands aren’t interlocked anymore and Beca’s turned onto her right side like she usually is, but her foot is reaching back slightly where it hooks over Chloe’s ankle.

That’s something new, a new kind of connection to wake up to, as is the fact that when Chloe moves a bit to stretch her arm which is unbearably sore, she realizes her bare breasts graze Beca’s equally bare back.

It’s a jolt of surprise followed by a jolt of pleasure. She doesn’t remember taking off her bra in the middle of the night, but it’s gone, as is Beca’s. Instead of questioning it, she just presses herself closer to relish the connection.

She’s drifting back to sleep when another type of jolt hits her.

The fact that it smells—and sounds—like frying bacon but both of them are in bed.

She whips her head around, her neck immediately pinching in a way she knows will need a massage to fix, to see Amy leaning against the counter by the stove typing away on her phone.

The motion must get her attention because she looks up.

“Oh, sorry, did you forget I live here, too?”

Chloe’s mind races back through the previous night. Stumbling home drunk, late. Not bothering to turn on the light. Falling into bed. Trying to sleep but somehow spiraling into having really, really hot sex with Beca.

“Were you home last night?” she finally croaks.

“I’m making pancakes, too,” Amy says, and though she’s ignoring the question, the lack of an answer is just as telling. “Thought you two might have worked up an appetite.”

“Oh, my God,” Chloe groans, genuine embarrassment hitting her.

She feels Beca stir next to her at the sound and she braces herself for whatever happens next.

“Hi,” comes Beca’s sleepy voice and Chloe just closes her eyes tightly to wait for it, whatever “it” is. “Hey, what’s wrong?” comes next and she feels Beca start to turn over until she feels fingers grazing across her brow. “Are you sick?”

“If she is, I have the hangover cure right here.” Amy’s voice rings loudly and it’s followed by the clang of glass on glass and Chloe knows she’s mixing a screwdriver. 

“Amy?!”

Chloe feels Beca recoil, a desperate grabbing at blankets to cover herself.

“Morning, Shawshank. Sleep well?”

“Oh, my God, did you sleep here last night?”

“I can’t believe both you twig bitches were too horny for each other to even remember I’m the third illegal roommate in this illegal sublet!”

Chloe just covers her face with her hands. This isn’t how she wanted the morning after to go.

“I didn’t really get much sleep, though,” she continues and Chloe hears the metallic clangs and scrapes of more breakfast preparation. “You two couldn’t be more subtle if you tried. We’re going to have to lay some ground rules from now on. I already started drawing up a sex schedule—”

“A sex schedule?” she and Beca repeat simultaneously and she finally drops her hands to look up at Beca whose face is as red as her own feels (and probably is).

“Yeah, a sex schedule. I don’t care if you two are boning but it’s not going to happen again while I’m home.”

“Oh, my God,” Beca repeats and Chloe gets it; there really isn’t anything more appropriate for the realization that their roommate and long-time friend was there, a few feet away, as they had what turned into very, very not subtle or quiet sex. It was like, pornographic-level sex by the end of it.

“I didn’t get up and air out this sex den at 6:00 am and make breakfast to congratulate you on the sex for you to sit there and stare at me. Come eat. Or did you do that already?” she adds, a tone of wonder in her voice. “No, no it was definitely mutual manual stimulation.”

Chloe can’t help but laugh at that.

There’s nothing else to do but laugh.

“This isn’t funny!” Beca yells with a sharp shove to her arm.

Chloe just shrugs and looks at her, laughing until she sees a smile start to tug at Beca’s lips until she bursts out laughing, too.

“Amy, I am so sorry,” Beca finally manages and Chloe watches her glance around the tiny apartment as if surveying whatever damage happened. Then she crawls over Chloe on what seem to be tired arms and legs until she’s slipping out of bed to quickly grab a shirt and pair of shorts to pull on. “You’re never here overnight; I didn’t even think to check.”

Chloe sits up to watch, still blushing but now filled with amusement, as Beca drags her feet to the kitchen sink where she washes her hands.

It’s a sight that translates the necessity of it right back into her memories and how Beca’s fingers felt between her legs. She swallows hard and instead works on finding her own morning pajamas.

Amy makes a sound of dismissal. “You aren’t the first two horny kids to stumble home drunk and forget they had a roommate.”

Whatever she’s referencing makes Beca groan. “Do not remind me.”

Chloe finally gets herself out of bed and to the same sink, nudging Beca out of the way with her hip since she’s leaning there to talk to Amy.

Again she has to tamp down the memories; the evidence of just how aroused Beca was and how hard Chloe had taken her is plainly visible and she hurries to wash it away, not wanting Amy to see that, too.

She listens to Beca and Amy’s banter, most of it teasing Beca about finally getting laid. It’s all a relief, all things considered. Beca didn’t wake up and freak out or act like she was too drunk to remember, or indicate that she regretted it. To the contrary, she smiles at Chloe now and then as Chloe gathers and sorts their discarded clothing from last night and then digs her phone out of her purse. It’s only at 12%; she’d been too distracted to plug it in last night.

“Why are there 231 texts in the Bellas group chat?” she asks warily as she shows the screen of her phone to Beca as she takes her usual seat next to her at the table. “And I have six missed calls from Aubrey. And two from Stacie.”

Amy suddenly refuses to make eye contact with her and whistles a random tune while she busies herself with pancake batter.

“Ames…” Beca says, voice laced with a warning, as she takes Chloe’s phone and unlocks it with her passcode.

Chloe holds her breath but she already knows.

“You couldn’t give us like, a day to figure it out?” Beca says with a sigh as she returns Chloe’s phone.

As expected, the chat is flooded with reactions to, she can assume based on context clues, Amy’s announcement that she and Beca had hooked up last night. A quick scroll informs her it wasn’t just an announcement but a detailed account of the events from start to finish that reads not unlike a piece of erotica.

“Really, Amy?” Chloe says, though nothing Amy does surprises her anymore. “You could have left out 99% of those details and got your point across.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Amy says as she turns to the table with two pancakes on a spatula. “A short stack for Short Stack,” she says as she drops them onto Beca’s plate. 

She just sighs; there’s nothing else she can do anyway. Everything that’s done is done. But, she realizes as Beca’s foot pokes hers under the table to make her meet her eyes and see she’s being smiled at, nothing is really in a bad place.

Other than Amy sharing their private affair with their friends, who, based on her glance, all seemed enthusiastic about the turn of events, everything is...good.

Beca’s foot rests atop hers under the table, another new kind of physical connection. Beca’s smiling at her as she inhales her breakfast. Beca’s not mad at Chloe for touching her in so many new places.

“Ames, I know we have to work out our schedule,” Beca says as soon as the two pancakes are gone and as Chloe finally gets to start on her own, “but could we maybe have like, two hours this morning?”

“Two hours?” Amy says with a whistle. “You need that long when you’re sober?”

“I don’t need that long, but I want that long.”

Chloe almost chokes on her breakfast.

“Oh, my God, so we can talk!” Beca clarifies.

It makes Amy burst out laughing. “Yeah, okay, I’ll give you lovebirds two hours. After I get my brekkie, on, too.”

Things feel normal, then. The three of them having breakfast together, talking about their week since they don’t see Amy that often. All of it feels normal except how Beca’s hand reaches over to rest on Chloe’s knee while they chat.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“Two hours,” Amy says as she makes a show of setting an alarm on her phone. “Keep the windows open. And stay away from my side of the room.”

“We’re just going to talk,” Beca says as she rolls her eyes and follows Amy to the door, shoving her out playfully. She bolts and chains the door behind her, something that usually doesn’t make Chloe’s heart race but does now.

Chloe sets down the dishtowel she was using to clean up and turns, ready to talk.

“We’ll talk later,” Beca says as she rushes up to her, pressing her against the counter as she captures Chloe’s lips in every sense of the word.

Chloe had fully expected to talk but her body had wanted this instead; she’s so, so happy Beca wanted it, too.

“I want to do this sober,” Beca says against her lips before her kisses move to Chloe’s neck, hands grabbing Chloe’s to pull her toward their bed.

“Me, too,” she manages, already breathless and gasping as Beca literally pushes her onto the bed.

She watches, dumbstruck, as in the bright light of the fluorescent kitchen light and summer morning sun Beca pulls Chloe’s shorts—and underwear—down. She watches, not quite sure it’s the best dream ever, as Beca pushes her shirt up to kiss her stomach on her way down until she’s putting Chloe’s legs over her shoulders.

“Two hours?” Beca says, lips against her inner thigh. It sounds like a challenge. Maybe a dare.

Chloe just reaches for her and threads her fingers through her hair, nods, and watches Beca, without any hesitation, lean down to lick through her.

Her head rolls to the side as she moans and the last thing she sees before her eyes close is the cable from her laptop into the drawer, and she smiles at the thought that she’s not going to be needing that any time soon.

Though, maybe… sometime in the next two hours...

The End

[velvetafterdark]

A and T please?

A has been answered, so let's do T!

T: Any fandom tropes you can't stand?

I really hate the tropes where sta/rscr/eam is either considered "exotic" on account of being a se/eker, or seen as the "girl" in his relationships.

Yes, he's more effeminate than wh/eelj/ack, but this isn't a cishet relationship. Nobody is the "girl", they are both men. this is why i mention in "back to work" that their usual method is tribadism, rather than spike-in-valve. Do i think they also do spike-in-valve? absolutely, but I added that to establish that this is not a cishet relationship. I'm queer, and the characters are queer. I know this seems like I'm making a huge deal out of nothing, but it really bothers me when ships w/ s/tarscre/am are like "man and man lite™"

The exotic thing ties into the idea that se/ekers are somehow hornier than other cyb/ertron/ians (other common tropes include that their wings are an e-zone which...makes no sense? they'd be sensitive, but those are like a locomotion appendage; they need those to move). It's a weird and almost racist trope, this idea that someone of a different ethnicity from the standard (which I guess is grounders) is somehow spicy and special because it's different. star has the normal amount of sex. sex with him is not somehow more magical or special; he is just a guy.

in my fics, the bases of his wings are sensitive (not the ailerons??? wtf those get put under crazy wind pressure if they were an e-zone he'd never get off the ground) bc that's where a transformation seam is. If you grab him there, he will not be a moaning mess; he will hit you. Just like anyone else would if you grabbed a part of their body without their consent.

[verglarchive]

@arelights​ sent:    nothing lasts forever:    we know this.    [    accepting.    ]

❛❛      and yet    …    we still choose to put our hopes in ephemeral things.      ❜❜        they inhabit a world that is also a treasury of gruesome denouements.    see,    for example,    the horizon line:    a serrated blade sawing the sun into halves,    thirds,    quarters    —    making way for a night full of twinkling teeth.    only mortal proclivities accoutre this truth in handsome garment,    spun from the satiny threads of roseate perception.    and thought is a seam - ripper,    now prying something of a laugh from august mouth.

might there still be merit in the pursuit of idyll in a hollow - hearted,    mendacious world?    is not the sun a thousand splendid rocks,    each doomed to death by fracture,    by revolution,    lulling humans into a synthetic certainty of the locomotive hands of time?        [    every aubade is entirely fictitious,    and we sing it anyway.    ]        elsa smiles,    ivory and garnet,    not quite a baring of teeth.        ❛❛      i’ve always wondered,    what does that make us?      ❜❜

[zombriekid]

The Devil Takes Care of His Own 2/?? [Alastor/Gender Neutral Reader]

Series: Hazbin Hotel

Chapter Name: Miscommunication 

Chapter Summary: miscommunication runs amok at the hasbin hotel and you’re at the center of it all 

The Has-been Hotel is... you honestly don’t know what you were expecting when Niffty described the place but it sure as hell wasn’t... all of this.

It’s grandiose in both concept and execution, a towering beast of red brick and daunting spires and white marquees lights that draw the gaze up, up, up all seven plus stories until you’re gawking at the luminous, colossal eye nestled at the tippy top of the building; an amalgamation of various parts, such as the rusty boiler of an old locomotive on the left side and the splintering ruins of a ship smashed into the right, it’s as if the architecture had whipped up a variety of blueprints, couldn’t decide on which one to use, then hurled them at the wall to see what stuck. Each individual structure stacks on one another at such awkward angles, not enough to topple over but sufficient to deceive your brain into thinking that it will.

The sort of anxiety that you get when a cup sits dangerously close to the edge of a table.

Niffty skips from one foot over to the other in an energetic, repetitious fashion until they both carry her closer to the grand double-door style entrance, and with a flourish of her skirt she twirls around until she’s gracing you with a toothy grin. “This is it, Newbie!” The declaration is made, and you feel the skin around your mouth pull into a smile of your own before you can even think about it. Her joy is infectious. 

“Cool!” You respond, “umm... I’m gonna kinda stick around until you can get inside, is that okay?”

Her grin quickly drops and her brow pinches, though neither are done out of disgust or anger or any sort of negative reaction. If anything she merely looks confused. Then she asks her favorite question: “why?”

“Cause- I dunno, what if it’s locked?”

“But.. it’s a hotel. Why would it be locked?”

“I don’t- friggin know! Look, I just.. have to make sure you get inside safely! For my peace of mind.”

Something clicks in her head, you can tell by the way her face slackens, the way her eye widens a fraction, and how her already open expression just... opens up more. What this all means you can’t say for sure but you’re hoping that it stems from the epiphany of self preservation and survival instincts, or rather her lack thereof. You can’t afford to worry about her well-being after this. Got an un-life to live and all that.

A smile, tiny in size but genuine in nature, blooms on her face, and warm, fuzzy relief swells in your chest at the sigh; seems the little lady finally gets it.

“You should come inside and meet everybody, Newbie.”

...

Or not-

That’s-

You-

That’s not- the response that-

“W-why?”

The giggle she emits is light and airy, girlish- not quite like a child’s or even a teenager’s yet akin to. Like she knows something that you don’t. “I think you’ll like them, hell you might even become friends!”

“I don’t need- I have friends-” the rest of the statement disconnects from your voice due to the emotional and mental whiplash you’re currently suffering. Because this is not the direction you were anticipating. The direction you were hoping. A moment of clarity to break apart the cloud of teenage hormones- to bridge the gap between childhood and adulthood in her head so that her sense of self preservation might serve her better in the future! That’s all you’re wanting.

Accountability from her. Not an assessment on how pathetic she finds your existence.

But then her smile slips into something a little more somber and the wind in your sails- that is the ire in your throat- immediately deflates. “Please?” She asks.

Hear that? Those are your heartstrings being tuned and plucked and strummed by a diabolical mastermind forever trapped in the body of a teenage girl. Under your breath do you curse the softness in your chest as your feet begin pursuing her prints.

____________________________________

There’s something off about the hotel’s entrance, and you’re already aware of what that something is for it lacks any semblance of subtlety and tact. 

The walls don’t match.

That is to say there’s quite a large patch that coils around the doors from one side of the moulding to the other, with the jump between textures and slightly off-coloring of the material a harsh sensation. “Repairs from an intruder” Niffty tells you; “a big ass red flag” is what you’d call it.

The youngen grasps one of the dusky doorknobs and you have just enough time to note the twin stained glass panels on either door before she shoulders one of them open- oh fuck, these doors are so much bigger than her!

That’s too goddamn endearing.

Crossing the entrance’s threshold and into the foyer doesn’t leave you with any flesh wounds or broken bones, which is a normal expectation otherwise, yet still that doesn’t embolden even an iota of morale. Just makes the oxygen in your lungs slip through pursed lips.

The interior’s lovely, though.

It has a particular aesthetic to it, a sort of old timey feel inspired by early 1900s Hollywood- gold trimming glistens in the low light around the wall’s seams, a wombo combo of creepy eyes and apple silhouette patterns smatters across the wallpaper and windows and furniture, and varying yet complimentary shades of red- some orange based, others with purple undertones- as far as your eyes can see. Chipped marble statues stand tall along the length of the rich, ruby red rug, and both design choices run down the walkway between your feet and the front desk. Safe to say the rest of the establishment follows this decorative draft.

It’s all very gaudy- not something you would’ve chosen.

Niffty announces her arrival with the verbal enthusiastic accompaniment of a “new friend”, which makes the skin on your face heat up, makes you feel coy, however, then her declaration is only met with the ripples of her voice bouncing from wall to burgundy wall, and the silence (emptiness) becomes baffling.

And a quick glance around the space the two of you occupy yields no other results, it’s just the two of you.

Empty.

Obviously there’s electricity in the building, you can easily point out the amber light sources and random puffs of cool air from the air conditioning, so it’s nearly safe to say that this hotel is functioning. At least somewhat.

Don’t most, if not all, functioning hotels have... tenants? People checking in? Employees, managers, a friggin cock roach?! Life?

Why keep the lights on if no one else is here? No one else except... you and Niffty. Why would she bring you here? Knowingly, of all things, given how she spoke of this place with such familiarity. Unless...

No.

Your eyes find her red, curly locks- she wouldn’t- and the hairs on your arms rise with the pebbling texture on your skin- she wouldn’t- and, oh, how the comprehension of age old adages such as “stranger danger” and “curiosity killed the cat” spreads in your chest.

You had no reason to trust her four hours ago, and you have no reason to trust her now.

Seems like her self preservation isn’t the only one that needs fine tuning around here.

Slowly, quietly, you lift your leg and just as discreetly lower it back down behind you, and you mirror this silent shuffle on your right, back and forth, until the tips of your fingers caress a cool, grainy surface. The doors.

Feel for the doorknob- “huh, is no one here?” she mumbles- a metallic globe nestles into the meat of your palm- “that’s weird”- your fingers fold around the bulb- “I was hoping that- what’re you doing, Newbie?”- the knob turns, not by you. It’s not you. You’re not twisting the door open.

The doorknob is moving and it’s not because of you.

A sensation of lofty weightlessness replaces the solid slab against your back, a flurry of butterflies erupts in the pit of your stomach, and the visual of Niffty standing amidst dim lighting slips into the recesses of your peripheral as you fall backwards with the retreating door. However, a pair of hands immediately clench around your biceps and from that point of contact you can physically feel their arms expend force to halt your body’s natural inclination to follow the pull of gravity.

“Whoa there!” Someone says from behind- the owner of the hands and your personal savior, you’re assuming. And judging by the higher, decidedly more effeminate pitch of the voice, your pillar of support is a young lady.

Brief peek up through your lashes confirms all suspicions and you’re, like, ninety five percent sure you’ve fallen in love.

A young gal, somewhere in her early twenties, is staring back at you with her groomed brows creasing the impossibly pale skin of her forehead. But it’s the way she’s looking at you, the manner of which you’re able to meet her lovely doe eyes, is what leaves you weak in the knees.

She’s hunched over you. Spine bowed, shoulders raised, neck craned, spun gold tresses spilled around her face kind of hunched because she’s taller than  you by a significant amount.

You’re ready to go ahead and propose.

“Umm, hi there,” the (hopefully) future Mrs. Newbie says through a lopsided grin, “are you okay?”

This next moment of stupidity will hound your psyche later on tonight until the only thing that lulls you to sleep is the sheer exhaustion of socially awkward-induced anxiety, however in the meantime there’s no stopping the response that jettisons out of your mouth. “I need to call heaven because they’re missing an angel.”

“... what?”

“I mean my legs must be broken cause I’ve fallen for you.”

____________________________________

Over a glass of water, serviced by an individual whom you can only describe as a winged grump cat- and was, supposedly, here the entire time you were questioning a child’s integrity- is where you apologize to the blonde hotel owner, Charlie; she attempts to wave it off with a flick of her wrist but this doesn’t suffice, not for you at least.

“No no, I’m really sorry- it’s just...” at a momentary loss for words, your index fingernail lightly scrapes into the grainy pattern of the bar. “I’m fairly new here so a lot of things are still pretty jarring.”

“Guess that explains the meat suit, then.”

This astute observation comes from her companion, a long-legged fellow by the name of Angel Dust who’s currently scrutinizing you with his sharp, mix-matched eyes; at a whopping seven foot something this guy looms over everyone in the room with all four arms laced over the tuft of white fur billowing out of the plunging collar of his suit. Bug-based, you think, like an arachnid maybe but with six limbs instead of eight.

“-arachnids are not insects because-”

Nope, none of that, not gonna have an episode spice up your (less than) stellar first impression.

“Yep, been here for about a month now. I’d like to think I’ve adjusted well enough but, ya know, still get thrown through a loop sometimes. Like this hotel for instance! Never would’ve thought that friggin Hell would have one, no offense.”

On a bar stool to your left pipes up Niffty; “is that why you thought I was gonna attack you, Newbie?”

Naturally you’re utterly unprepared for her rather perceptive question, cause she can determine your, a total stranger’s, apprehension but not an aggressor’s intentions when their teeth are poised around her noggin?

Well, no sense in denying it now, you suppose.

“Sorry about that, Niffty.”

“Oh no worries!” She giggles, “it’d be pre-etty stupid to blindly trust someone like that.”

A few beats pass with the two of you staring at one another, her donning a toothy smile and you puckered lips, and shortly after you disrupt the unofficial contest with a single nod of your head and a “fair enough” tacked on to the finale.

Turning back to Charlie, you tell her that the offensive essence of your statement about her hotel didn’t really make itself known until just now, and apologize for your insensitivity once more. “I guess I just didn’t think anything like this was plausible, but here I am drinking complimentary tap water in a lobby of a hotel in Hell.”

“’Complimentary’, my ass.” The winged cat, Husk as you were told earlier, grumbles under- his? that voice definitely sounds masculine- breath.

“Okay, just tap water then. I’m drinking tap water in-”

“I-it’s okay, Newbie!” Charlie interjects, palms raised and fingers slack. “You’re not the first one to doubt the Happy Hotel, though I do appreciate your apology.”

... want some of that non complimentary tap water to wash down that foot, self? Jesus, if you didn’t feel like shit before then boy howdy do you feel it now; way to trash her gig like that.

“But I believe in this project, no matter what anyone else says, and if I can help just one demon find redemption here then everyone else will believe too!”

FUCK, you really just shat all over this literal-but-not-really angel’s dreams! God you’re such-

Wait.

Wait wait wait... rewind that, what did she say?

“Redemption,” you stress the word, “whaddya mean by that?”

Her mouth blinks open repeatedly not unlike that of a fish before she quickly clears her throat and continues. “Umm.. rehabilitation? To fight against the overpopulation issue?” She must see the lack of recognition on your face. “The entire reason for this hotel?”

Unfortunately for her nothing is distinguishable, not one bit of information or even hearsay within your recollection to mend the rift of miscommunication here, and you explain as such.

“Isn’t that... why you’re... here? To be rehabilitated?” She asks.

You shake your head, “I was just escorting Niffty home so she’d get back safely. This is the first I’ve even heard of your project.”

“Yep yep! Newbie here saved me from some guy that was trying to kidnap me, said he wanted to use me as bait against the bossman, can you believe that?” Niffty scoffs, chased by a large, arcing roll of her one eye. “Completely clueless. But thanks to our new friend here I didn’t have to do anything!”

Angel Dust, apparently with a desire to be a part of the conversation once more, emerges into your line of sight from your right and levels you with a somewhat twisted sneer; lots of fangs, this one, hopefully he’s not a biter.

“So... what? You lookin’ for reward money or somethin’?” He jeers, and it takes some exertion of personal willpower to not clench your hands out of irritation.

Doesn’t mean it’s not showing on your face, however.

“No dude, just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Tch, ya think we’re really fallin for that crock of shit?”

“I don’t care what you think?” Your tone is calm, steady, no need to act like a jackass even in the afterlife- a concept that has obviously eluded this guy’s notice. “That was my reason for helping, ‘s not my problem if you don’t believe me.”

In your peripheral you can see Charlie’s silhouette veer a little to her right/your left; it’s a slight tilt in her neck that seems to tip her center of gravity, drawing her blonde hair over her right shoulder in a curtain of pale gold, however it’s her eyes that capture your absolute, full attention. Round and unblinking, they probe into you with such vigilance that your stomach churns from the intense concentration, except it’s done in a way that brings a sort of glossy haze over her round, pretty face- like she’s looking at you but she’s not seeing you.

Normally you’d be flattered by such an attractive person outright staring at you, openly, but uhh... right now? Yeah, no you’re not, you’re actually feeling pretty anxious right now.

Guess Angel Dust is tuning in on the same wavelength as you because he says her name in the form of a question. And, still with a far away vog clouding over her features, she merely discloses “I need to call Vaggie” then treads towards the building’s entrance.

“... what?” Is all you can get out in this disorientation.

“Vaggie is Charlie’s girlfriend,” Niffy whispers behind a cupped hand.

Which doesn’t actually answer much of anything for you, nevertheless you appreciate her effort and thank her for it.

Then your left pocket comes alive with rhythmic tremors, a clear indication that your phone is receiving some sort of outward correspondence. Ah, a text message from... oh no.

Text from: The Boss

“WHAT. THE FUCK. DID YOU DO, NEWBIE?”

“Oh fuck me.”

____________________________________

a/u: no beta, we post (and die) like men... until i actually go back and review it. y’all this chapter was gonna end much further down the line but it’s already long enough, and though i’m not inherently happy with the outcome i am proud of myself for getting it out by my self imposed deadline! btw the reader’s assertion of the characters’s gender identities is there only cause these are characters we know so it makes it easier on me; if any of them didn’t follow a binary based identity then i wouldn’t identify them based off of their biological sex. like, reblog, comment, and all that great jazz cause engagement means everything to content creators, and thank all y’all for taking the time to read my jargon <3

tagged: itz-kira (i gotchu boo)

[jashasedai]

The Taking- Character Notes

I worked up some character descriptions to use as reference for the characters that appear in the Taking.  Pictures of creatures are references for bodyshape/conformation, not for exact appearance.   The guys all have their own face, hair, eyes, except where noted.

Character Descriptions so far:

Linnea- Vampire.  White skin, short pink hair cut into the shapes of magpies, white cableknit tunic, black velvet looking pants, leather overcoat, battle axe

Saskia- Human specially trained to hunt otherbeings  Blonde hair, blue eyes, blue silk patterned shirt under a wool peacoat, black leather pants, over the knee leather riding boots

Alain- Dryad *winks at IA*

Valentino- Satyr.  Montechristo goat legs, black hoodie sweatshirt over a tank top with the VR46 logo, sneakers designed to fit hooves.

Colin- Naga.  Rattle Snake from the waist down, blue leather motorcycle jacket, grey concert tshirt No Shoes, just a sexy tan coloured rattle the size of your fist and forearm. 6 Rattles, and one small one forming(one for every seven years.)

Credit: https://www.redbubble.com/i/art-print/The-Naga-by-Bammelsan/35613939.1G4ZT

Aron- golem, jasper green skin with kintsugi instead of all his tattoos.  

Wears a black cocktail dress and sneakers with his socks pulled up.

Skin is this type of green, tattoos are gold instead of black

Pippit- Mage who works with the Gatekeepers.  Short woman, young faced but with a grandmotherly attitude.

George- Paperwight, looks like he’s made of newspaper origami, with strips of paper for hair and big, glowing, tennis ball sized yellow eyes.  His newspaper skin reports on what he is doing.

Not Pictured

Robert- Emperor Eagle Harpy

This shape (but Robert has a noble eagle beak, and his own hair)

This bird

Credit: https://twitter.com/vvisti/status/1084682754095308800

Jorge Lorenzo- Sphinx, Anthro human face, dark furred wings, dark furred mane, goatee, red stripe in hair and red x on chest.

Credit: Pathfinder Games

Andre- A gargoyle.  During the day he is stone and sits on the roof of the Gatekeepers’ station, as the sun sets he becomes a flesh creature with clawed hands and feet and wings.

Buemi- The Gatekeepers’ weaponsmith/gunsmith.  Has a workshop in the basement of the station where he designs and manufactures weapons for the various creatures who guard the gates to the Hedge.  The same type of gargoyle as Andre.

Jev- A handsome human ghost, appears normal except for having been decapitated.  His body functions under the control of his head and often carries his head under its arm.  If set down his head leaks ectoplasmic blood.

Zephyr- The spirit of the mechanical age.  A huge green steam locomotive.  Currently sealed in stasis by a powerful spell.  Founder of the Gatekeepers.

Sebastian- Vampire, human passing.  Redbull beanie and a racing jacket.

Kimi- Ice Giant.  Has a size spell that fits him into human spaces.  Really 15 feet tall with white hair and eyes and glacier blue skin.  Wears biker boots, jeans, and a parka to keep the cold in.

Alex Albon- Stoneskin changeling, carved soapstone statue appearance, angular features.

Jenson- Tall, beautiful pale vampire.  Since he’s been taken by the Fae his eyes have turned from totally red to totally black.

Teddy Bear- Appears in Arcadia to be a knee high stuffed bear with round black eyes and lots of seams and stitches where his limbs have been sewn back on.

Dani Pedrosa- Dani shaped when human, scars and seams over his joints.

Shaped like this when bear

Credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/gweeb/35329294

Marc and Alex Marquez- Harvestman.  Appears in traditional grey robes with scythe or, in his more modern iteration, as a human man in a black on black three piece suit with his face covered in black greasepaint except a white painted skull

Credit: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/nQY5G6

Rinsy- Muskox-taur.  Rams horns on his head, his own long brown curly hair, and the same wooly kind of hair on his muskox lower body.  Wears a vest spun and knit from his own quivet(muskox wool).

Lando: Appears perfectly human, but with a malign air about him.  In his illusions he appears as a small boy with bright curly hair.  Without illusions, he appears as himself, though younger.

Joe Roberts: Appears human until his emotions are up, or he’s done his trick of stepping through one painted door and out another somewhere else, then he appears to be human, but leaves streaks of paint on anything he touches.  In his shed he has a painting that looks something like this, but the scene is of a farm family.

Credit: https://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2017/old-masters-evening-l17036/lot.48.html

Guanyu: Guanyu is a twelve year old faun.  He has water deer hind legs, a little darker and redder than they will be when he grows up, and spotted with white fawn spots.  When he grows up, instead of antlers, he will grow a handsome set of fangs.

Pedro: Pedro looks like any other fourteen year old human except, because he is a curupira, his feet face the opposite direction.

Andrea Iannone: A tall, broad shouldered vampire.

Antonio Giovinazzi: Formed similarly to a harpy, Antonio has bird wings instead of arms, bird legs that end in hunting talons, and a lustrous, flowing tail.  His feathers are scarlet and form a red mane and crest around his human face, but when he is ready to fly, his full bird form makes it’s appearance.

Checo: Another of the harpy style people, a Huitzilopochtli, with hummingbird feathers.  He travels with Esteban Gutierrez, who is his Xiuhcoatl, or Fire Serpent.  A feathered serpent, he has an elongated torso, though he does have legs, unlike a naga, and arms, which have flight feathers along them.

Esteban Ocon: 8 Feet tall in human spaces, though a great deal of that is his sinewy neck.  He walks upright on his hind legs and is smooth scaled, bottle green.  He doesn’t have this horn/whiskery arrangement, but it was hard to find a picture of a dragon where it doesn’t look like they’re half cheese grater.

Lance: The Trickster Raven, he can choose which parts of his body to manifest as a bird, but his most common is the traditional-

Credit: White Wolf, World of Darkness

Max Verstappen:  Max was always a frogman, but since he got back from Arcadia, he seems to have an extra tick in his step.  When he works at the multicultural center he wears a double breasted uniform jacket that reminds Saskia of the toy nutcrackers from the Nutcracker Suite.  

Helmut Marko: Most cyclops are giants, but this one is small, wizened, and runs a museum for people of all species to learn about one another’s cultures.

The Fauns:

In addition to Rinsey, the leader, there is another member of the gang who is not technically a faun.  Andrea Migno is a hind- similar to a centaur, but instead of a horse body, he has the delicate legs and hooves of a mountain chamois, a deerlike creature from his native Italy.  Unlike the rest of the Fauns, he wears his hair short, and the fur on his legs is short as well, and his legs are dyed with gold and blue stripes that make him look like he’s wearing socks.

Marco Bezzecchi, Enea Bastianini, Lorenzo Baldassarri, Pecco Bagnaia, and Matia Pasini are also members of the gang.  They are all true fauns, with wooly goat legs and long wooly hair to match.

If I was a better artist, you’d all have a better idea what everyone looks like.  Sorry.