#extremely irridescent

[crabussy]

asian glossy starlings are severely under utilised Scary Birds. I see crows and ravens and vultures where is the love for these freaks

oohhh you want to put them in your art so bad oooohh

ID: three photos of iridescent black-green birds with bright red eyes and small black pupils, with long crow-like beaks. END ID

EXTENDED ID: three photos of glossy iridescent dark green birds, feathers almost black asides from where the light makes them viridian green. They have bright red eyes with jarring black pupils set into their head like precious stones and seem to be staring directly at the viewer, and their beaks are similar to crow beaks. The first photo shows a group of six starlings clustered on a wooden pole, presumably on a wharf. The second photo is two of the birds perched on branches, and the third photo is a close up of a starling's face from profile view. END ID

#listen to my gibberish boy #I see these guys EVERYWHERE and they're so cool #extremely irridescent #to the point where they look like actual metal #their eyes are SO red #art inspo #birds #writing inspo

[fulgurbugs]

HEY GUYS I GOT AN AWESOME NEW DOLL AGAIN

today I unboxed Vampire heart drac, who I received as a christmas gift today and basically just about died from how excited i was to see her.

the first thing that struck me is how absolutely massive she is. like even though shes the same as a regular g1, the sheer size of the skirt is just crazy.

here she is before i got her back home, I am unboxing her but i can definitely see the appeal of keeping her nib. the packaging is gorgeous, and im defnitely saving the box as well to keep it in good condition just in case. the theme of this one is a kind of AU draculaura who's become the vampire queen. and i will say, it's definitely giving that.

here's her with the plastic off and then fully removed from the box. she comes with a certificate and a saddle stand

here she is front, back, and side, so you can see how incredibly detailed this doll is. i particularly love the back of her, the loose hair, the heart bat spiderweb clasp thing on the back of her head is gorge, and the trailing fabric of her shawl is lovely as well

now, for some details

the white lace is a bodysuit that goes covers her except for her hands and face, basically. the inside has a plastic/viynl clear element to help her skirt hold the giant ballgown structure. when i unboxed her she had an additional plastic piece under there, but i removed it because you could see it through the gaps.

the face! i love love love her dark makeup, and the irridescent elements shine really nicely in person. Mine also has some of the nicest looking heart bangs i've seen, theyre super symmetrical!

i also love the way the braids frame her face and then go behind her head, making an additonal heart. the designers of this draculara did not miss with a single element. the little charms on the headpiece can even dangle freely, like holy shit. I know rooted lashes on mh dolls can be controversial, but i don't think they detract anything here, especially with the dark makeup where they fit in well.

just a couple more images of her posed! i love the vibe of this draculaura, shes extremely elegant and extravagant. I will say one thing is that the saddle stand is extremely fiddly, it took a lot of kind of cramming to get her to stand well, and i was worried i was going to break it. course, all the collector dolls have saddle stands afaik, and also a waist stand i dont think would even work on her due to the sheer size of her dress, so its kind of just a non-issue, just something i thought id mention.

I had to rearrange the shelves AGAIN to figure out where to put her and her massive dress, ended up moving barto and the yamatos to the nedno shelf and using some random box as temporary risers to help josuke and envy be seen a little better (pics are kind of from a low angle but i promise they are more visible this way lol.)

here she is next to my only other g1 drac, so now i guess i have 2 in the g1 style! you can see how their different makeup looks give them totally different vibes, imo.

of course, heres the obligatory .5 shot. damn girl ur 5head

i want to say thank you so much to my friend for gifting her to me, this is maybe the best present ive gotten like ever. holy shit. hopefully the one i send back will be received simialrly, but I'm still working on it, and ill show you all pics once im sure its been received!

peace out (⊃｡•́‿•̀｡)⊃━✿✿✿✿✿✿

#dux doll tag #dux doll review #monster high #draculaura #gonna be taggin those two for orginization now i think #should probably go back and do that too... #anyways I LOVE HER I LOVE HER I LOVE HER

[saucylobster]

My ducks are done but blody hell formatting all the info is a nightmare. Instead here’s a stripped down image with them all on. There’s a lot of info below and that isn’t even looking at stats, abilities and movelists... Floatot are easygoing if not vulnerable pokemon that require the protection afforded to them by their parents. Most adults form flocks with their own kind and raise their young accordingly, helping to establish isolated flocks of each species despite sharing the same child species. Mixed flocks are rare but do occur, being quite the sight to behold. Malldrake are adaptable pokemon hat have made their homes worldwide and in a variety of habitats. Malldrake spend more time than the other Floatot parents in the water as evolution hasn’t granted them the extreme specialisations present in the others. A “jack of all trades” kind of pokemon, their lack of any inherent weaknesses is what has granted them their worldwide success. Ganserra are keen predators and have the serrated bill to prove it. Quick in the water, they dart after aquatic prey effortlessly and can move between the surface and the river bed near instantly. Their feathers form tough scales at their breast and afford a Ganserra some level of protection against any prey that tries to fight back. Shovill are the heaviest of the Floatot parents and spend more of their time at the shore. They use their spade like bill and broad flippers to sift through the mud in search of weeds and other foodstuffs. Their heavy bill can be wielded like a shield in their defence, deflecting oncoming attacks with a swing of their head. Albusmew reside further North than other Floatot parents and are adapted to swimming in colder waters. By freezing the water around them they can trap prey and aggressors or create a frozen bulwark between the surface and the water below. During a snowstorm entire flocks of Albusmew seem to disappear, melting into the blizzard with their perfect camouflage. Dazzdarin are the flashiest of all the Floatot parents and can be the toughest to get along with. Narcassism is the name of the game and their irridescent feathers shine beautifully in the light, captivating themselves as much as any onlooker. Finding a mate as splendid as oneself is difficult when you have such a high opinion of your own appearance. Pinstream are the fastest Floatot parents and the only ones who have retained the power of flight. A streamlined body and excellent positional awareness makes Pinstream masters of land, sea and air, moving between all three mediums with little effort. Their chicks have to be particularly determined to keep up with parents like these, but they’ll never be abandoned for long.

#fakemon #fakedex #saucylobster #duck #duckling #birds #mallard #merganser #shoveler #smew #mandarin duck #pintail

[oncedied]

Masterlist of Transformers OCs, you know, for the pinned post!

So you can get a general idea as to who I'm talking about whenever I mention them. These characters appear either in my fics or just for fun! Yes some of these lads are very self-indulgent, but who cares cringe culture is dead and I killed it with my bare hands. Note that I will update as we go along and I remember/make more bitches.

Shiverblaze

He/Him

Eldest son of Megatron and Optimus Prime

Chimaera (Left half is blue, right is orange)

Heterochromia (Left optic is orange, right is blue)

Decepticon

Murdered by Megatron because he dared to side with Starscream and try to rise up against Megatron's despotism. Sometimes called the Failed Heir.

Alt mode is a Cybertronian jet.

Frozenflame

They/Them

Middle child of Megatron and Optimus Prime

Chimaera (Left half is orange, right is blue. Colors are paler than Shiverblaze's.)

Heterochromia (Left optic is blue, right is orange)

Unaligned/Varies

Considered to be a living form of the Decepticon-Autobot alliance. However, their role varies depending on the continuity I'm writing with. They were initially created for Earthspark.

Alt mode is a 2023 Porsche 911, and an Apache attack helicopter.

Starkeeper

He/Him

Youngest son of Megatron and Optimus Prime

Form of Cybertronian melanism, rendering him entirely jet-black save for his optics and the silver flecks on the underside of his wings

Green optics

Unaligned/Varies

An archivist, historian, and all around anxious nerd. Inspired by Starflight from WoF, Morrowseer from WoF, Eclair Cookie from CR, and Toothless from HTTYD.

Alt mode is a valravn (half-raven-half-wolf monster similar to a griffin) considering he is a Predacon/Beastformer of sorts.

Solarflare

He/Him

Conjunxed to Starscream

Red/orange color pallet, with silver tattoos on his left hand.

Blue optics

Decepticon

The smooth-talking opposite of his conjunx, while Starscream always flunks his plans Solarflare is reputed for having a low failure streak. Humble to the extreme, but about as dangerous as a rattlesnake hiding in the grass. Often doesn't agree with Starscream, but is relatively complacent in his actions.

Alt mode is an f-14 tomcat.

Novaburn

He/Him

Son of Starscream and Solarflare

Predominantly black w/ dark red accents

Red optics

Decepticon

Often quiet and reserved, Novaburn often keeps to himself but occasionally displays high curiosity, even at his personal detriment. There are also about three different different storylines I have involving him alone.

Alt mode is a MiG-29

Fugue/Big Pipes

He/Him

No notable family or connections.

Varies between silver, bronze, gray and varnished wood.

Multicolored optics like a stained-glass window

Unaligned

Very formal, often serene and unbothered. More focussed on the world around rather than conflicts. Some have described him as very calming to speak to, despite his low and resonating voice.

Alt mode is a giant cathedral organ

Steamwonder

She/Her

Daughter of Cyclonus and Tailgate

Purple and white

Heterochromia (Left optic is red, right is blue)

Unaligned

She takes most after Tailgate, yet her energy often intimidates everyone around her, alongside her size.

Alt mode is a LNER Class A4 4468 Mallard steam locomotive.

Littlewing

He/Him

Particularly close to Bigwing

Green, white and irridescent red similar to a ruby-throated hummingbird

Blue optics

Decepticon

Littlewing often perches himself on Megatron's shoulder, giggling along and goading on whoever he's antagonising. He could be compared to Iago tbh. Very annoying mischievous little shit.

Alt mode is a Starr Bumblebee, the smallest functional aircraft in the world

Bigwing

He/They

Particularly close to Littlewing

White and gray with pink accents

Gold optics

Decepticon

Bigwing is the opposite of Littlewing in more than just name and size -- while Littlewing is dreadfully annoying and mirrors Megatron like an irritating parrot, Bigwing often acts as a calming monolith to his fellow Decepticons, sometimes even functioning like a living teddy bear for them.

Alt mode is an An-225, the largest functional aircraft in the world.

#Words of a supernova #transformers #shiverblaze #frozenflame #starkeeper #solarflare #Timbre/Big Pipes #Steamwonder #Littlewing #Bigwing #Novaburn

[funnygirlthatbelle]

I posted 12,475 times in 2022

That's 3,313 more posts than 2021!

449 posts created (4%)

12,026 posts reblogged (96%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@pulchrabelle

@vethbrenatto

@onceuponatimeinerebor

@lunarhobbits

@whiteorangeflower

I tagged 1,406 of my posts in 2022

#critical role - 185 posts

#perfect for queue - 106 posts

#fearne calloway - 20 posts

#ashton greymoore - 19 posts

#dorian storm - 18 posts

#exu 2 - 18 posts

#chetney pock o'pea - 16 posts

#widojest - 15 posts

#laudna - 13 posts

#orym of the air ashari - 13 posts

Longest Tag: 124 characters

#💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

what i headcanon the c3 crew’s formalwear to look like

cuz there’s no way matt mentioned a ball and then isn’t gonna let them attend

imogen: a pale yellow tulle dress, maybe bishop sleeves? maybe a deep v? maybe a slit if she’s feeling it? very classy

laudna: a full-fledged morticia outfit with dramatic sleeves and black and red lace, possibly a dramatic train that people keep tripping on

fcg: just a fun tie 

orym: a green or brown suit with a tailcoat, very intricate embroidery, possibly some autumnal colors 

ashton: dark and irridescent, possibly a skirt/kilt

chetney: one of those baby blue tuxes from the 70s... you know the ones i’m talking about

fearne: barbie island princess but with lots of jewelry

dorian: panics and thinks “what would opal wear”, ends up in a shimmering lilac jumpsuit that actually looks fantastic

151 notes - Posted January 7, 2022

#4

“your sadness is sort of attractive”- ah, that explains so much 

151 notes - Posted April 28, 2022

#3

liam will see a laura bailey character going through it and say “anybody gonna comfort them?” and not wait for a response

199 notes - Posted June 30, 2022

#2

i’ve been seeing a lot of posts recently about how bell’s hells are different from vox machina/the nein/most parties, and there’s been a lot of really interesting insights! but to me, one of the things i find most intriguing and relatable about these characters is how many of them can be viewed through a lens of disability/chronic pain. i’m not used to being able to relate to any characters through this lens, let alone so many, and it’s really exciting. like, just going around the table, there’s so many different flavors of this throughout!

like, you’ve got chetney. he’s old, but also pretty new to the scene. he’s trying to develop control, trying to find others like him- while also having to keep in mind the stigma that surrounds his new condition. 

and then there’s laudna, and oh my god, her body doesn’t work in any of the ways a normal body does. she cracks and pops and dislocates, and it’s been going on for so long now that she isn’t even phased by it anymore, even as it horrifies others. sure, it’s inconvenient that she has a 5 strength and things fall off sometimes, but it doesn’t really bother her after all these years. 

fcg? i mean, there’s so much there. large parts of the world are inaccessible without help. people don’t see them as a person. he doesn’t really seem himself as a person. trying to disguise aspects of your body (their wheel) so as to look more like everybody else. not being able to participate in certain activities, particularly surrounding food and drink, to the same extent as others. trying to take care of others. having to go to a specialist (milo) when something unusual happens with their body for fear it might be something serious. 

i’ve mentioned before that i very much see imogen through an invisible illness/ chronic pain lens- particularly, she reminds me of a friend from school who experienced chronic migraines. the way she navigates the world always uncomfortable and always on high alert for things that could make it worse is extremely familiar, and her joy at being out in the jungle and getting to experience almost no symptoms? good for you, girl, i’m jealous. 

and then there’s ashton. like, he’s very visibly disabled after the chaos fairy magic humpty dumpty situation. their entire subclass is based on how they didn’t heal exactly right and the results. and that’s even before we get into the whole “i used to be soft” thing which is like !!!!!! the amount of times i’ve heard a similar sentiment of being just like you before the x happened. it’s so good. 

and i dunno, i just think it’s really cool! i don’t necessarily think any of the cast had this sort of allegory in mind, but disabled/characters with a potential disability allegory are kind of a rarity, and i’m really excited to have so many flavors of it this time around!

382 notes - Posted March 20, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

since we’re about to hit episode ten, here’s a few things i love that each cast member is doing

travis

~first off, the balls to do that fakeout

~the fact that he joined them for the intro every time even when he wasn’t going to play? such a tease

~the way he’s created two characters that are clearly joke characters, but imbues them with a lot of empathy 

~bertrand’s last night; he brought so much to it that lends to the tragedy

~using his past experiences as fjord to understand how fucking fun teasing dorian would be 

~honestly, just the fact that he makes an effort and consistently engages with robbie

robbie

~the aesthetic is just *chef’s kiss* right here

~slipping up and saying “the nine of us” because he counted matt

~he doesn’t use a ton of spells, but when he does, it’s very effective

~not afraid to look bad; this can be really tough with roleplay but he doesn’t seem to care if he looks like an idiot 

~setty

~everything going on effects dorian- he’s very active and reactive to what’s going on in the game

marisha

~the entire concept of laudna is a delight

~her choice of voice; the contrast between such a cheery voice and her appearance is perfect

~the conversation about love; it was such a genuine exploration of a nebulous sort of topic

~how marisha commits to the joints cracking and popping; as someone with arthritis, it makes me laugh and wanna take tylenol at the same time

~bringing delilah back- just a delightful choice

~the way marisha seems fine with the fact that most npcs hate/fear her even though that’s obviously inconvenient

sam

~taking the leap into robots

~how he keeps finding new ways to play small characters 

~also he/they! hell yeah!

~the decision to play a therapist friend who’s actually a really bad therapist is really intriguing to me, and i can’t wait to see where he takes it

~the foreshadowing he’s already doing for the inevitable “actually i am a deeply tragic character” moment

~pussy

ashley

See the full post

553 notes - Posted January 12, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

[maisonfleurant]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: DIAMOND RARE SPEARHEAD NINE SIXTEEN SWUNG FINE RIBE IRRIDESCENT ANTIQUE VASE.

[caoimhehenry16]

Artist research

Trend Summer 2022 “Leather “

a pair of Terry de Havilland shoes – snakeskin.

This type of men's shoe was fashionable in the 1970s. They are made of a patchwork of snakeskin leather in irridescent metallic colours. They have platform soles and high heels with a blunt square toe. Platform shoes were worn by both men and women.The more flamboyant rock stars of the day such as David Bowie and Elton John wore the most extreme examples.

Pair of snakeskin leather platform shoes in metallic colours. Made from patchwork snakeskin. High heels, thick soles and rounded square toes. Lined with white leather. Laces of blue and red striped cotton.

Dr Denim

1970s hat by Mr Denim, made of recycled denim – at that time, a material very much still only associated with jeans – shows shifting attitudes towards both patchwork and the wearing of hats. High fashion designers attuned to street-style also adopted patchwork as a look.

[lil-coffee-kitty]

Alagaesian Species Study: DRAGONS (Part 2)

Why were the dragons different colors? Why were some brown, others a vivid blue, a small thunder green or a gathering of them different shades of red? Bringing us to our next theory is the discussion of the dragons range of colors!

While the only possible colors of dragons we had seen throughout the series of Inheritance Cycle were around six or seven- (Umaroth’s and Cuaroc’s Eldunari) Shruikan, Glaedr, Saphira, Thorn, and Firnen- The discussion of how wide their range of color could have been intrigued me. Now, despite the dragons being at the top of the food chain excluding when flying out over the oceans (See Inheritance Book for more details) their range of color would be impractical in Evolution. What if a predator came along that could take down a dragon in their adolescent stage? A sapphire blue dragon in the middle of a white plain of snow and ice would have made the young one easy pickings. or even a golden dragon amidst the green of the pine forests and rocky cliffs near the Spine.

This brings me to my next theory: A Dragon’s Coloring varied depending on it’s place of habitation and/or upbringing.

BLUE

Think about it- Eragon had hatched Saphira and though she was blue, she blended in well with the sky of when flying out over an ocean. from below a person looking up would possibly just mistake her for a large bird given she flew high enough to not be noticed and picked out by sheer size alone. Maybe her particular color in hues and shades, from a light bluish-white to a shade of sapphire blue, were more suited for high-altitude living or sea-level living, be it to disguise them in the clouds or keep monsters like the Nidhwal from picking them out in the seas as easily.

GOLD

Glaedr vivid golden coloring would have been best suited for the deserts and rocky plateaus of the Hadarac. Heat waves would have done well to pass him off as a mirage to those not accustomed to the harsh weather of the arid regions of Alagaesia, and as Saphira had said in the first book the arid climate was something that for lack of a better word invigorated her. Glaedur’s coloring of dragon, from a vivid golden to a hue of cream-yellow, would have disguised him well in the dunes and rocks until he became big enough to fight off any that deemed him a snack of easy pickings. Glaedur reminds me of the Wyvern from Ernest Drakes Complete Book of Dragonology- they both were more commonly colored in gold or light sandy-tans to hunt and hide better.

GREEN

Firnen’s coloring would easily hide him among the forests of Ellesmera. if he had grown up wild sticking to foliage and hiding among the treetops would have suited him well. the only issue would have been if winter befell the elven capital, but through magic I doubt they would let snow send their trees to sleep so easily. Firnen would have had to make small hallows or tunnels in the ferns and trees as he grew up alone- small tunnel systems in thickets like how some deer make their nests for their young and themselves to grow safely.

RED and BLACK

Okay, not gonna lie but Thorn and Shruikan were my favorite dragons after Saphira. The shades of red and variations of dark colors bordering in the blacks or that were pitch black I envisioned them as reminded me of active volcanoes and the burning plains, black crags of obsidian after a lava flow and hot springs and sulfuric lakes. Thorn’s color of dragon, be them a vivid crimson red like blood rubies or a light shade of pink, would have been attributed to extreme environments like semi-active volcanoes, lava rivers carving the earth, or boiling lakes. Shruikan’s coloring, be it his oily black sheen to a smoky grey, would have been more for purely rocky and harsh areas, maybe bordering the lava habitation of Thorn’s Red bretheren. Red is usually associated with heat, and though nothing sane would actually live near an active volcano I’d imagine it made a good place for rearing young or making a nest to lay and hatch eggs. the heat from the constant flow of lava or sitting in an alcove within a nearly-empty magma chamber would have provided more than adequate heat for the parent dragons to leave and hunt for longer periods of time. usually red items, along with black, can soak up heat much quicker and retain it for longer than other colors , so that would be why Thorn and Shruikan were colored in such a way.

WHITE

Umaroth’s Eldunari was a snowy white from what I could recall. The only areas I could think of that would best suit that particularly colored dragon shade would be the far north or high in the skies with Saphira’s colored brethren. When polar bears hunt, their white coat keeps them from being spotted- the only real giveaway would be their noses and eyes. Umareoth would have had no trouble blending in to the environment, though staying warm would have been a slight problem, but I theorize that his particular color of dragon, be it from a pure unblemished white to a white just touching on blue or pink with irridescence maybe opalescence, wouldn’t need to maintain as much heat within as their darkening brethren. Perhaps they were just cooler as a norm if they did live in the icy reaches of the north.

PURPLE

Okay, this one took a bit of debating with a fellow dragon fanatic of mine, but we came to the conclusion that perhaps Cuaroc’s range of purple dragons, from  a deep amethyst to a blue-violet to even lavender, lived closer to humans, maybe even associated briefly with them. Purple is usually the stereotypical go-to color for sorcery and magicians, so perhaps the purple dragons found themselves drawn to humans and their ingenuity, perhaps more so to sorcerers and their use of magic. Remember, Dragons as a whole were basically made of magic, they were attuned to it even if they couldn’t use it at will. In Inheritance, once Eragon, Saphira, and Glaedr entered the Vault of Souls they came across a dragon-headed man, Cuaroc’s Eldunari held within. Umaroth said that the violet dragon had sought the enchantress Silvari in order for her to fashion him a body that he could use to protect the remaining free dragons and their eggs should Galbatorix force himself into the Vault of Souls. Even if it was a desperate time, I cannot imagine any of the wild dragons willingly seeking out an enchantress to assist them- dragons are very vain and proud creatures, remember? Cuaroc had sought the enchantress out, which helps me stand with my reasoning.

Thank you for reading this mass of Theoretical Jargon! Till next time~!

#inheritance cycle #Eragon #Eldest #Bridsingr #Inheritance #CONTAINS SPOILERS #YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED #Theories on Dragon Coloring

[magioffire]

vali doesnt often get a chance to stretch his wings so people who are not dokkalfar tend to be surprised and shocked the first time they witness valeriu’s wings. since they are hidden under a carapace its pretty hard to even know he has wings in the first place, like this

and plus hes often wearing clothes that cover his back (dokkalfar robes and clothing are espesially made so that the wings can unfurl and the cloth will be able to move out of the way to accommodate that, or the clothing will be like a lot of dokkalfar armor where it often just keeps the back portion open to allow the most movement available and since the carapace is already quite sturdy and hard, it acts as armor all on it’s own, so you’ll often see dokkalfar wearing clothing with open back pieces to show off the irridescent sheen of their chitin as well. if you have no idea they have wings, you might just think that its just another part of their chitin armor.

once they unfurl however, the wings can take up an amazing amount of space. they have quite a large wing span, usually the wings will be longer than they are tall, so for example, vali is 5′6? his wings are 6 and half feet long. and they unfurl  like this, with the wing caps parallel to their wings, 

also on the subject of flight -- dokkalfar *are* capable of sustained flight in the ideal conditions, but most often they use their wings for gliding, an extra enhancement to their agility and to improve their ability to move through large chasms and caverns. they are not very good at taking off from a standing point and usually have to get a running start or have to first jump off a high point, youll often see dokkalfar first climbing up a wall or cliff-face and taking off from a vertical position, catching wind currents. but again, they arent really going to be flying extremely long distances and their first mode of locomotion is still walking usually. their sister race, the ljosalfar, are much more proficient sustained flyers.  they most def dont follow the laws of aviation but neither do bees so -- 

#ooc. #lore. #canons. #bugs cw #beetles cw

[thepulta]

A/N: Update: Am still garbage so I wrote this backstory thing so my children could yell at each other. Extremely fluffy. Diabetus tag. Additional unnecessary cursing tag because Morgan literally was raised in a bar.

-=-

Westlie turned on the light to see a Morgan-shaped lump already in her bed. She sighed. “Hey.”

No response.

Westlie was too tired to care. Her feet felt like lead bricks. She kicked off her boots and sank into the seat at the vanity, closing her eyes as she undid her hair with quick, practiced movements. Her vest got tossed aside and she eventually pulled over her nightgown, straightening it with a quick slap. The light from the window filtered through the room, a soft irridescent orange-red, as she picked up her miscellaneous things; it had been a soot-filled day. When she was done Westlie shut the curtains tight, finally moving to her side of the bed with the suspicious lump under it.

The fuck am I going to do with you, Morgan? Westlie stood there for a minute, contemplating being nice or being a total ass and pulling her onto the floor. She settled for being a sisterly ass and flicking her finger twice on Morgan’s cheek. There was an angry growl and a shift under the covers; Morgan flipped her off. Mission accomplished.

“Move over. You’re not four anymore.”

She listened the first time, surprisingly. Westlie groaned as she finally laid down and her feet stopped screaming, faxing herself into the disappointingly warm sheets. The house was pleasantly silent now. Some crickets somewhere; the occasional creak of it settling. Westlie sighed and melted into the bed before realizing, almost half-way to sleep, she probably should do her sisterly duty. “Any reason you’re in my bed?”

No response. Morgan was out again.

Westlie kicked her. “Morgan.”

“…stars you’re such an ass.”

“It’s my bed. You have a perfectly good one two doors down.”

“’m haven’t seen you in a week. Thought I’d say hi.”

That was… surprisingly sweet. “Thanks. …It’s been busy at the shop.”

“I know, I know. It’s always busy.” Morgan rolled over to face her with a hint of grumpiness, eyes still shut as she re-huddled under the blankets. “What was it this time?”

Westlie puffed out a breath. “Blemmigans today. 150 of them.”

Morgan opened one eye. “That’s kind of cute.”

“Not when they escape and bite your customers so you have to chase said customer down the street, free them from the clutches of the traumatized blemmigan and apologize.”

Morgan snort-chuckled, closing her eyes again. “Let me guess; this customer was not at all grateful for the rescue.”

“Could not be less grateful. They actually wacked me with their parasol.” Westlie rubbed her middle, testing the ache. It wasn’t bruising yet but it would. It definitely would.

She got both eyes open at that. “They actually hit you?”

“Mmhm.”

“What a cunt.”

Had it really been a week since they’d talked? Westlie could never keep track of time. The days blurred into each other, especially around the end of the month when half her nights were spent in paperwork and the other half was grabbing sleep before fixing whatever the rest of the staff had managed to fuck up within a 12 hour period. She felt vaguely guilty. “What have you been up to?”

“No no, I want to hear more about this bitch with a parasol. Why was she there in the first place?”

Westlie had tried to erase that whole incident from her mind. There had been multiple people on the street staring. It was one of those things you woke up from the memory in a cold sweat twenty years later. “Mm…. candles and squid ink…? And calico? Something like that. Stupid shit. We don’t even have calico.”

“Was she just tall and looking for a fight? That’s so stupid. Paint me a picture of her.”

Westlie groaned. “I don’t really-”

Morgan rolled onto her elbows. “Let me guess, she had brown hair, an evil bitch face, and multiple warts.”

“Brown hair, no warts, some bitch face, yes.”

“Mm, she looked pretty but squeals like a girl when the blemmigan got her.” Westlie tried to hide a smile but Morgan caught it. “… You definitely laughed when it bit her.”

“I did not! I was very concerned for my customer!”

Morgan laughed, flopping on her back in the bed, grinning. “You did!”

Westlie broke and laughed too. “Oh she was such a bitch. I hate her. I think she said her name was… Vennedti? Something like that. She kept throwing it around. ‘How dare you insult the Vennedti name!’ ‘My father will speak to your employer about this!’ ‘A Vennedti treated in this manner!’ Oh she was so dumb.” Westlie burrowed into the blankets and smiled at her sister. Morgan smiled back. “Now what about you?”

“Oh, everyone at our bar is fine. Do you remember that rich asshole Fennigan?”

Westlie tried to remember; there was a vision of handlebar mustache and stovepipe hat, but little else. “… Two whiskeys, one gin and tonic…?”

“Close. Two whiskeys, one cider.” Morgan flopped on her back. “I finally got him banned after he insulted Three-Ciders-Two-Rum’s aunt. I suppose there’s a dramatic scandal somewhere because they - Fennigan and the aunt - were definitely going out, but the aunt rebuffed him after she found a Tackety to run away with. Just up and left! No notes. She was an old maid too; like thirty or so. But anyway.” Morgan flopped on her elbows again. “Fennigan walks in upset; nobody in the bar gives a shit because we’re not nosy assholes. He gets his whiskey and starts whining to John - you know, the barkeep.”

“Right.”

“Like, two hours of this, he’s super drunk; wants to play cards, so he goes into the corner and I’m playing with Three-Ciders-Two-Rum in the corner. Was it whist? No, I think it was loo or something; not important.” She waved the details away. “Fennigan is a little bitch and whines for us to cut him in. He dumped like idk, 50 sovereigns on the table, and obviously he’s drunk as fuck. In the beginning he was holding his cards right but eventually we could just see what he had.”

Westlie smiled a little as Morgan grew more animated, leaning on her side to listen.

“Four rounds in we’re both 25 sovereigns richer and he’s livid. Just tossing in the pot hoping for a full on win. Then I got the bad hand. His cards were basically on the table at that point because he’d had like five drinks too many; only it was better than mine, so I told Three-Ciders-Two-Rum to slip me his queen and a jack since he won the last two rounds, and Fennigan lost his mind. Apparently I look like that skanky aunt to a drunk man. I’ve never liked him anyway, so I told him to fuck off and that she left because his top hat was obviously compensating for such a tiny dick.”

Morgan paused for Westlie’s appreciative snort of laughter.

“Fennigan overturned the table and tried to deck me. Three-Ciders-Two-Rum only needed a little prodding for him to defend his aunt’s honor, and then fifteen minutes later Fennigan was out a top hat and 50 sovereigns, bruised and on the street. I cited the damages and got John to ban him.” Morgan dramatically illustrated a headline in the air. “Local Stovepipe Loses Bride and Loses Pride.” She flopped back on the mattress. “That was a great Thursday. Oh I got all 50 of those sovereigns, by the way. They’re in your drawer.”

Westlie had stopped questioning Morgan’s reasoning 6 years ago so the fact they were in her drawer not Morgan’s was more surprising than their existence. “I thought you said Three-Ciders-Two-Rum won half the rounds.”

“Eh, I made sure he broke even. He was too busy slugging; it’s his fault.”

“I feel like I need to lecture you on the vice of theft.”

Morgan poked the tip of Westlie’s nose, grinning. “Alls fair when it’s sitting on the card table.”

“They overturned the table!”

“Shhh, shh shh shh. Semantics, Wes. We were playing cards, he was very drunk, and now he’s missing 50 sovereigns. No harm in that.”

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“A pain in your ass,” Morgan corrected. “John appreciates me.”

“He absolutely does not. You cause a fight once a week.”

“And I help clean up after! I’m a dutiful member of my local community.”

“So many fights….” Westlie groaned, rolling over to eye her sister for half a second before grabbing her pillow and pinning it down on Morgan’s face. “Can you win this one?!”

There was a muffled ‘..Fucker!’ before Westlie got kneed right in the stomach and she keeled over. “I’ll beat your ass!”

Westlie ducked the right hook, and tackled Morgan around the stomach, pinning her back down to the bed. “I’ve still got weight on you!”

“You are such a bitch! I was feeling so sorry for you with that Venni cunt.” Morgan twisted her legs around and Westlie felt herself biting the bed with a pillow shoving her head down from behind. “Do feathers taste good? I’ve never bothered to find out.”

Westlie wriggled a shoulder free, holding her breath and betting on Morgan’s vindictive two-hand hold on the pillow to continue while she caught her sister’s wrist and yanked. Morgan tipped, thrown off balance and Westlie scrambled on top to pin her arms and legs down. “Aha!”

Morgan squirmed for a full minute, trying to toss Westlie off before she flopped back and rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. Uncle.” Westlie grinned as she popped off, collected her pillow and flopped back under the covers. Morgan sulked as she did the same. “If I’d known you’d just lecture and be a dick the whole time I would have stayed in my room.”

Westlie poked the tip of her nose. “But you’re nice.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m mean,” Westlie agreed. For full sulking aesthetic Westlie sat up and tucked in her little sister on the other side of the bed. Morgan eyed her with the look that said she was annoyed, but equally pleased before yawning.

Westlie caught the yawn as she fell back under the covers and they laid there, sleep catching up with them. There was a long pause until Morgan shifted a little.

“When are you going to come out with me again, Wes?”

“Mm,” Westlie curled under the blankets and shrugged after mentally reviewing her list of to-dos. “Things should die down in a few more days. You know how the end of the month is. And I can handle more things now I’m 18 so there’s that too.”

Morgan sighed quietly, and just like that the house felt big and empty and lonely. “…I miss you.”

They were only two years apart, but Westlie could feel the separation and she was reminded, again, of their estrangement in some ways; and that in many respects, they were each others’ only real family. She rolled on her side and reached over, squeezing Morgan gently with one arm. “Hey, it’s ok. I’ll have a night off soon.”

“You always say that.”

Westlie didn’t know how to respond, hesitating. She finally sighed and squeezed her a little tighter. “…I miss you too.”

Morgan felt very small and Westlie remembered when they were far smaller and fit much better in the same moderately-sized bed. She would come running in during storms or if the soot from the factories nearby made scary shapes in the clouds. Westlie was not good at comforting and it didn’t help that now she couldn’t scoff at the clouds or the thunder and tell Morgan to wait an hour. There was nothing else she could do except hold her. Even that was a bit empty now since Morgan wasn’t quite a child anymore and hadn’t ever really been a child, like Westlie; affection was a poor subsitute for false promises. But she was here, and Westlie genuinely couldn’t give her a date, a tomorrow, a next week. Westlie sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You have your own problems,” Morgan said quietly. “I know.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Morgan rolled back over and gently touched the tip of Westlie’s nose. “I might not like it, but I understand.”

Westlie sighed again and let go of her, curling up tighter in the blankets. “How does you coming in here always make me feel guilty?”

“Because you know I’m right.”

Westlie rolled her eyes. “Says the one who stole 50 sovereigns from some poor stovepipe sap.”

“Stealing and emotional intelligence are not mutually exclusive.”

“Mmph, spare me.” But Westlie couldn’t resist a smile, interrupted by yet another yawn.

She felt Morgan curl up tighter in the blankets, settling in. “Good night, Wes.”

“… If I get those letters written and the cargo done we can go out tomorrow.”

“Sure, Wes.” There was a hopeful lilt in Morgan’s voice, but it stayed tempered. Westlie knew that look and she didn’t open her eyes to check.

“Night, Morgan.”

#fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff #morgan #westlie #skyfarer #skyfarer rpg #the crew of the pyrrhus #adventures of the pyrrhus #sunless skies #I've never written a fight in dialogue before; that was entertaining. #is the ending even fluff? I feel like it's low-key tragic #now for a bar scene #I have no idea what they do in bars #especially because I only know half of morgans story #/narrows eyes #decisions.

[art-res]

Art-Res January Drawing Challenge

Generated with: https://artres.xyz/ideas/ but formatted a bit better lol

HUMAN CHARACTER: This person is a male teenager that has an elongated, average build. He has a dark complexion with a warm undertone and has eyes that are shimmering indigo and short in size. The person has medium length hair that is dry and straight with rainbow, dyedhighlights. His face shape is rectangular and his facial features can be described as soft and short. Personality is sedentary and sometimes mysterious, yet often pathological. The character enjoys wearing floral clothes and accessorizing with boots. Perfers the following colors: extremely light indigo and extremely light copper.

POSE: The character is laying down in a slightly stiff manner. The back is very bent, the neck is in a mostly staight position, with the head tilted downwards. Relatively, the arms are slightly bent and the legs are neutral.

CONCEPT CHARACTER: The avian character has a giant and toned body type with coloration that features extremely light, redish violet and medium dark black. Has very long 2 limbs, a very short neck, and a very short, bumpy body. Other notable features include rough stripes, multiple limbs, and a beak and heart shaped markings.

SHAPE CHALLENGE: Start with an extremely light, greasy looking pyramid that is elongated. This shape is viewed at an eye level angle and from a 2 point perspective. Now add a shiny small sized, scupted, ellipse above and to the left the first shape. 

[Optional color:translucent yellow]

ENVIRONMENT: The environment, viewed at an 3/4 angle and from a 2 point perspective has an cloudy atmosphere. There is a lot plant life, no fauna, and a little humans. Notable features include valley, lake, long grass, a volcano, and gravel. The foreground is mainly dominated by medium light violet and shiny gold, while dull gold can be seen in the midground, and irridescent blue can be seen in the background. Some aspects of the environment seem to look like dry stars.

6. Color Palette Challenge

Generated with Adobe Kuler

Share your work in with our active community in the Events Category of our Discord Channel. 

Will reblog and feature a few  favorites at the end of the month!

Thanks for reading! If this post helped, please consider reblogging it or sharing it with your friends! ❤️

More useful articles and resources / support Art-Res | my art tumblr | Idea Generator | Check out the Art-Res Anatomy Ebook!

#challenge #january #art-res #community #art challenge

[gold-from-straw]

Spectres - ch4

I’ve been SUUUUPER flustered this past week or so, and uploaded a couple of chapters of Spectres and Everything That Happens (a Drarry fic) very last minute on Friday on AO3. I didn’t have time to upload here, and then went away for the weekend, so now I’m playing catch-up!

Now I’m extremely excited about this chapter! I feel like this is the one where I got the aesthetic just right, AND here comes the FI! I had a wonderful time writing it, and I hope you enjoy!

Read from the beginning on AO3 if you prefer :)

Tony woke with a gasp, all of his panic from the day before returning in a rush. The fur blankets, the thick feather pillows and the vast, cavelike room did nothing to help.

“Loki, he wakes!” cried a young child’s voice, and Tony’s head snapped towards it so fast he cricked his neck. The little girl from the office block bounced up and down on his bed clapping her hands. She was very clearly a Spectre as well, patchy blue skin with great ragged holes showing her skeleton beneath. As he watched the holes shifted like clouds across the sky, moving over her face even as she spoke.

“Move, Fenrir, move up,” she said, shoving at a bulge in the fur blanket. The bulge grumbled, and then the whole fur blanket contracted and tensed, a mouth, lined with razor sharp teeth, opened near Tony’s hand and yawned. Tony whipped his fingers away rather than risk losing them, and a pair of yellowish eyes appeared in the blanket, blinking up at him.

“I’m Hela,” said the little girl, crouching above Fenrir’s head and peering at Tony. “This is Fenrir, and that one’s Jormungandr.” She pointed above Tony’s head without looking, and Tony looked up to see a great twisting shape coiled in the rafters. Jormungandr’s head dropped lower and lower, peering at him as well.

“Um. Hi,” Tony said, waving. Hela squeaked and clapped her hands again, and Tony couldn’t help smiling.

“You have met my children,” said a deep, purring voice, and Tony looked up to see Loki walk in. And then he blinked again, because Loki wasn’t wearing his bone mask.

If he’d seen Loki without the bone mask before, he probably would have been even more keen to extend their fights. He’d found him fascinating before, brilliantly powerful and delightfully sharp-tongued. But without his bone mask hiding his face, he was… beautiful.

His pale skin almost glowed against the green-black irridescent feathers that formed his hair, and then spread out down his back like a great cloak. His high, sharp cheekbones framed a thin-lipped smile and surprising dimples as he turned to greet his children. And those eyes - Tony had seen them before through the mask, but now, uninhibited, they were utterly captivating, a magic all of their own.

Loki folded himself on Tony’s bedside, close enough that his feathers brushed the back of Tony’s hand, and he should have been terrified, a Monk trapped in a Spectre’s lair, but the vast power behind those eyes was banked, and all he could see was patient compassion.

“What becomes of the children?” Loki asked. The children echoed him in whispers, peering up at Tony.

Tony took a sharp breath. “I don’t… I don’t know. I told you. I didn’t even know… and then Pete disappeared and I remembered you saying…” He buried his face in his hands. “I’m sorry I blamed you, but--”

“You care,” Loki said, and the children echoed him once more, you care, you care, you care shushing into the eaves of the vast room.

“I need to go,” Tony said, pushing Fenrir gently away from his legs, but Loki stopped him, one long-fingered hand in the centre of his chest. Tony looked up, surprised and apprehensive.

“My children may take the form of your children,” he said, standing and walking around the bed. As he spoke, Fenrir and Jormungandr shrank and coalesced their great size into that of small humans, both a little older than Hela but still young and rather feral looking. Loki smiled at them, brushing his fingers through Fenrir’s hair, and the boy’s skin fluttered like fur fluffing out. “They play with your children, in the streets.”

“In the garbage,” said Hela, her big eyes fixed on Tony.

“In the alleys,” said Fenrir, his voice a surprisingly deep growl.

“Under the bridges,” said Jormungandr softly.

“We see them,” they said together.

“We stop it when you hurt them,” said Hela, her eyes narrowing.

“I don’t--”

“She means adults,” Loki explained. “To us, you might well all be one. You are small, all the same.” He cocked his head on one side. “Most of you,” he added slowly. “You… you are Tony Stark.”

“Uh… I am.”

“You are… interesting.” Loki’s lip twitched. “A challenge.”

“You still managed to break through my circle pretty easily,” Tony grumbled.

Loki’s eyes softened. “Because your heart broke first,” he said.

Tony looked down at his hands and bit his lip.

“What becomes of the children?” Jormungandr asked, crawling up the bed to sit next to Tony.

“What becomes of the children?” asked Hela, putting one small hand on his knee.

Tony looked up, despairing. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m… I’m so sorry, I don’t know.”

“They have been disappearing,” said Loki. “Not like always, one by one at the hand of cruelty and hate, but many, all of a sudden. My children miss them when no others will. What becomes of them, Tony Stark?”

“I don’t.. I don’t know! I can’t even find Peter, and I know him and I’m a Monk - I’m a good Monk, I’m the best in the business and I can’t find him.” He held up the chain on his wrist, shaking it at Loki. “It’s not working. It says he’s north, then south, then east… then it just starts spinning around in circles, and what if…” He swallowed, pressing his hand to his mouth, unable to continue. “I’ve failed him,” he said in a whisper.

“Not yet,” said Loki, his green eyes holding steady. “Not until we have sought him with you.”

“Then we will find the others? Find them, find them. Yes. Friends. We’re going hunting?” Fenrir asked, his legs crossed, looking up to Loki eagerly.

“Let us hope,” said Loki with a fond smile.

***

Tony had woken up in a cave surrounded by Spectres before. That had not ended nearly so well for anyone involved. It helped that this cave was vast where that one had been claustrophobic, cool where that one had been sweat and desert hot. It helped that these Spectres seemed to understand that humans needed food and water and “Oh my god, is that coffee?”

Loki cocked his head on one side to peer at the drink. “It is what you drink, no?”

Tony looked up from breathing in the heavenly aroma. “How do you know what I drink? Did I turn up to one of our fights with a take-out cup or something? That sounds like me.”

Loki smiled, a slow curling of his lips, though he turned his face away as he spoke. “I find you interesting.”

Tony blinked. “You…”

“I learn about that which interests me,” he said. And did Spectres blush? Because Tony wasn’t sure if there was a dusting of pink on his high cheekbones as he turned with a rustle of feathers, flicking them back out of his face as he walked back to his children. Tony drank his coffee to hide his smile.

While the three children stared at him in fascination as he drank, Loki held out a hand, black talons almost curved right around to brush at his palms. “The chain?”

Tony frowned. “But you’re a Spectre, I’m a Monk… our magic isn’t compatible.”

Loki crinkled his nose. “I am not interested in your rules.”

“I’m pretty sure those are Spectre rules,” Tony snorted. “You know, all that ‘Monk magic is lesser’?”

Loki’s feathers fluffed up on his shoulders. “I am not interested in our rules, either,” he said with a smirk.

Tony grinned back and held out the chain, letting it pool in Loki’s palm. It still flickered and twitched weakly, even as Loki curled his talons over it, peering close. He stuck a long tongue out and licked it, and Tony winced. “Uh, I bled on that, just saying.”

“I know,” said Loki, glancing up at him. “I taste you.”

Tony cleared his throat and focused on the matter at hand. “So can you do anything? Like, boost the power?”

“The power is not the problem, Monk Tony,” said Loki, running the chain along his fingers. “The signal it receives is… complex, scattered. The magic is fragmented. Your chain tells the truth, the truth is just… contradictory.”

“Well… what does that mean?” Tony said, throwing up his hands. “How are we going to find him?”

Loki took a deep breath that seem to dig itself into the earth. “I will need your help.”

Tony’s heart flipped. “You’ve got an idea? Yeah, anything.”

Loki paused. “You should not say such things so easily. Not to a Spectre, not to any.”

“For Pete, it’s worth it,” he said firmly. “What do you need?”

“An anchor,” said Loki. And then he grabbed Tony by the collar and every atom seemed to split apart before recombining at the top of a tall building.

Tony yelled wordlessly and stumbled back, falling onto his ass. “What the… what the fuck was that? Did I just… Holy…”

Loki blinked, his head pulled back. “Have I insulted you?”

“Insulted?” Tony laughed hysterically and pushed himself to his feet. “No, I just… holy shit! That’s how you teleport? You just… atomise yourself? Holy fuck.”

Loki blinked at him, and there was something like uncertainty in his green eyes. Tony took a deep breath and laughed again. “That was so fucking cool.”

Loki’s face split with a sharp toothed grin. “I am pleased you liked it.”

“Hell yeah!” Tony took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. “OK. What do you need me to do? How do I act as an anchor for you? What are you going to do?”

Loki held up the chain. It skittered and flicked, twitching here and there on his talon. “I shall follow the chain.”

“Yeah, but… which way?”

“Every way, of course,” Loki said, raising an eyebrow. “But…” He glanced at the chain, a shadow passing over his eyes just briefly. “It may travel far, and I will be stretched thin. I need a point to return to.” His eyes held Tony’s, and Tony hardly dared breathe. He just nodded.

Loki set his jaw and stepped forwards into Tony’s space. “I need you to hold me,” he said, his voice a soft brush of feathers. He took another step, taking both of Tony’s wrists and slowly, giving him every chance to back out, wrapped them around his chest.

Tony forced himself to breathe, shuffling closer, burying his fingers in soft, shiny feathers, turning his face so that his cheek and jaw pressed against Loki’s collarbone. He could hear a heavy rhythm within Loki’s chest, like and unlike a human heartbeat, so heavy and hollow it seemed to vibrate down to Tony’s very soul, drawing him into the music of it. “That OK?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” Loki rumbled. “Do not let go.”

The world seemed to hang in a held breath, and then splinter into a howling wind and fragments of soul. Tony’s arms tightened automatically, but even so, horrified, he felt Loki’s body drift away from him. He clenched his biceps, wrapping his arms tight and clinging onto his own elbows as feathers and glass and the scream of the wind and oh God, Loki’s soul, whirled around him.

Loki’s arms raised along either side of him, becoming wings, and his neck tipped back so Tony could no longer feel his chin on the top of his head. He dared to open his eyes, and almost immediately closed them again. The chain Tony had given him was stretched, defying all the laws of materials and space, tight between Loki’s hands. Or where Loki’s hands should have been, because, when he peeked out again, they weren’t there. The ends of his arms seemed to fuse into the air around them, and trying to see where he began and ended made his head ache. Loki seemed to be being stretched, feathers elongating and moving towards that void where his hands had once been. Tony clung to him, gripping tight, even as his fingers seemed to want to slip from his elbows. He had no idea what would happen if he let Loki go, but instinctively he knew it would be the end of something.

All of a sudden the howling wind died, and Loki went limp in his arms. Tony staggered and just caught himself before falling, shifting to cup Loki’s head as he lowered him to the ground. His hands were visible once more, but his arms seemed stretched, unnaturally long and elastic. “Loki. Loki, hey! Lokes, stay with me here.”

He didn’t know if Spectres needed to breathe. As a Monk, how could he not know that? He knew the ones who spent more time with humans behaved more like humans, and that meant mimicking their natural, unconscious movements like breathing and shifting on the spot. But did they need to? Because if they did, they had a problem. Loki’s chest lay still, no breath ticking his hand as he held his fingers over his lips.

Tony rubbed Loki’s chest, patted his cheeks, called his name. He kept his panic banked, for now, but it was biting at his heels, dying to get its teeth into him.

“Hela!” he yelled. The little girl appeared, dropping to her knees beside Loki. Tony felt a flare of guilt - he didn’t want to scare her, but she would almost certainly know more than him. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, the panic seeping into his voice.

Without a word, she bent over Loki’s head. The others appeared, and then just as quickly the three of them disintegrated, a whirling maelstrom of Spectral spirit centred over his chest. Tony sat back, his fingers twitching with the need to do something, but not wanting to get in the way.

And then, without warning, Loki sat up with a gasp, his eyes almost completely rolled back in his head. Tony surged forward to support him as he draped himself over Tony’s arm, coughing. Feathers fluttered off him, oil black on the concrete floor. Tony rocked Loki, murmuring meaningless things and brushing his fingers through the thin, long feathers that covered his head.

Loki held out the chain in one trembling hand. Tony took it, ready to shove it into a pocket and carry Loki downstairs to check him over, but the chain twitched in his hand. He gripped it tightly, and it sprang out, rigid and almost horizontal, pointing south west so steadily it almost hummed with vibrations.

“It is done,” Loki croaked, one hooded eye looking up to Tony. “Go to him.”

“Wait, no, what about—“

“My children will take me inside. Come back with him. He will need… help.”

Tony hesitated, his heart pulled in two. Then he bent down to press a kiss to Loki’s temple. “I’ll be back,” he said firmly, holding Loki’s wide-eyed gaze. “You sure you’ll be OK?”

Loki blinked at him, then a slow smile grew across his face, crinkling small lines into the corner of his eyes. “I will be fine,” he said. “Now, go.”

Tagging anyone who interacted with last chapter’s post ^_^ @lena-carnival-0f-misfits, @kcdemoness, @lesfleursdudormeur, @moonliel, @i-am-dead-inside-because-of-life, @flowercrownsandbooks, @roodlz, @giggling-breeze, @ultra-rare-pegacorn, @friggvsxn, @aformingsiren <3

#My writing #Spectres #frostiron #loki/tony #tony stark #loki #loki's kids #magic AU #hurt/comfort #Emotional Hurt/Comfort

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one in which Hanzo is an expatriate art student, Jesse is a NPS ranger with a number of unusual skills, weird stuff is going down in the New Mexico desert, and their lives collide in the middle of it.

Now featuring 100% more Genji Shimada, World’s Most Wildly Overprotective Little Brother.

Hanzo turned his face to the cloudy, light-pollution washed sky and closed his eyes as the evening breeze washed over him. It was perceptibly warmer in the city than it was out on the high desert, but still cleaner than the air of nearly any other city he’d ever breathed, and he drew it deep into his lungs, once, twice, thrice. On the third, he expelled it with a silent prayer for the intercession of his ancestors, preferably all of them, hopefully at least Grandmother Hanako, who until the hour of her passage from the world possessed the ability to defuse any form of about-to-explode much younger Genji right up the point of detonation. It was that sweet and gentle nature he needed right now, the precise words necessary to calm and soothe, the iron-spined powers of almost courtly decorum necessary to avoid having a screaming argument with his little brother on the doorstep in front of who knew how many neighbors and/or housemates. Because that would, of course, be the absolute perfect way to end a day that was already sprawled out insouciantly on its side giving reality an assortment of rude gestures.

He turned to face Genji and found him standing in a physically contorted state trapped almost precisely between flailing limbs-akimbo outrage and fists planted on his hips primarily to avoid strangling anyone outrage. The result was more than vaguely disturbing to the human eye and seemed to involve far more joints that he actually possessed. His hair, recently re-dyed the nature-insulting shades of acidic green he favored, looked as though he had spent a considerable quantity of time alternately tugging at it in a transport of some strong emotion or smoothing it back down in an effort to avoid broadcasting said transport to any observers without any particular success. His face was a mask of mutually contradictory emotions, his eyes were bloodshot in a manner that strongly suggested a lack of sleep instead of chemical mood enhancement, and his eyelashes were stuck together in the sort of spiky clumps they developed only when he’d been crying and he was still crying, there were tears in his eyes, and Hanzo dropped his bag and threw his arms around his wonderful, terrible little brother and embraced him tightly. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

Genji’s return embrace seriously compressed his ribcage and nearly lifted him off the ground with the force of it, his brother’s voice ragged in his ears. “You’re alive you’re alive where have you been I’ve been so worried I filed a missing persons report --”

“Genji,” Hanzo wheezed perhaps a bit more dramatically than was strictly necessary even given the circumstances, “I need air. And a missing persons report? You called the police?”

His brother let go only enough to relocate the force of his grip from ribcage to shoulders and Hanzo was absolutely certain he was going to have a couple Genji-hand-shaped-bruises in the morning. Some of the half-crazed intensity of emotion had bled from his face but his eyes remained bright -- irridescently glittering lit-from-within green as well as tears, an altogether dangerous sign. “Four days, Hanzo. You have been gone for four days. I was expecting you home Saturday at the latest. So I ask again: where have you been? And also: who was that and how badly am I going to have to maim him?”

My car broke down in the desert, something nearly ate my soul, he’s an NPS ranger too beautiful for this world please do not kill him. It was on the tip of his tongue to say it, driven by the force of his brother’s fear, and the only thing that kept the words behind his teeth was the knowledge that there were all exactly the wrong thing to say, particularly the soul-eating bit, which he was completely certain Genji would not accept with anything resembling serenity no matter how many mind-altering substances he might be consuming at any given time. Neither was he going to let it go, the grip on his shoulders tightening, eyes narrowing a dangerous fraction, and Hanzo reached for the first semi-reasonable explanation to come to mind and blurted out, “I -- I -- was enjoying what I was doing and lost track of time!”

The look that took up residence on Genji’s face was equal parts I cannot believe you just said that, aniki and WHAT mixed liberally with oh fucking no you didn’t. “Hanzo. Discovering you have a great deal in common with one of your classmates on the first day of the semester and spending two hours aimlessly wandering the quad talking is enjoying what you were doing and losing track of time. Spending an hour contemplating the menu at Starbucks while trying to work up the nerve to make a pass at the hot new barista is enjoying what you were doing and losing track of time. Driving out into the desert and disappearing for four fucking days? That is something else entirely and I’m vaguely insulted you even tried to pull that on me and for fuck’s sake I was about to call home and tell mother to start watching for ransom demands.”

“Genji, I was in no danger.” Except for the point where YOUR SOUL was almost eaten, the rational voice of rationality remarked, dryly, apparently in league with the self-destructive desire to tell his brother everything. “My car broke down -- I walked to one of the ranger stations. I stayed with him a few days until the arrangements to retrieve my disabled vehicle could be made, and then he brought me home.”

“And you enjoyed that.” And there was the world’s most sarcastic human making himself known.

Hanzo shrugged slightly, Genji’s grip on his shoulders loosening enough that the gesture mostly dislodged it. “Not the breaking down and walking through the freezing desert in the middle of the night, no. Everything else? I managed to get quite a bit of work done and the ranger was excellently helpful and completely professional the entire time we were together.” He bent, picked up his bag, and schooled his face into what he hoped was a serenely competent mask sufficient to cover a gigantic sack of barely believable lies. “I’m sorry I frightened you -- I lost cellular service and -- “

“She couldn’t find you, Hanzo.” Genji whispered, fiercely. “I asked her to find you and she said you were gone, you were nowhere, I thought the police would find you lying dead somewhere -- “

“I would not do that to you.” Hanzo snapped a glare at him, equally fierce.

“I know that.” Genji did not quite reach for him again, though it was a near thing. “And the world continues to be graciously oversupplied with other ways for everyone to leave it.”

“I do not know why she couldn’t find me.” Hanzo could not meet his brother’s eyes and speak that lie at the same time, instead opting to step past him toward the door, head down as though watching his step. “As I said: I was perfectly safe. It has, however, been a very long few days and I want nothing more than my own bed. You cannot imagine how uncomfortable ranger station cots are until you’ve had to sleep on one involuntarily.”

“Yes I can.” He could feel the weight of Genji’s stare laying between his shoulderblades like the tip of a knife. “I let Zen drag me up to that commune outside Angel Fire. I’m pretty sure their beds are Works Progress Administration surplus from the ‘40s. The nineteen-forties.”

Hanzo chuckled, politely, thumbed open the front door and was promptly bowled back onto the steps by the force of the charge that greeted him.

“You’re home!” Hana Song was, like his brother, a student in the tech end of video game design. Unlike him, she had absolutely no hesitation when it came to hitting him and so she did, and with a startling amount of force for someone that weighed perhaps a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been, you jerk, you lousy inconsiderate jackass, you -- “ She stopped, glared up at him, and yanked him inside. “Let’s not do this on the front stoop. Genji, are you coming?”

“Hana, let it go. He’s not dead and he apparently hasn’t been shacked up with persons unknown, either.” Genji stepped in and closed the door, casually deflecting the killing glare that Hanzo flung in his direction.

“Oh, so Person Unknown is free and clear then, hmm? Good, because from what I could see he was a stone fox. Where’d you find him?” Hana gave him a quick hug in apology, gears shifting as quickly as that, and snatched the object Ranger McCree had pressed into his hand on their parting. “Oh -- oh holy crap. He’s a park ranger? Are you serious?”

Hanzo snatched the object -- a card -- back and physically resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Car broke down, he rescued me, drove me home, perfect gentleman, I would like to go to bed now.”

“Oh, it’s perfect gentleman and not completely professional when you talk to her about it?” Genji asked and now Hanzo found himself resisting the urge to spin hard enough to smack his wonderful, terrible asshole brother firmly in the gut with his bag. “There’s a not inconsiderable difference between those two things, brother.”

“No there isn’t.” Hanzo replied and, fuck it, introduced his bag to Genji’s midsection in a fashion not entirely unlike a hip-check. “In any case, yes, he is a real park ranger, he was extremely kind to me, I had not noticed his appearance, I am entirely sorry I worried you all, and now I am going to go upstairs, take a shower, send a number of groveling emails to my professors, and then go to bed. If that is acceptable to you two?”

“I think we should get Lu and Zen down here and make a family vote of it,” Hana crossed her arms over her chest but nonetheless stepped aside at his growl. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Hanzo Shimada. You, of all people, don’t get to go galavanting off for whole days at a time and then stroll back home without a reasonable explanation -- “

Hanzo leaned over the second story balustrade. “Genji does that literally all the time.”

“That’s Genji!” Hana shouted back. “You are the grounded and responsible Shimada sibling, and if you two are going to switch personalities you can’t do it at random, there needs to be at least two weeks written notice!”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” Hanzo shouted down from the third floor landing.

“Be sure you do!” Hana shouted back. “Seriously, are you going to call him back? Because if you don’t call him, I totally will. I want a look at that in broad daylight.”

“Good night, Hana.” Hanzo stepped into his room, closed the door, dropped his bag, took the pillow from his bed and screamed into it for five minutes because, sometimes, there was literally nothing else to do if he wished to retain even a modicum of sanity.

Then, because he was indeed the grounded and responsible Shimada sibling, he turned on his holo-terminal and wrote the requisite groveling email of woe and dismay that went into exquisitely embroidered detail about POS rental cars, wandering through the desert at night pursued by coyotes, and the almost total lack of cellular service out in the hinterlands beyond the city limits, which he then forwarded to the four professors whose classes he had involuntarily cut, checked the queue to make certain that the art history paper he had finished last week was still set to go out first thing in the morning and sat, staring, at the little white rectangle of plastic laminate Ranger McCree had pressed into his hand. Plain white bordered in vivid green (National Park Service/US Department of the Interior), the inverted arrowhead seal, his name and contact information (Jesse McCree, Education Liaison, Special Incident Command at Cerrillos National Monument, address, cellular code, email). The laminate coating caught the dim light of even his holoscreen and refracted it in a now-familiar geometric pattern, the card feeling warmer in his hand than could be accounted for even by a transfer of body heat and, without meaning to do so, he pressed it to his lips and slipped it into his underwear drawer, where he was reasonably certain Hana would be completely unwilling to go fishing should she come looking for it. He almost started a second email but acknowledged, if only to himself, that it was considerably beyond pathetic to write a man who had merely been doing his duty, even the outstandingly weird parts, particularly when he didn’t actually have anything to say. At least for the moment. He had a week-long course of medicine to take and he realized that he was, even more pathetically, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t work so he’d have the excuse.

“You are an outstanding coward of the highest possible caliber,” He informed his reflection in the upstairs bathroom mirror as he stripped out of the borrowed sweats even as he acknowledged them as another good reason to contact the ranger again -- they were only borrowed, after all, he couldn’t keep the man’s clothes. “Hello, Ranger McCree, this is Hanzo Shimada, you know, the one whose soul you saved from being eaten? I would just like to meet in order to return your tee-shirt and sweatpants and would you possibly also like to have dinner? Perhaps coffee? I promise I will keep my housemates and brother as far from you as humanly possible and once this exchange is done we will never have to see one another again and could you be any worse at this, for the love of the gods, stop.”

“Hanzo?” The voice on the other side of the bathroom door belonged to Tekhartha Zenyatta, his brother’s constant companion in dubious sobriety and bendy activities that could probably get them arrested in at least thirty states and seventeen foreign countries. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Zen. Just talking to myself.” Hanzo replied, and turned on the water in the shower. “My apologies if I disturbed you.”

“Not at all, my friend.” A warmly melodious chuckle from the hallway. “If you wish to speak, know that I am here for you.”

“Thank you, Zen.”

He should, he supposed, have a slightly more antagonistic relationship with the man who was arguably corrupting the quite thoroughly and voluntarily corruptible morals of his younger brother, but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to work up any serious quantity of animus for the Tekhartha. For one thing, he couldn’t look at the man without perceiving him as some sort of elegant, kindhearted, slightly baked at all times praying mantis, who looked out at the world with enormous jewelled eyes and saw a bunch of people in dire need of enormously gentle talk therapy, palliative massage, and huge quantities of psychoactive recreational chemicals designed lubricate the interaction of minds and bodies with other minds and bodies. Sometimes literally. And therein lay the problem: Zen was an actual trained clinical psychologist underneath the doofy exterior and if there was anyone in the house to whom he would, through accident or design, give up the whole something freakishly weird happened in the desert and my soul was almost eaten and somehow the ranger saved me and I have no idea how to feel or what to think about any of this thing it was most definitely him. Possibly over tea. No, check that: definitely over tea. Hanzo made a mental note to take his medicinal beverage alone in his room if at all possible.

That night, at least, it was possible: by the time he finished cleaning up and went downstairs to the kitchen, the common areas were devoid of life. A faint trace of haunting melody drifted down from above, testament to the presence of Lucio Correia dos Santos, their fourth housemate, who was likely as deep in the process of musical composition as he ought to be in the process of visual composition. The absence of Genji and Zen from the sitting room, where the holotank and all the entertainment systems were located meant they were likely upstairs, entertaining one another somewhat more athletic ways. The absence of Hana from the same meant she was cramming for a midterm, having laid in a supply of snacks and energy beverages some time before.

He extracted the package from its anonymous plastic bag wrapping, feeling entirely too much like an operative in an action movie just before the villains came crashing in through the windows to steal is laboriously acquired intelligence or, possibly, like a teenager about to open his first stroke mag purchased under plain brown wrappers -- entirely too nervous by half and for no good reason. It was medicine. It was medicine. He absolutely was not about to drink something prescribed to him by some unknown person living in the middle of a nowhere who was close personal friends with a smoke monster and the world’s most desireable park ranger.

“It’s medicine, not a drug,” He told himself, as he examined the tiny, elegant, single-serving tea bell and the tiny, elegant tin, outside etched in a delicate swirling mandala in a dozen shades of blue, the lid covered in a freshly printed sticker written in a language he couldn’t read but which was, he knew from a couple hundred credit hours worth of art history classes, probably some form of Arabic. He firmly ignored the voice of rationality that insisted on pointing out drugs and medicines were exactly the same damned thing.

He snapped a picture of it and asked his phone for a translation, which it provided after a moment of taxing its little computer brain. For the restoration of weakened bonds between spirit and flesh, it said. Take one cup daily for seven days, preferably before sleep. Instructions: steep one teaspoon of the loose mixture in a cup of hot but not boiling water for no more than three minutes. Jesse tells me that you are a gentle, wounded soul who came by your injuries through no fault of your own, and for this reason I will tell you that the addition of a little honey and lemon will not harm the therapeutic qualities of this blend at all. May the Merciful and the Just stand between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk. Brewed, it smelled wonderfully rich and herbacious, a deep green-golden color even before he added a dollop of honey. He admitted to himself, after the first sip, that it probably didn’t need the honey: he couldn’t place any individual flavor but the way they blent together on his tongue was delicious beyond any other herbal infusion that he could recall, the perfume of it filling his head with every breath.

He put the tin in his section of the kitchen cabinets and set the cup and the tea bell in the sink for the morning, feeling the tug of sleep on his limbs and head and eyes already, knowing he might just fall asleep on a landing if he didn’t seek his bed at once. He was out before his head touched the pillow and that night, when he dreamt for the thousandth time of coiling sky blue scales and air that tasted of the oncoming storm and lightning-stroke eyes that weighed him and measured him and turned away, he felt the contemptuous weight of that silent judgment slightly less.

*

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66 #I promise I'll fix the italics in the morning

[godscollidehq]

˟ ⊰ ━━ ✰ [ PARIS BERELC, 18, SHE/HER ] have you seen MEGAN GWYNN, they also sometimes go by PIXIE? it’s been said that they are INDIFFERENT working with the other side to find their way back home again. SHE has been known to be CHEERY yet FORGETFUL. if you saw HER around, you’d notice their CHOKERS, IRRIDESCENT WINGS, PINK HAIR, HALF EMPTY PACK OF GUM and FUZZY SOCKS. (lenora, 21, pst)

˟ ⊰ ━━ ✰ so it’s true, MEGAN GWYNN really is here !! congratulations, lenora, you have TWENTY-FOUR hours to send in your account, otherwise the character will be reopened. we’re extremely pleased to have you join us, remember to read over the CHECKLIST and then come join the fight !!

#gc:accepted #appless rp #appless rpg #marvel rp #roleplay #oliviaholt

[maisonfleurant]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Diamond SPEARHEAD NINE SIXTEEN SWUNG FINE RIBE IRRIDESCENT ANTIQUE VASE.

[solivar]

WIP: Ghost Stories On Route 66

aka the one where Hanzo Shimada is an expatriate student of the Fine Arts, attending college in what he assumes to be a reasonably sedate corner of the American southwest. Jesse McCree is an occasionally leather-clad NPS ranger whose duties extend somewhat further than shooing lost tourists back onto the clearly marked hiking trails. Something weird is going on in the desert south of Santa Fe and their lives unexpectedly come together in the middle of it.

Now featuring 100% more Gabriel Reyes, terrifying smoke monster mother hen, subtle declarations of mutual affection, and Hanzo having a terrible, horrible no good very bad sequence of days.

Hanzo turned his face to the cloudy, light-pollution washed sky and closed his eyes as the evening breeze washed over him. It was perceptibly warmer in the city than it was out on the high desert, but still cleaner than the air of nearly any other city he’d ever breathed, and he drew it deep into his lungs, once, twice, thrice. On the third, he expelled it with a silent prayer for the intercession of his ancestors, preferably all of them, hopefully at least Grandmother Hanako, who until the hour of her passage from the world possessed the ability to defuse any form of about-to-explode much younger Genji right up the point of detonation. It was that sweet and gentle nature he needed right now, the precise words necessary to calm and soothe, the iron-spined powers of almost courtly decorum necessary to avoid having a screaming argument with his little brother on the doorstep in front of who knew how many neighbors and/or housemates. Because that would, of course, be the absolute perfect way to end a day that was already sprawled out insouciantly on its side giving reality an assortment of rude gestures.

He turned to face Genji and found him standing in a physically contorted state trapped almost precisely between flailing limbs-akimbo outrage and fists planted on his hips primarily to avoid strangling anyone outrage. The result was more than vaguely disturbing to the human eye and seemed to involve far more joints that he actually possessed. His hair, recently re-dyed the nature-insulting shades of acidic green he favored, looked as though he had spent a considerable quantity of time alternately tugging at it in a transport of some strong emotion or smoothing it back down in an effort to avoid broadcasting said transport to any observers without any particular success. His face was a mask of mutually contradictory emotions, his eyes were bloodshot in a manner that strongly suggested a lack of sleep instead of chemical mood enhancement, and his eyelashes were stuck together in the sort of spiky clumps they developed only when he’d been crying and he was still crying, there were tears in his eyes, and Hanzo dropped his bag and threw his arms around his wonderful, terrible little brother and embraced him tightly. “Shhh. It’s all right.”

Genji’s return embrace seriously compressed his ribcage and nearly lifted him off the ground with the force of it, his brother’s voice ragged in his ears. “You’re alive you’re alive where have you been I’ve been so worried I filed a missing persons report --”

“Genji,” Hanzo wheezed perhaps a bit more dramatically than was strictly necessary even given the circumstances, “I need air. And a missing persons report? You called the police?”

His brother let go only enough to relocate the force of his grip from ribcage to shoulders and Hanzo was absolutely certain he was going to have a couple Genji-hand-shaped-bruises in the morning. Some of the half-crazed intensity of emotion had bled from his face but his eyes remained bright -- irridescently glittering lit-from-within green as well as tears, an altogether dangerous sign. “Four days, Hanzo. You have been gone for four days. I was expecting you home Saturday at the latest. So I ask again: where have you been? And also: who was that and how badly am I going to have to maim him?”

My car broke down in the desert, something nearly ate my soul, he’s an NPS ranger too beautiful for this world please do not kill him. It was on the tip of his tongue to say it, driven by the force of his brother’s fear, and the only thing that kept the words behind his teeth was the knowledge that there were all exactly the wrong thing to say, particularly the soul-eating bit, which he was completely certain Genji would not accept with anything resembling serenity no matter how many mind-altering substances he might be consuming at any given time. Neither was he going to let it go, the grip on his shoulders tightening, eyes narrowing a dangerous fraction, and Hanzo reached for the first semi-reasonable explanation to come to mind and blurted out, “I -- I -- was enjoying what I was doing and lost track of time!”

The look that took up residence on Genji’s face was equal parts I cannot believe you just said that, aniki and WHAT mixed liberally with oh fucking no you didn’t. “Hanzo. Discovering you have a great deal in common with one of your classmates on the first day of the semester and spending two hours aimlessly wandering the quad talking is enjoying what you were doing and losing track of time. Spending an hour contemplating the menu at Starbucks while trying to work up the nerve to make a pass at the hot new barista is enjoying what you were doing and losing track of time. Driving out into the desert and disappearing for four fucking days? That is something else entirely and I’m vaguely insulted you even tried to pull that on me and for fuck’s sake I was about to call home and tell mother to start watching for ransom demands.”

“Genji, I was in no danger.” Except for the point where YOUR SOUL was almost eaten, the rational voice of rationality remarked, dryly, apparently in league with the self-destructive desire to tell his brother everything. “My car broke down -- I walked to one of the ranger stations. I stayed with him a few days until the arrangements to retrieve my disabled vehicle could be made, and then he brought me home.”

“And you enjoyed that.” And there was the world’s most sarcastic human making himself known.

Hanzo shrugged slightly, Genji’s grip on his shoulders loosening enough that the gesture mostly dislodged it. “Not the breaking down and walking through the freezing desert in the middle of the night, no. Everything else? I managed to get quite a bit of work done and the ranger was excellently helpful and completely professional the entire time we were together.” He bent, picked up his bag, and schooled his face into what he hoped was a serenely competent mask sufficient to cover a gigantic sack of barely believable lies. “I’m sorry I frightened you -- I lost cellular service and -- “

“She couldn’t find you, Hanzo.” Genji whispered, fiercely. “I asked her to find you and she said you were gone, you were nowhere, I thought the police would find you lying dead somewhere -- “

“I would not do that to you.” Hanzo snapped a glare at him, equally fierce.

“I know that.” Genji did not quite reach for him again, though it was a near thing. “And the world continues to be graciously oversupplied with other ways for everyone to leave it.”

“I do not know why she couldn’t find me.” Hanzo could not meet his brother’s eyes and speak that lie at the same time, instead opting to step past him toward the door, head down as though watching his step. “As I said: I was perfectly safe. It has, however, been a very long few days and I want nothing more than my own bed. You cannot imagine how uncomfortable ranger station cots are until you’ve had to sleep on one involuntarily.”

“Yes I can.” He could feel the weight of Genji’s stare laying between his shoulderblades like the tip of a knife. “I let Zen drag me up to that commune outside Angel Fire. I’m pretty sure their beds are Works Progress Administration surplus from the ‘40s. The nineteen-forties.”

Hanzo chuckled, politely, thumbed open the front door and was promptly bowled back onto the steps by the force of the charge that greeted him.

“You’re home!” Hana Song was, like his brother, a student in the tech end of video game design. Unlike him, she had absolutely no hesitation when it came to hitting him and so she did, and with a startling amount of force for someone that weighed perhaps a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve all been, you jerk, you lousy inconsiderate jackass, you -- “ She stopped, glared up at him, and yanked him inside. “Let’s not do this on the front stoop. Genji, are you coming?”

“Hana, let it go. He’s not dead and he apparently hasn’t been shacked up with persons unknown, either.” Genji stepped in and closed the door, casually deflecting the killing glare that Hanzo flung in his direction.

“Oh, so Person Unknown is free and clear then, hmm? Good, because from what I could see he was a stone fox. Where’d you find him?” Hana gave him a quick hug in apology, gears shifting as quickly as that, and snatched the object Ranger McCree had pressed into his hand on their parting. “Oh -- oh holy crap. He’s a park ranger? Are you serious?”

Hanzo snatched the object -- a card -- back and physically resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Car broke down, he rescued me, drove me home, perfect gentleman, I would like to go to bed now.”

“Oh, it’s perfect gentleman and not completely professional when you talk to her about it?” Genji asked and now Hanzo found himself resisting the urge to spin hard enough to smack his wonderful, terrible asshole brother firmly in the gut with his bag. “There’s a not inconsiderable difference between those two things, brother.”

“No there isn’t.” Hanzo replied and, fuck it, introduced his bag to Genji’s midsection in a fashion not entirely unlike a hip-check. “In any case, yes, he is a real park ranger, he was extremely kind to me, I had not noticed his appearance, I am entirely sorry I worried you all, and now I am going to go upstairs, take a shower, send a number of groveling emails to my professors, and then go to bed. If that is acceptable to you two?”

“I think we should get Lu and Zen down here and make a family vote of it,” Hana crossed her arms over her chest but nonetheless stepped aside at his growl. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Hanzo Shimada. You, of all people, don’t get to go galavanting off for whole days at a time and then stroll back home without a reasonable explanation -- “

Hanzo leaned over the second story balustrade. “Genji does that literally all the time.”

“That’s Genji!” Hana shouted back. “You are the grounded and responsible Shimada sibling, and if you two are going to switch personalities you can’t do it at random, there needs to be at least two weeks written notice!”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future.” Hanzo shouted down from the third floor landing.

“Be sure you do!” Hana shouted back. “Seriously, are you going to call him back? Because if you don’t call him, I totally will. I want a look at that in broad daylight.”

“Good night, Hana.” Hanzo stepped into his room, closed the door, dropped his bag, took the pillow from his bed and screamed into it for five minutes because, sometimes, there was literally nothing else to do if he wished to retain even a modicum of sanity.

Then, because he was indeed the grounded and responsible Shimada sibling, he turned on his holo-terminal and wrote the requisite groveling email of woe and dismay that went into exquisitely embroidered detail about POS rental cars, wandering through the desert at night pursued by coyotes, and the almost total lack of cellular service out in the hinterlands beyond the city limits, which he then forwarded to the four professors whose classes he had involuntarily cut, checked the queue to make certain that the art history paper he had finished last week was still set to go out first thing in the morning and sat, staring, at the little white rectangle of plastic laminate Ranger McCree had pressed into his hand. Plain white bordered in vivid green (National Park Service/US Department of the Interior), the inverted arrowhead seal, his name and contact information (Jesse McCree, Education Liaison, Special Incident Command at Cerrillos National Monument, address, cellular code, email). The laminate coating caught the dim light of even his holoscreen and refracted it in a now-familiar geometric pattern, the card feeling warmer in his hand than could be accounted for even by a transfer of body heat and, without meaning to do so, he pressed it to his lips and slipped it into his underwear drawer, where he was reasonably certain Hana would be completely unwilling to go fishing should she come looking for it. He almost started a second email but acknowledged, if only to himself, that it was considerably beyond pathetic to write a man who had merely been doing his duty, even the outstandingly weird parts, particularly when he didn’t actually have anything to say. At least for the moment. He had a week-long course of medicine to take and he realized that he was, even more pathetically, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t work so he’d have the excuse.

“You are an outstanding coward of the highest possible caliber,” He informed his reflection in the upstairs bathroom mirror as he stripped out of the borrowed sweats even as he acknowledged them as another good reason to contact the ranger again -- they were only borrowed, after all, he couldn’t keep the man’s clothes. “Hello, Ranger McCree, this is Hanzo Shimada, you know, the one whose soul you saved from being eaten? I would just like to meet in order to return your tee-shirt and sweatpants and would you possibly also like to have dinner? Perhaps coffee? I promise I will keep my housemates and brother as far from you as humanly possible and once this exchange is done we will never have to see one another again and could you be any worse at this, for the love of the gods, stop.”

“Hanzo?” The voice on the other side of the bathroom door belonged to Tekhartha Zenyatta, his brother’s constant companion in dubious sobriety and bendy activities that could probably get them arrested in at least thirty states and seventeen foreign countries. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine, Zen. Just talking to myself.” Hanzo replied, and turned on the water in the shower. “My apologies if I disturbed you.”

“Not at all, my friend.” A warmly melodious chuckle from the hallway. “If you wish to speak, know that I am here for you.”

“Thank you, Zen.”

He should, he supposed, have a slightly more antagonistic relationship with the man who was arguably corrupting the quite thoroughly and voluntarily corruptible morals of his younger brother, but somehow he couldn’t find it in himself to work up any serious quantity of animus for the Tekhartha. For one thing, he couldn’t look at the man without perceiving him as some sort of elegant, kindhearted, slightly baked at all times praying mantis, who looked out at the world with enormous jewelled eyes and saw a bunch of people in dire need of enormously gentle talk therapy, palliative massage, and huge quantities of psychoactive recreational chemicals designed lubricate the interaction of minds and bodies with other minds and bodies. Sometimes literally. And therein lay the problem: Zen was an actual trained clinical psychologist underneath the doofy exterior and if there was anyone in the house to whom he would, through accident or design, give up the whole something freakishly weird happened in the desert and my soul was almost eaten and somehow the ranger saved me and I have no idea how to feel or what to think about any of this thing it was most definitely him. Possibly over tea. No, check that: definitely over tea. Hanzo made a mental note to take his medicinal beverage alone in his room if at all possible.

That night, at least, it was possible: by the time he finished cleaning up and went downstairs to the kitchen, the common areas were devoid of life. A faint trace of haunting melody drifted down from above, testiment to the presence of Lucio Correia dos Santos, their fourth housemate, who was likely as deep in the process of musical composition as he ought to be in the process of visual composition. The absence of Genji and Zen from the sitting room, where the holotank and all the entertainment systems were located meant they were likely upstairs, entertaining one another somewhat more athletic ways. The absence of Hana from the same meant she was cramming for a midterm, having laid in a supply of snacks and energy beverages some time before.

He extracted the package from its anonymous plastic bag wrapping, feeling entirely too much like an operative in an action movie just before the villains came crashing in through the windows to steal is laboriously acquired intelligence or, possibly, like a teenager about to open his first stroke mag purchased under plain brown wrappers -- entirely too nervous by half and for no good reason. It was medicine. It was medicine. He absolutely was not about to drink something prescribed to him by some unknown person living in the middle of a nowhere who was close personal friends with a smoke monster and the world’s most desireable park ranger.

“It’s medicine, not a drug,” He told himself, as he examined the tiny, elegant, single-serving tea bell and the tiny, elegant tin, outside etched in a delicate swirling mandala in a dozen shades of blue, the lid covered in a freshly printed sticker written in a language he couldn’t read but which was, he knew from a couple hundred credit hours worth of art history classes, was probably some form of Arabic. He firmly ignored the voice of rationality that insisted on pointing out drugs and medicines were exactly the same damned thing.

He snapped a picture of it and asked his phone for a translation, which it provided after a moment of taxing its little computer brain. For the restoration of weakened bonds between spirit and flesh, it said. Take one cup daily for seven days, preferably before sleep. Instructions: steep one teaspoon of the loose mixture in a cup of hot but not boiling water for no more than three minutes. Jesse tells me that you are a gentle, wounded soul who came by your injuries through no fault of your own, and for this reason I will tell you that the addition of a little honey and lemon will not harm the therapeutic qualities of this blend at all. May the Merciful and the Just stand between you and harm in all the empty places where you must walk. Brewed, it smelled wonderfully rich and herbaceous, a deep green-golden color even before he added a dollop of honey. He admitted to himself, after the first sip, that it probably didn’t need the honey: he couldn’t place any individual flavor but the way they blent together on his tongue was delicious beyond any other herbal infusion that he could recall, the perfume of it filling his head with every breath.

He put the tin in his section of the kitchen cabinets and set the cup and the tea bell in the sink for the morning, feeling the tug of sleep on his limbs and head and eyes already, knowing he might just fall asleep on a landing if he didn’t seek his bed at once. He was out before his head touched the pillow and that night, when he dreamt for the thousandth time of coiling sky blue scales and air that tasted of the oncoming storm and lightning-stroke eyes that weighed him and measured him and turned away, he felt the contemptuous weight of that silent judgment slightly less.

*

Hanzo woke five minutes before his alarm was set to go off and, for the first time in a very long time, he did not simply reach over and turn it off and roll out of bed with the intent of getting a fresh and early start on the day. Instead he grabbed it, yanked it until the plug either exited the outlet in the wall or the cord parted company with the back of the clock itself, dropped it in the wastepaper basket, rolled over and went back to sleep. He only began crawling vaguely in the direction of consciousness again when something -- something persistent and annoying -- managed to work its way through the cocoon of formlessly dreamy somnolence wound around his mind and soul like the world’s warmest, softest blanket. A sound? It felt like a sound even as his body refused to admit that he was hearing anything at all, not birdsong from the branches of the ginko growing in the side yard nearest his window, none of the usual morning sounds from his housemates going about their daily routines, not even his own breath and heartbeat. The worst part was he couldn’t even put a finger on why it was so irritating, it just was, relentlessly, grindingly so and when his eyes finally snapped open it was with a barely restrained urge to kill pulsing hotly behind them and it was probably a good thing he had nothing sharp or heavy in easy reach and he was not in his own bed. Instead, he was looking again at a fieldstone kiva graced with a little rearing horse statue and the sort of happy little flowering cactus that a neo-futurist clone of Bob Ross would have painted because he decided the horse statue needed a friend, curled on his side in the cushions of the world’s most comfortable couch, nested in the world’s most comfortable throw blankets, listening to the world’s most aggravating non-sound claw at the inside of his being.

How was the first coherent thought to make itself known, followed closely by Genji is going to have hysterical screaming hysterics and then how HOW how the fucking HOW?

“Gabe.”

That was new: a voice he’d never heard before, period, not only in this specific context, deep and gravelly, the sort of voice one could clearly imagine growling orders over poorly functioning communications systems in the middle of a life-or-death crisis or offering a pep-talk on the sidelines to a scrappy-but-legitimately-terrible little league team that lost more than they won and still got pizza and milkshakes at the end of the season because he was just that sort of coach, warm and rough all at once.

“Gabe.”

And also beginning to experience a certain urge toward homicidal violence, if the tightness in his tone was anything to go by.

“Gabriel!”

The psychotically aggravating sound-not-sound abruptly ceased.

“What?” Now there was a voice he knew: the smoke monster. The smoke monster somewhere traumatically close by and Hanzo froze, involuntarily, torn between the desire to pull the blankets over his head in a childish impulse to test their monster-repellent properties and an equally potent urge to leap to his feet and start demanding answers, beginning immediately and lasting until he was fully satisfied with the results. Also nearby: footsteps on the hardwood floor, moving light and swift, accompanied by a gently rhythmic taptaptaping.

“Hon, I know you’re worried, but you really, really have to stop doing that. There are non-predatory species hunkering down in the bushes, watching the house with murderous intent. Unless you want Jesse to walk into a low-budget remake of a Hitchcock flick when he gets home, you need to take it down a notch.” Little League Commando’s tone was far, far gentler than its native amount of gargled with whiskey and fifty caliber shell casings seemed to allow and, moving slowly, Hanzo eased himself up out of the defensive blanket-nest, stealthily, stealthily, and peered over the back of the couch.

The smoke monster was, at the moment, particularly smoky, a barely humanoid mass of vaporous shadowy coils interspersed with a completely excessive number of smoldering crimson eyes and the fangy slash of mouths, plural. It hovered more than sat in the cushioned windowseat overlooking the front porch, a crepuscular appendage that couldn’t quite be called an arm holding the curtains back just far enough to let in a shaft of wan sunlight that clearly, obviously wanted absolutely nothing to do with illuminating it and also for it to see out with multiple sets of eyes. Jack, by way of extreme personal contrast, looked as though all the color had been systematically siphoned out of his hair and skin by extradimensional pigment thieves, leaving behind white and the faintest hint of ash and the bluest blue eyes Hanzo had ever seen. Eyes, point in fact, that were fixed unseeing at a point somewhere above the smoke monster’s putative head; the cane he leaned on, despite not looking like the traditional red-tipped-white, was clearly a sensory assistive device of some kind.

Where the fuck IS HE, Jack. It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t spoken out loud, and the intensity of the emotion in it involuntarily tightened Hanzo’s throat, sent a thrill of fear straight to his limbic system. It’s not that far to the city, he should have been back HOURS ago.

“Gabe,” Jack -- it had to be Jack, there was no one else in the room -- replied, in the sort of carefully neutral tone that suggested, strongly, some variation of this conversation had occurred at least a few dozen times before and would likely occur a few dozen times again in the future, “You know I hate to be the one to remind you of this but, well, he’s not actually seventeen anymore. He is, in fact, a grown-ass adult who is entirely capable of taking care of himself in most situations, including the ones that might, just might, involve shacking up somewhere for a one night stand with an alarmingly handsome MFA grad student that he rescued from mortal peril.”

Holy Mother of Darkness, Jack. The tenebrous mass on the windowseat twitched uncontrollably for several seconds and Hanzo found that he couldn’t really blame it, because he was doing the same and blushing furiously and having to fight the urge to leap up and defend his honor at considerable and vituperative length. In what fucking universe is THAT a good outcome?

“This one, in which commitment and further emotional involvement-free gratitude sex is completely a thing that happens.” In tones of ruthless practicality and Hanzo found himself wishing he could just disappear or spontaneously combust or any option but hide behind the back of his rescuer’s couch and listen to this. “And, of all the things that could be keeping him away from home, I’m willing to lay that down as the least bad, okay?”

No it is NOT OKAY! The smoke monster howled wordlessly, its form shuddering, turning in on itself, coalescing into a significantly more human shape, albeit one with at least six extra pairs of eyes. “He’s vulnerable right now, Jack. They both are. He’d never be that irresponsible so soon after having to forge a connection that strong. What the Hell are you even thinking?”

“I’m thinking that you’re finally not broadcasting where is he where is he if he’s not dead when he walks through that door I’m going to kill him at everything with a functioning medulla oblongata for fifty miles square around this building.” Jack reached up and touched an in-ear communication device of some variety. “Ana? Yeah, don’t take the shot, I think he’s actually down off the ledge.”

“I cannot believe you,” The smoke monster glared with three fewer pairs of eyes. “Our son is missing and you’re -- “

“Our son just turned onto the far end of the drag, he’ll be here in ten minutes, max.” Jack smiled and Hanzo sank down below the level of the couch and, this time, he did pull the blankets over his head. “Seriously, I can only imagine what you’d be like if you actually gave birth to him.”

“Not. Funny.”

“Kinda funny.”

“No.”

The ranger’s vehicle glided to a nearly-silent halt outside and, summoning all his courage, Hanzo peered out from beneath the shield of blankets, trusting in the general depth of the cushions and the current paucity of natural light to assist in concealing his presence. Actual, physical keys jingled and actual, physical locks disengaged, the door creaked open with the sepulcheral moan he recalled from that first night not yet a week prior and the ranger stepped in, a cardboard pastry box tucked in the crook of one arm, looking several orders of magnitude wearier than he had -- how many hours before? It couldn’t have been that many, really -- and froze on his own doorstep, abruptly pinioned as he was between the smoke monster on one side and the Little League Commando on the other and Hanzo felt such immediate and complete sympathy for that impossible situation it was all he could do to hold still and silent.

“Jesse Nathaniel McCree,” the smoke monster said in the sort of smoothly menacing tone that promised quite a number of things and not a one of them pleasant, “where the actual fuck have you been?”

Jesse held out the pastry box. “And a good morning to you, too.”

Smoky the Horrible Tentacular Menace accepted the offering and glanced down at it. “What.”

“You like their flourless chili chocolate thingamabobs, right? I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d pick some up. Admittedly, I also figured I’d see you at your place, so my best laid plans are already put awry.” He shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on the pegboard, and kicked the door closed behind him. “Jack.”

“Kid,” And not even pretending to conceal his amusement, which Hanzo was willing to put down to some combination of extreme personal courage, decades-long interpersonal relationships, and quite possibly some form of not particularly well-sublimated deathwish. “Madre here’s been flipping and I’d appreciate it, if you’re going to be away from the nest for any length of time henceforth, that you not turn your cell off because there was nearly a murder. Possibly more than one. Coffee?”

“I would adore coffee.” Jesse offered the smoke monster the sort of smile that, properly deployed in a diplomatic context, could probably bring about world peace. “Come on, mamá, let’s have some breakfast and I’ll tell you all about it.”

The smoke monster took the sort of deep, cleansing breath which with Hanzo was personally familiar and murmured, “I see you two are intent upon forgetting that I fucking know where you sleep. Okay. Fine. Let’s eat, and while we’re eating you will describe in exquisite detail exactly where you’ve been for the last sixteen hours.”

“Frankly, my bet was down on shacked up in a No Tell Motel with the scorching grad student -- “

“OH MY GOD.” For the first time that day, Hanzo felt absolute vindication because the ranger -- his ranger, his perfect gentleman ranger -- sounded at least as appalled as he felt. “Jack.”

“Or I could be wrong.” Still palpably amused and Hanzo wondered silently which Hell one was sent to for deliberately tripping blind senior citizens as often as possible. “Incidentally, kid, you sound like fifteen miles of beat up donkey crap that’s also on fire so I can only imagine what you look like. Where’d the thingamabobs come from?”

“Sugarmama’s in Flagstaff. Arizona.” Gabriel, now sounding significantly less monstrous, growled; cutlery and plates rattled on the table a few arm-lengths away. “Which, if I recall correctly, is almost four hundred miles one way from here so I think an explanation is in order.”

Hanzo smelled and heard coffee being poured and someone taking a long, fortifying drink of the same. “After yesterday’s excitement, Hanzo wanted more than anything else to go home and, since I couldn’t really blame him for that, I drove him up to the city and dropped him off with instructions to call me if things were still off-kilter after a week or so.” A pause, as plates were passed and pastries distributed and more coffee consumed. “I...felt a little restless after I left him, so I took a drive to Mesa Urraca just to check on the ward boundary up there and, since I was still not feeling right when I got back, I decided it was time to walk the Red Zone perimeter.”

“The perimeter,” Jack, carefully neutral.

“Yup,” Jesse, the soul of insouciance.

“The perimeter which is over a thousand miles round trip, covers four states, innumerable liminal sub-boundaries, and is generally not left to one person to patrol alone for those reasons.” Gabriel, flatly, without a trace of actual question in his tone.

“Look, I’m not sayin’ I lolligagged around in any particular place. I just wanted to get a feel for how things might be changing out on the tracks. Something ain’t right and it’s getting less right all the time -- the fact that Hanzo nearly got snatched up within spitting distance of Tsé Bit’a’í is proof of that. A year ago nothing, no matter how strong it might be, would have dared. Could have dared, even.” A sigh. “Upshot is, the boundary there is unstable in a way that makes me think someone, or something, has been pushing to make it so.”

“You’re probably not wrong,” Gabriel admitted, ungrudgingly. “Fareeha came down from Los Alamos last night and brought some intel from her friend upstairs. Turns out, the experimental high energy science lab’s been detecting some unusually strong and coherent electromagnetic anomalies inside the boundaries of the Red Zone for the last ten weeks. They’re setting up a semi-permanent research station in the old Albuquerque International Sunport terminal complex.”

“Think I saw some of that going down. Security’s not amateur hour, I’ll give ‘em that.” It sounded as though he were fighting a desperate rearguard action against a yawn, one that failed spectacularly. “Could you top me off? Thank you kindly.”

“You’re welcome.” Jack again and, then, quietly, “How long has it been since you last slept?”

“I got a solid eight Friday into Saturday.” The sound of rapturous sipping. “You still make the best -- “

“You can’t keep this up, mijo.” Gabriel, his tone unusually gentle. “You’re not going to be any good to anyone if you grind yourself past the point of physical and mental exhaustion. You’re almost beyond the edge even now. Let us -- “

“Do what?” And the pure and perfect weariness in his voice twisted Hanzo’s heart. “Tie can’t be cut until his soul’s firmly reattached to where it’s supposed to be. I sent him back to his real life with Ana’s spirit-mending medicine to speed the process along as much as possible, but it’s not like it can be rushed. If I sleep now, while we’re still tied so close together, we’ll share a single dreamspace and that’ll pull him back here whether he wants to come or not.” Hanzo’s heart almost stopped, his breath caught and he knew, suddenly and absolutely, that only part of him was here and the rest was somewhere else, like it had been before. “It’s hard enough letting this one go as it is, so I would ask that you not invite me to make it harder.”

“Jesse,” And there was no disguising the shock, or the fear, in just that one word.

“It’d be one thing if he were only pretty on the outside. Easier, for one.” A pause, a quiet sigh, the tired smile visible in his voice when he next spoke. “But he’s beautiful all the way through and he was hurt before he got here, before this happened to him, and if I were going to guess? That’s what caught something’s eye -- that wound in his spirit, however it got made, and it’s going to keep being catnip for whatever’s out there. So it’s best that we all do what we have to do to keep him as far from here as possible and for me that means staying awake. All the awake.”

“That’s pretty crazy, kid.” Jack, dryly.

“If you’ve got a better idea, I’m willing to entertain it. Otherwise? Put on another pot of coffee.”

*

#WIP Ghost Stories On Route 66 #I'll fix the italics in the morning