#and dipper on dipnip is fun

[a-random-queer-fanpeep]

Torako Just Wants To Do the Dishes

Torako's first time dealing with a high Alcor is... Interesting, to say the least.

AO3

Torako mindlessly scrubbed at the dishes. She didn’t want to do them, but it had to be done. She could wait till Alcor got home, but she didn’t want to part with her beloved Moffios, and her doing it would be a nice surprise for Bentley. She heard a pop behind her and turned to look. Speak of the demon, Alcor had gotten back. Annnnd, his eyes were so blown that if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was drugged. “Hey!” She said. The demon in question only stared in response, not blinking. “Ooookay then…” Torako scowled, suspicious, and turned back to the plate that had been giving her trouble. She barely had time to start, before she felt a tug on her collar. She twisted around to look, and…. “Are-are you biting my shirt?” Once again, no answer, just Alcor tugging her away from the sink. She tried to get the water off before she was out of reach. She failed. Alcor picked her up, still holding her shirt collar in his mouth, and floated into the living room. He dumped her rather ungraciously on the couch. The same couch from which he promptly began removing all the blankets and pillows, in favor of the floor. There were a lot of blankets and pillows. Torako tried to get up, she had dishes to do, or at least stop the water running. The second her foot touched the ground, Alcor whipped around to look at her her, and growled until she got back on the couch. Then the demon went back to kneading the blankets. “Why are you acting like a cat? Is this revenge for that last blog post? ‘Cause this is some weird ass revenge.” Her apparently-a-cat roommate ignored her. At least, for a few minutes, before he picked her up, he was going to stretch her shirt out, dammit Alcor, and set her in the pile of fluff. They sat there for a bit, so Torako decided it was safe to get up. Alcor pulled her back down. After a few more minutes, she felt something wet on her cheek. She looked, and it was her hair. “Are you licking me?” No response, but he was, he definitely was. “Dude, that is seriously gross!” Torako tried to get up, and the demon licking her hair growled. So she sat down. They did this several times, and Torako gave in. Alcor groomed her, and she wondered if her shampoo would cover demon spit. Probably not. She remembered Bentley telling her about a similar experience, one that happened not long after she met him. Not that she’d realized he came with a demon at the time, but still. Apparently he got like this when he was on yggdrasil, some sort of demon- “You’re totally high right now, aren’t you? Oh my fishes, you are!” She could only take about five more minutes of demonic licking before she got fidgety. “Okay Aldork, I’ve got dishes to get done.” She moved to stand, but before she got halfway up, her demon had pulled her down. And he kept licking.

When a certain Bentley Farkas got home, he heard the sound of running water. Which was distinctly not normal. He pushed down the ice in his veins, turned the corner, and laughed. Torako was pouting from a pile of blankets,which had been on the couch at one point, and Dipper was licking her har into some very interesting patterns. “Bentley, help me.” Tora whined, as Dipper continued his grooming, ruining ruined hair. She shot him her best wounded puppy look. “Nope. This is karma for your Twin Souls fanfics.” He stepped around the fluffy pile, on his way to the kitchen, where he suspected the sound of water had originated. “Bentley!” She called. “Karma,” Bentley laughed. “This is your karma!” He turned into the kitchen, leaving her to her fate.

[feferipeixes]

On Yggdrasil and that Thing Called Consent perhaps?

(ask meme) (fic)

Oh that’s a tough one! There are so many parts of that fic that came together over time. I wanna say the original scene that I had in my head that I wanted to write was when Dipper wakes up sober and he’s like bluh what happened, and Mabel is being extremely serious and asking him what he remembers. And then when it hits him that he got drugged, he initially blames himself and Mabel’s like NO!!!! it WASN’T your FAULT you got DRUGGED!!!!

In general I wanted to write about the twins supporting each other through their troubles instead of doing the generic Disney channel “being mean to each other” thing. Mabel makes sure Dipper knows it’s not his fault that he got hurt, just like later in the scene he makes sure Mabel knows that she is safe from the abusive situation she was in (that she had been having flashbacks about).

And I wanted to write about them having a positive experience too. Like, the scenes people write about where Mabel interacts with a dipnipped Dipper can be rather cute and fun, but they usually sat wrong with me because of the backdrop that it had happened non-consensually. I wanted to set up the same situation but in a way that didn’t have that backdrop, that was fully born of the twins being autonomous adults who get up to dorky hijinx.

tl;dr this is one of those fics that was a lot more than just one scene in my head when I came up with it!

[skia-oura]

Twelve Days (Christmas 2017)

A/N: Based on Na Leo’s version of the 12 days of christmas. Written in a couple hours, not really betaed. 

Ao3

Twelve raw opihi-

 Every Christmas, growing up, Torako’s family would serve raw opihi. When Bentley heard about this, he just about fell off her bed in awe.

     “I mean, I knew it was expensive, but is it really that expensive?” Torako had asked, spinning a pen between her fingers.

“Torako,” Bentley said, clutching one of her pillows for strength. “I have never had opihi. I have only dreamed of sampling one single, delicious, disgustingly expensive shellfish. The closest I’ve gotten to opihi in real life is when I stood on New Sacramento Cliff and weighed the benefits and drawbacks of climbing down myself to get a couple—don’t look at me like that, I know it’s dangerous, but if I got three then my dad could have one, I could have one, and I could sell another to get some extra money.”

Torako stared at him, and for the first time really felt the financial difference between them.

“I mean,” Bentley said, blushing, glancing at thin air to his left and then back at her, “it’s not like we’re unable to survive, and we’re pretty comfortable, but we definitely don’t have enough for more than like, one opihi a year, and that’s not worth it.” Then he changed the subject, but Torako kept that information in the back of her head, waiting for the right time. Then, Freshman year, at Christmas, her family express-sent a dozen raw opihi, and Torako got to see the bliss on Bentley’s face as he experienced one of the most expensive delicacies of the Pacific Ocean.

They had opihi for many, many years after that.

 -Eleven mu’umu’u-

 The mu’umu’u was a soft shade of pink, and had discrete designs in shimmering silver thread. Bentley lifted it to his chest and watched the fabric fall over his legs, long and ruffled and perfect. In more ways than one, actually, because he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“Not quite the reaction I was expecting, but I’ll take it, sure,” Torako said, grinning at Bentley even as a dipnipped-out Dipper licked her hair up into spikes. “What’s got you all cackling there?”

Bentley waved at her pile of presents and said, “just open the green mistletoe one, okay?”

Torako rolled her eyes and tugged the right one into her lap. She hefted it once, twice in her hands, then made short work of the wrapping to reveal cloth, dark blue lanced through with patterns dyed cyan.

She looked up from the mu’umu’u in her lap, wide-eyed for a moment with shock, and then laughed. “I guess we’ve got to get one for Dipper now too and make it a family thing, don’t we?”

     Bentley thought of the eleven other dresses he’d been looking at online, and figured that one of them would have to suit his brother.

 -Ten rainbow shave ice-

 “Come on Bentley,” Torako hissed, her lips stained with food coloring and artificial flavor, “ten each, you can do it, it’s only one more and then we win!”

Bentley stared at the last rainbow shave ice on the table before him. His head swam with the merciless cold from the last nine he’d downed. He reached a trembling hand out and pulled the shave ice towards him.

“It’s just ice and syrup,” Dipper hissed, “it’s nothing, come on, we have cash money to get out of this.”

Who needed enemies, he thought, when your friends were willing to abandon you to the frozen claws of too much shave ice, all for the sake of meaningless cash. Methodically, he started to lift spoonful by spoonful of shave ice into his mouth, head wailing the whole while.

“Thirty seconds left, Bentley, oh my god just hurry—Dipper, I’ll give you a bag of gummy worms if you—”

“On it,” Dipper said, and next thing Bentley knew there was ice pouring down his throat, so fast and smooth there wasn’t even time to choke before it was an unsettling sensation in his stomach. Distantly, he heard Dipper and Torako cheering over their hard-won cash as his knees hit the ground a few seconds before his head did, and the last cognizant thought on his mind before they got home was that Dipper and Torako were going to pay for their indescretions.

 -Nine pounds of poi-

 “Who the fuck,” Bentley wheezed, helping Torako carry the package up the stairs to her apartment, “needs nine pounds of poi?”

“My extended family is large and we all like it very much,” Torako said, not even slightly out of breath. He hated her. He also hated Dipper, invisible and floating behind his friend’s head, making funny (disturbing) faces to try to get a rise out of Bentley. “You don’t have to help, you know.”

“I’m here,” Bentley said, arms trembling, “so I’m going to help, dammit. But I want payback, so much payback, because nine pounds of poi.”

“There’s even more in the truck!” Torako grinned at him, holding her end of the package one handed as she gestured down the stairs, and Bentley could swear he felt his soul leave his body a little.

 -Eight ukulele-

 Lata started playing instruments when she was seven, and she never quite went back. She started with a little ukulele at Christmas, plucking at the strings at random and with the kind of inattention that would embarrass them when they were older and knew exactly how fast and true their fingers could flyover the strings. They played many instruments—piano, harmonica, violin, drums, jumping from tool to tool until she came right back around to the ukulele, nine years old and still well-tuned. Lata would sit on rainy weekends for hours, humming and absentmindedly pulling music out of her childhood instrument, the tiny berries on her tiny antlers swaying as she did so. She played for her parents, for her Aunt and Uncles, for her classmates, lovers, coworkers. Lata never went pro with the ukulele—they weren’t confident enough, didn’t have the stomach for entertainment—but they played, and they played, and they played. Over their life, they owned eight ukulele, carefully maintained, sparsely decorated. The last was buried with her.

 -Seven shrimp a-swimming-

 “How many shrimp do you have in your linguini?”

“Ten, you?”

“Seven, so you better hand over two of yours otherwise I’m arresting you for unfair pasta.”

“I know it’s Dipper and all, but I still don’t think that unfair pasta is a reasonable charge, Torako.”

“Oh yeah? How many do you have, Mr. Mom?”

“My plate is empty.”

“Then you better throw it all back up so we can count, you little—no, get back here you heathen, you despicable—I want my shrimp, damn you Bentley!”

 -Six hula lessons-

 Torako remembers hula lessons in the way that many mainland children remember ballet lessons: fun at first, but progressively more boring the older you got. She got through six years before begging her dads to let her quit and do something actually fun, like hurling, which had a lot more shoving people and ball-chucking and there were sticks you could hit people with. She got hurling lessons for Christmas, and didn’t think of hula again.

When Bentley was five, he wanted to dance with all his heart, watched dancers of a thousand different styles and rhythm move their bodies in ways that made his heart sing with desire. He loved hula the most, the grace and power of it, the sway of heavy skirts and the smell of flowers saturating the air. Philip bought him six lesson’s worth of hula from the local dance center, but that was all he could afford so Bentley moved on to quieter, more realistic dreams with the taste of hula still humming in his bones.

 -Five big fat pigs-

 “Those are absolutely hideous,” Bentley said of the five pig statuettes that Torako opened, her face lit up with glee.

“They’re perfect,” she said, hefting one with lopsided eyes and a chef’s hat. “This is everything I ever wanted, and Dad knows me so well. It’s going right in the front entryway, where everybody will see it when they come in and it’s going to be the absolute best.”

Bentley eyed the menacing, overweight figurines and wondered how much he’d need to bribe Dipper (or Torako, for that matter) to move them somewhere a little more out of the way.

-Four flower leis-

 Bentley doesn’t remember it, but on his third birthday, he and his father went out to the beach with four leis, carefully cradled in florist’s stasis wrap, and stepped ankle-deep into the water. Philip placed one lei around his own neck, one around his son’s, and twisted the other two around a stone the size of two fists put together. He hefted it in his hand, the weight of his son heavy in his other arm, and closed his eyes. “Susan,” he murmured, and a slight chill from the mid-December breeze caught the hair on the back of his neck right before he threw the stone into the ocean, the juice of crushed flowers lingering on the skin of his palm and in the crease of his fingers even as the ocean swallowed the stone, the flowers, with softer embrace than it had his wife.

 -Three dried aku-

 Torako threw a package of dried aku at Dipper, pouting as she did so. “No fair,” she whined, “Bentley got me those for Christmas, and do you know how hard it is to get actual dried aku on the mainland?” Dipper, mid-bite of skipback tuna, grinned at her with dried fish stuck between his sharkish teeth, and said, “Well, it’s worth the deal then, isn’t it?”

 -Two coconuts-

 “Hey handsome,” Torako purred, and when Bentley turned despite his better instincts there she was, lounging on the table in nothing more than a santa hat, a coconut bra, and one of those silly plastic wrap skirts cheap tourist places in the Californian Federation liked to sell. Torako opened her mouth, cupped one of the coconuts on her chest; before she could speak, Bentley interrupted with a “No, Torako, I don’t want to buy a coconut or drink any milk, get out of my kitchen before I brain you with the rolling pin.”

 -and One myna bird in one papaya tree

 Bentley had distinct memories of early December in his childhood, laying under the papaya trees in the park with his father, snacking on sweet lumpia and listening to the endless chatter of the myna birds above, laughing when his father talked to them and the starlings echoed his own words back, no matter how silly or sweet.

fin

[ii-thiscat-ii]

Um... what about one for Static Worms? I did enjoy that one

Hoo boy, Static Worms. Alright :D

(If anyone wants me to do this for anything else, ask away! I’ll probably queue it instead of posting it all at once though.)

This was one of the first things I wrote after a ridiculously long writer’s block. I wasn’t focusing much on emotional impact or themes or whatever, I just wanted to write about something cool.

The original idea came to me, as many of my ideas do, when I was talking to a friend about silly stuff. Specifically, what if Dipper was playing human once, walked into a bar, and then got roofied by a couple pricks trying to steal his kidneys? (You might have seen the writing prompt: “WHY DON’T YOU HAVE ANY KIDNEYS? WHAT ARE YOU?”)

Obviously that is not what I wrote, though I still kinda want to. It did get me thinking about situations where someone would need to cut him open for less nefarious reasons, and being an insufferable biology nerd, I of course invented a horrifying parasite.

Let’s get into it.

Dipper’s day began normally enough.

He had been bored out of his mind for the last… unreasonably large amount of time, and so had decided to try the whole human thing out for a bit again. It was going surprisingly well.

I love starting stories like this. There is so much potential in having Dipper pretend to be human, and the shenanigans that naturally develop from that.

You can get so many different genres out of it, with just having a ‘human’ character with unimaginable power. It’s probably part of why I like RRR so much. I have several other stories like that as well, like Old Man Tyrone and The Wizard of Lanata. Judging from the comments on those, I’m not the only one who likes the idea.

Of course, I also needed him to be “human” in this to have an excuse to send him to the hospital in the first place.

The sun shone, the birds were singing, and the first few bugs were starting to buzz around. One had even stung him earlier. 

Omniscience doesn’t help much if you’re not looking, it turns out :P

This particular little bug wasn’t as harmless as it seemed. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so distracted by the chocolate?

I’m not actually sure if any of his neighbours found out he was hospitalized, but probably. That might be an interesting fic to write as well, considering how much he’s apparently enjoying life at the moment.

The man they wheeled out of the ambulance looked terrible, arms twitching feebly and clothes splattered with blood. He looked like he was just coming out of teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. 

I admit I had him unconscious for the ride in the ambulance only to explain why no one has asked these questions earlier.

The entire first part of this scene is mostly exposition, both on the static worms, which I am really fond of, and on hospital procedures post-transcendence.

That’s something I feel we could talk about more. Considering the sheer amount of information we need to treat just this single species, what will it be like when there are so many? What do you do when you work in ER and someone comes in who is a species no one knows anything about, or with an illness no one has seen in their species?

Of course you would have specialists for all the major species, but probability says that the vast majority of species would be too small to have people specifically dedicated to treating them at all, not to mention having someone present at each place they might possibly be needed.

You’d need a gigantic database of information on each and every species, sub-species and assorted magical ailments to check, and you’d still routinely end up needing to improvise over a species no one has seen before, because they’re secluded, secretive or just that rare, or similar things. And that’s without counting the patients being difficult, for example if they’re trying to hide their nature and thus wouldn’t want to tell the doctors. (Don’t lie to your doctors, people!)

People working within medicine would all need to be even better at improvising well than they already are.

“What kind of side effects?” she asked.

“I’d get very high, try and probably succeed in running away, and if you did manage to help me despite that, I’d probably immediately kill you once my powers came back.” He looked her in the eye. “We’ll do without.”

For those who didn’t catch it, or who are wondering, yes, he is talking about dipnip here. Usually, the stuff calms him down. However, in a situation where someone literally needs to cut him open, I seriously doubt making his mind more animalistic would be at all a good idea. Imagine a demonic cat in full panic, in a situation where everything hurts and only strangers with knives were around.

He says he’s fine because he doesn’t feel pain like humans do, which is true. On the other hand, playing around with injuring yourself when you can easily heal up with a thought is something else than having someone do surgery on you while you’re more or less powerless, so it’s not like he’ll enjoy it.

Can you tell I had fun with it?

Maggie absently noted that without his clothes he was more obviously unusual, lacking certain features human males tended to have.

My own weird headcanons showing through. Dipper looks human, when he tries. That doesn’t necessarily mean he would keep all the features humans have under their clothes if he doesn’t have any need to use them.

“I did say I was half-assing it, didn’t I?” Pines said. “I needed enough to sound human and not much more.”

I really wish I’d had him sassing at them more.

This part is all gorey descriptions with a mix of Dipper actually being profoundly uncomfortable while also being a sarcastic little shit, which is basically what I wrote the entire fic for.

I like the idea that the whole thing was filmed, and is used as a case study in future medical teaching, just to show that even when circumstances are as good as they could be (cooperative patient, powerful healing factor, doctors who more or less know what they’re doing), it can still become a mess, and that even if it’s a mess it can end well if you do your best with what information you have.

It’s also the kind of thing that will be told over drinks by the people who were there for the rest of their lives.

“Fuck! Get it!” the surgeon exclaimed.

Maggie grabbed a scalpel and stabbed at it, to which it reacted by wiggling behind the spine. Pines growled loudly and suddenly, and there was a sharp sound of something cracking. It might have been one of his fingers where he clenched them against the table.

This. Just, two people chasing a terrifying worm around someone’s chest cavity is unreasonably amusing to me.

I entertained the idea of it giving up and turning into about a million adults right then and there, requiring them to seal off the surgery room and possibly requiring Dipper to get up and fry them all, but I decided against it.

Dipper gets to pull spikes out of his own ribs instead. Fun!

The surgeon dived for the worm and just got their hands on it before it could disappear through the diaphragm, whereupon Maggie stabbed it through the middle.

It violently tied itself into a knot a few times, spraying goop and blood everywhere, before it finally stilled.

I really like the imagery here. It gets across just as the kind of mix of ridiculous and disgusting I wanted.

“We stitch him up,” the surgeon continued, “as best as we can, and then we keep him under observation until he either wakes up or we’re sure he’s stable, to make sure there are no complications. If he’s fine when he does, he can walk.”

Tying back into the hospital procedures. Sometimes this is all you can do, if you have no idea what’s going on. Try your best, don’t do too much, and hope.

People on the street were staring. Of course people were staring, they were making a spectacle of themselves.

And then there’s this part. I don’t quite remember how the idea of the sheep pretending to be human came to me, but I remember thinking it was hilarious. And I was right.

The sheep, like their master, are shapeshifters. Unlike him, they’re not all that great at it and don’t have that much experience with what things are supposed to look like, and so they mess up a lot. I had a lot of fun writing the descriptions of what they end up looking like.

I like the Flock a lot. You might have noticed this from the fact that I have written all(?) of the longest fics about them. Hmm.

Incandescence, who after an incident a few weeks after she joined the Flock would never again take a human-like form, walked beside the small group as a large, neon, rainbow-coloured poodle. 

I’m assuming this part makes more sense to people now than when I first wrote it.

Yes, I had Incandescence planned out way before this one, it just took me a lot longer to write. The funny part is that if she actually tried, she’d probably actually look human, unlie the rest of them. She has a lot more intimate knowledge of the human body, after all.

On the other hand, no one seemed to realize what exactly they were. Guesses circled around some kind of satyr subspecies, which was good enough. 

Practical to live in a world where so many different species exist everyone just assumes it’s supposed to look that way.

“We are intending to pay someone a visit,” said Devil’s Child, attempting to give a reassuring smile.

The receptionist flinched back at the sight of a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. “Okay,” he said, swallowing. “Who?”

Oh, Devil’s Child. He’s not very good at talking to humans in a reassuring way. Honesly, most of them aren’t. This one in particular is one I’ve wanted to write a fic about though. He’s a fun one.

The disturbing conversation continues for a while. I especially like the part where they talk about owning people, and how humans are a little dubious abut the issue. It doesn’t mean much to the Flock, because to them, ownership just means they’re protected and get a family, but it’s still there and it’s still an issue that tends to creep people out, for good reason.

Ah, so many things I want to write fics about that I won’t because I have a limited amount of time in my life and I don’t write as much as I should.

Incandescence jumped straight onto his bed, tail wagging like an electric fan, and licked his mouth. He grinned and pulled away just enough to give her a hug and bury his face in her fur instead. 

Did you notice the kiss? I noticed the kiss, but as she’s a dog here, it’s not as noticeable.

The end is just a pile of fluff. I like piles of fluff. I can write horrifying things, but I want them to end well, as I am a massibe sucker for happy endings. There’s no point in writing angst if the characters are never happy, after all.