#kip talks for too long

[the-kipsabian]

the backside of the new gear says "the gallery"....

[smudgekip]

My self worth so low you wouldnt even trip on it

[paradlselost]

. ⋮ ULTRAVIOLENCE .ᐟ ֹ

doctor phosphorus x female reader

⎨ 𝐀𝐍 ⎬ fun fact i’ve wanted to eat uranium for a long time so he is the worlds most perfect man to me . also sorry for not writing anything in so long , i’ve been busy and jumping from hyperfixation to hyperfixation for a while now as you can see by my unfinished mouthwashing fanfics . but i watched the show last night and he is my favorite and there’s almost nothing about him so i had to . enjoy !

⎨ ��𝐖 ⎬ monster ! reader , mentions of body dysmorphia and imposter syndrome / depersonalization , religious trauma + blasphemy ( cause i can’t help myself ) specifically in catholicism , catholic rituals , depictions of eating raw meat , depictions of wounds , hurt / comfort , depictions of cannibalism , described body horror . smut : fire / burning kink , dry humping , fingering , male moans ( yay ! ) .

3 . 1 k words ++ not beta read .

PART TWO OUT NOW : CINNAMON GIRL

Eyes flutter closed, allowing darkness to wash over you. Soft sounds of birds chirping fill the room around you, drowning out the constant humming of the chip in the back of your neck. You’re hyper aware of everything, the fabric of the blanket that covers you and the cold air that stings your nose as you breath in; chest rising and falling in rhythm.

You remember how reluctant the guards that watched over you were to allow you the sounds you so desperately needed to sleep, not believing your pleas to quiet your constantly racing mind. Nearly a week without rest made them understand rather quickly, when, despite the power dampener locked around your neck, talons began to grow out of your hands and your spine contorted with the growing of fleshy wings.

It seems you’ve been blessed, something has gone right for once in your life as you’re now able to change the sounds to whatever you wish instead of the constant rushing of waves. Secretly, you’re happy to have been put on this mission. Grateful, even, as much as you could be to a monster like Waller. Perhaps you could even forgive her for the electrocution you’d been put through.

Weasel kips at the foot of your bed, stuck to your side since the day you had snapped at him: barred your fangs and shoved him away from you. Something about the beast had been so pathetic that you ended up apologizing and giving a hesitant scratch to the back of his ears. He’s good company, loyal if not a bit of a flea concern, and he listens when you speak to him unlike many of the others in the special containment of Belle Reave.

Nina was kind, as well, perhaps a bit out of her element, though. You’d once tried to make small talk with GI but that ended as quickly as it had started with his sudden interrogation on if you were a Nazi. And god, you wouldn’t dare bring anything up to the others.

Crickets chirped through the headphones you had been allowed to wear, owls hooting and birds calling. A forest at night, a beautiful scene you were sure you wouldn’t be able to see freely again, but you do not indulge in those negative thoughts. You can already feel it looming over you, exhaustion and stress mingling to bring it out. The thing that stirrs inside you, monstrous and ugly. Its hungry, and you know better than to ignore that hunger lest the Weasel that kips at the foot of your bed be more than a scrap of fur.

So, you stirr. Sitting up in the bed you remove your headphones and push the blanket from your form quietly as to not disturb him. He’s almost cute when he sleeps, like a crusty old dog that resembles more of a tattered blanket than a pet. Regardless, you close the door quietly behind you and walk down the long winding hallways of the palace. Truthfully, you had never been anywhere quite as lavish, never had a king sized bed all to yourself or a private bathroom. Its almost too big, especially at night when the shadows dance up the walls and cast an ominous glare over just about everything.

You know better than to gaze at your shadow as you pass the large walls with royal family portraits. Unworthy, unrighteous, evil. The rosary marks still pierce your skin, forced to pray this thing away day and night till your palms and knees bled. You’ve grown resentful towards the being that shares your body. It makes demands of you, to feast, a single slip can give way and allow it to control you. Some kind of devil, the reason you’re here in the first place.

Your mouth had begun to hurt in your search for the kitchen, gums beginning to bleed and pool against the base of your tongue.. You’d have thought you’d be used to this by now, that your world wouldn’t continue to be turned upside down, that the Lord’s Prayer wouldn’t recite involuntarily in your mind as it all starts over again. You stumble over your own two feet, finding yourself silently wishing you had that power dampener around your neck once again. Your stomach rumbles more.

It feels like an eternity till you finally find the kitchen, thankful that all the servants had retired for the night so you can spit your mouthful of blood into the sink. Crimson stains the marble, dripping from your chin as you turn on the faucet to wash your mouth of the taste. Your fangs had grown in now, taking space in front of your canines and piercing uncomfortably against your bottom lip whenever you close your mouth. Hunger gnaws at your stomach as if beginning to consume the lining itself.

You throw open the fridge door with little care of the noise it makes as it slams into the counter beside it. Eyes scour for something, anything, till you land on a large, raw goose marinating for tomorrow nights feast. Shaky hands reach out to grab it, allowing the glass tray it sits in to fall to the ground and shatter. The shards prick at your bare feet, cutting and marring your skin with more blood, though you don’t seem to notice.

Fangs sink into the bird, soft flesh breaking at the intrusion. The taste is almost euphoric, never had you tasted a meat so rich and fatty; your body had gotten far too used to the awful prison food they served in containment. You rip out a large chunk; tendons harshly snapping from the body as you swallow nearly without chewing. Your eyes gloss over as you devour the bird, reaching in to grab at the sausage links that had also been waiting to be cooked the next day.

You hadn’t realized how much you had truly lost yourself till a harsh green glow halted your feast. Head whipping around to greet the skeletal face of Phosphorus, a hiss falling from your lips that still wrapped around a chunk of meat like a food insecure cat. He was your least favorite of all, acting as if he knew everything simply because he had been a doctor before his incident. Not like it mattered in Belle Reave, and certainly not in the monster sector they were kept in.

“Woah. Calm down, I’m not takin’ that from you.” A huff came from him, head tilted to the side as he watched you, almost intrigued with the way you acted. He simply stepped past you, walking over to the sink and simply staring down at the blood that had graced the basin. “This yours?”

The link fell from your mouth, rolling into the shards of glass and crimson as the fangs retracted back into your gums, eyes returning to normal. All you could do was stare at him, as if he had asked the most stupid question in the world. Smartest man in the room your ass.

“Who else’s would it be?”

“Don’t know, thats why I’m asking. Flag and I got into a fight earlier and I totally won, so I’m just wondering.”

“Oh.”

He leans back against the countertop, facing you now, the sleeves of his hoodie protecting him from burning through the granite. Part of him had always intrigued you, in a way, everyone but Weasel had a signature outfit; but him? A hoodie and a pair of sweatpants. It was almost comical how simple he was, though you supposed there wasnt much he could keep. A step towards him, wincing at the sudden realization of what you had done.

His gaze followed yours, looking down to the glass and blood that gushed from your feet and ankles. The light from the fridge and his green glow illuminated the space between you two, dancing off the shards on the floor. Your mouth was covered as well, sloppily wiped onto your cheeks as you had feasted. God, you looked a mess, but the pain distracted you from that fact. Biting your bottom lip to muffle a pathetic whimper of pain.

“Cmon don’t cry, what’s a little glass among friends?”

“I am not crying.”

If he had eyes to roll no doubt he would’ve. Stepping over to you and hooking an arm around your shoulder to help you stand without any warning. Your first instinct is to fight him off, to tell him no and shout at him, but you don’t. Instead, you lean into the touch and allow him to help you hobble up the stairs to, what you originally assume to be your room, but soon discover he’s guiding you into his, and then, into his bathroom.

Theres something almost intimate about the way he grabs your hips to help you onto the counter so he can patch you up. You hadn’t asked this from him, but it didn’t seem to matter much now as he filled a bucket with warm soapy water, dunking a rag in a few times and using the help of tweezers to pick the glass out of your skin. You do your best not to flinch, using the time to preoccupy yourself with washing off the blood from your face.

John 13. You detest the thought, Belle Reave had ripped every ounce of belief from your body, but the ceremonies and rituals of your youth had not quite left your mind, and the intimacy of the moment didn’t help. Silence filled the room, the only noises being the soft sounds of the wash cloth being dunked into the water and squeezed out. You’d seen it before, a relatives wedding, the washing of the feet ceremony. It’s meant to be intimate, to be between spouses, to show commitment and love just as Jesus had to his disciples. You feel far more like Judas, however, with the monster that festers inside you.

“So. What was that?” His voice snaps you from your thoughts, eyes fluttering down to look at him, hesitating at his question. You don’t have a good answer, not one that wraps everything up into a neat bow at the least. Just what you know, which isn’t much.

“It’s the reason I’m classified as a monster. Theres… something that lives inside me, a devil of sorts I was always told. It’s been there for as long as I can remember, its why I had to wear the collar back in confinement. It starts to creep out whenever I slip, get too comfortable or let my guard down.” You’re quiet, not wanting to break the softness of this encounter. “I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“You don’t have to apologize. We’re all freaks, its the whole point of this task force.”

“I guess. I’m still sorry.”

A huff comes from Phosphorus as he grabs a clean washcloth, dunking it in fresh water and reaching up to wipe off some of the blood that you had missed, that still marrs your mouth and flesh. He’s close, now, very much so. He smells of sulfur, though it does not cause you to recoil or scrunch your nose; its a scent you’ve grown accustomed to with the monster that shares your body. Can a skeleton be attractive? Is that possible?

You lean into the feeling of the warm washcloth against your cheek; having been so long since someone had touched you. Before you had been arrested you indulged in sin, lust, it had engulfed your body and it wasn’t a feeling you ever wanted to encounter again. How it could consume your entire being, give control over to someone other than yourself. It’s a fine line for you, but you feel the distantly familiar feeling of butterflies flutter in your stomach at the proximity of him.

You feel sick; like bile will creep up your throat any moment, but it doesn’t feel bad. Not with how he lets the cloth be a barrier between the two of you, between his hands that will burn your body at his touch. You’d welcome it, to let him cauterize your wounds and fix you. Your hands creep up to wrap around the back of his neck, protected by the hood of his sweater as you pull him closer. He’s warm, comfortable.

“I don’t like you apologizing, you look like a kicked puppy.”

“You’re smiling, though.”

“Can’t help it, I’m a skeleton, doll.”

His voice is a giveaway, though, possibly the most upbeat you had heard him despite the quiet and intimate nature of the room. You feel it, the radiating warmth from his other hand creeping down to your thigh, rubbing soft, soothing circles against the fabric that protects your skin from his touch. It would hurt, but a part of you almost welcomes it, wants to feel it.

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes focused on the hand that slowly crept higher from your thigh. He’s close, his heat rivaling that at your core. You miss the way his head tilts to the side at your demeanor, hands grasping and releasing the fabric of his hoodie over and over.

Phosphorus said nothing as he continued to wipe some of the blood from your mouth, lingering over your bottom lip while his other hand becomes preoccupied with cupping you over your pajama pants, skeletal fingers pressing in to give you some friction.

That nausea you had felt earlier returns tenfold, punishing yourself for feeling anything remotely good. The situation reminds you far too much of the last time, dipping too far into bliss. It seemed you had only blinked when the body of the lover you had found for the night was strewn across the room, spitting half eaten entrails out of your maw. He guides you to lean back against the mirror, your hand clasping over your mouth to muffle your sounds as he slips below the fabric of your nightwear.

You can feel it again, the hunger that rises to your chest. Your hands shake against your skin now, nailbeds aching with the growing of your talons. A whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. You are selfish, greedy. You’d rather relish in this than warn him, to have one moment that allows you to feel human, to feel wanted and loved.

A sudden burning feeling rips you from your thoughts, your hand had been removed from its post over your mouth and was held in his. Tears well in your eyes at the feeling, the searing pain that washed over your body and forces you to see white. It aches, branding you.

“Shit.” Is all that falls from his mouth, moving his hand away before you needily grasp it once more. Intertwining your fingers, keeping him there. The pain had forced the monster away, talons no longer threatening to protrude from your nailbeds and spine ceasing its contorting. You are lucky, graced with an opportunity to feel something beneath the endless pit in your stomach. To feel him.

“Don’t stop.” Your breathless words are more than enough to encourage his continuation, slotting himself between you legs and pressing the suddenly tight fabric of his sweatpants against you. A soft sigh falling from your lips, head tilted back, hair fluffing up on the mirror as he began to rock against you.

“I wont.” Slow, at first, as if testing the waters to gauge your reaction. Soft whines emitting from somewhere behind the skeletal teeth that were on display for you. Your hand scrunches up his hoodie, dragging his chest closer to you as he began to pick up the pace.

Needy and pathetic, his hips grinding rougher against your pajama pants, the tent in his pants catching on your covered clit; pulling a gasp from you as you arched your back. He focused his movements in that spot, up and then down to elicit soft whines and moans from you. Matching his neediness, having been touched starved for so long.

You’d grown up with depictions of heaven, imaginary white fluffy clouds somewhere high above the Earth. But here, right now, you’re more than convinced this is paradise. Rough fabrics rocking against each other, keeping you grounded on the countertop you sit on, the mirror behind you beginning to fog up with your heavy breathing. Your hands still intertwined, the harsh stinging drowned out at the near bliss you faced.

Hes sloppy now, nearing his finish far faster than you despite your state. Harsh whines fall from him as he grinds against you a few more times before panting and leaning against you. He’s winded for a moment, catching his breath, though the hand not holding yours travels back down to rub against your core.

Hes rough, guiding you to gush around nothing. You can feel your heartbeat below, drumming uncomfortably as you bury your face in the neck of his hoodie. His hand slips below your pajamas once more, continuing to tease your swollen clit and soaked folds as tears pricked at your eyes, squeezing his hand to single for him to stop.

Within a moment, he did. Ceasing the torment though not removing his hand from under your pants. Allowing your juices to pool against the cotton of your underwear before guiding his hand lower, placing his palm flat against your thigh and removing his other hand from yours. It stings, the cleansing fire emitting from him, your hand already burned as he brands your thigh with his handprint.

“Perhaps we should act like this didn’t happen… I’m sure it would make being on a team awkward.”

“I-... Yeah. Agreed. I should, um, head to bed.” Awkward you lift yourself from the counter and fix your pajama pants, slipping off the granite and setting against the cold tile floor. Your feet still hurt, though not nearly as bad as they had hurt before and surely nothing in comparison to the feeling of him against your skin.

He gives little more than a nod as you slink out the door, stumbling down the hall to find your own room and quickly running a hot bath. It would soothe you, make everything better, you deemed. Stripping to allow yourself to sink into the warmth as a sigh falls from your lips, eyes drawn to the handprint marked on your thigh.

You trace the outline with your finger, over and over almost obsessively and silently cursing him for his words. An asshole, you remembered, your least favorite in the little ragtag team. Though, with the way he had whimpered and moaned against you, you were halfway convinced you may be able to fuck the sarcasm and ill wit out of him.

[squidsinashirt]

U must have some amazing stories about your dad u can share! 🤩

I’ve sat on this one for a bit, sorry Anon. Wasn’t intentional but I… just didn’t know how to answer it.

I mean, I get it. He’s Jeff Tracy, right? The Jeff Tracy. I can remember being just a little kid, and going to meet him off coming home from his latest mission. All these huge crowds cheering for him, those amazing rockets, and little me thinking all this, for my dad?

The thing is, everybody has their own stories about him. It’s fascinating, because you’ll hear all these other tales that exist only thanks to other people. Colonel Casey, Captain Taylor, heck even Kip Harris knew him. All these huge figures have got larger than life tales of the incredible things Jeff Tracy did, and was, and inspired. There’s statues and plaques to him, and you can take a tour at the space centre about his missions, and there’s books and movies and documentaries…

There are five incredible machines he dreamt up, standing by to help achieve this fantastical goal of his to help the world. I suppose in a way, you get to snatch a little glimpse of who Jeff Tracy was, and what he believed in, every time one of them appears to save the day. Every time some kid points an excited finger up at Thunderbird Two or squints after a contrail that was Thunderbird One, there he is. That magic, that excitement, that kind of imposing extraordinary that he did so well.

Anyway, to get back on track. People come bounding up to us, to me, and they ask this sort of question all the time, and that’s the thing about being JEFFTRACYSSON (said in one breath at rapid pace, because that’s the way people greet you). I get the curiosity, I really do. I don’t say it with any malice intended, and it’s comforting to know he still has that kind of impact. I’m always happy to talk about him, I promise!

It’s simple to be JEFFTRACYSSON when you pull on an International Rescue uniform. It took a little practice to ease into at first, but it’s perfected now. It’s really easy to talk about how we believe in his dream, how we’ve all taken on that duty in our individual and collective ways. In the importance of iR, in what it means to us as family. Shiny uniform, perfect hair, smile and wave and save some lives 💪🏻

Please don’t read into this in the wrong way - I’m very proud to be Jeff Tracy’s son. It’s actually quite difficult to really put across how strongly I feel about the weight of that title, because it’s pretty sacred (and also a little intimidating at times). Everywhere we go, it’s “oh, you must be Jeff’s boy” or “oh, you’re a Tracy”, and that means there’s instantly an expectation to live up to, both publicly and privately. It’s a privilege, it really is, and I think it’s a kind of sacrosanct commitment that has really been at the centre of my thinking as I’ve gotten older - how to try and be the sort of man that deserves that kind of birthright.

I don’t just mean the public side of being Jeff Tracy’s son. See, behind the scenes, to me, to us as a family, he was every bit human in a very ordinary way.

He made the best Sunday pancakes.

He cheered far too loudly at swim competitions (and teenage me was perpetually mortified by it) and was every bit as encouraging and supportive as you might guess.

He told these excellent, awful dad jokes, always at just the wrong (or right, I suppose) moments that made you groan.

He used to let me drive his old truck up the drive when he came home from a long mission, playing country songs with the window rolled down.

We loved pranking Mom together by hiding in the laundry bin and jumping out like idiots.

He told the most spectacular, far fetched bedtime stories he swore were real, and my brothers and I could never get enough of them.

He was also away for months on end in space, or training, or lost in his plans and ideas and dreams, and sometimes that meant he wasn’t really here with us, even if he was.

He couldn’t do laundry for shit, and he was absolutely useless at trying to run a house with five young sons on his own, and only a military background to lean on for ideas (thanks Grandma and Scott for saving that one).

Being Jeff Tracy’s son is a little more complex than just the uniform, I guess, and because of that I don’t always recognise the Jeff Tracy in the books and the movies, the one that people are so desperate to hear more about.

I think that’s why I find answering questions like this so difficult, and why maybe my answers never land particularly well with the people who ask this. Because the expectation for them is an entire reel of grand tales that haven’t been heard yet out of me. Some heroic, unbelievable stories that reads like the plaques - and then they are always a little disappointed that it turns out all I can say is that he was a real person. Somebody who was very human and very brilliant and very flawed, and who I loved very much. Because to me, he’s my dad.

And ultimately, nobody wants to hear about that. It doesn’t fit their two dimensional, mythical image of him, or my brothers and I for that matter. Us being a fairly regular family doesn’t really inspire the kind of tales that perhaps lend themselves to be told.

(This is the biggest reason I don’t do interviews, because I’d be like you wanna hear about the time he took us on a hiking trip, got us lost in a storm and Mom nearly divorced him because she thought we’d all been eaten by coyotes? No? It’s hilarious, honestly!)

That’s alright, though. Like I said, the movies and the books are there to tell those stories, and Lee Taylor will happily yap your ear off for an hour about their exploits if you want. Dad’s legacy, in that form, is more than secure.

They’re not going to ever be able to tell you about his favourite pancake toppings though, or his favourite song to dance to in the kitchen or his favourite swear word, and there’s the real privilege in getting to be Jeff Tracy’s son. In getting to carry him forward, not just the stories.

…

…

This got a lot deeper than I intended it to go. I’ve had a beer and I rambled. Sorry Anon.

Ahem. Good question! I guess I’m just not the best person to answer it, ironically enough ;)

I guess the best that I can offer is that if you are ever in trouble and call us, just know that there was a really great human being behind the face that made it all possible, who told the worst jokes, but who cared a whole f-ing lot.

*insert generic story here about Dad and a rocket*

[hermitknut]

Kip and Buru Tovo and opposing perspectives

OKAY so time for a little mini deep dive on my current obsession.

One of Kip's major challenges is always about coming home. About how his family and community treat him, about how they see him. From his perspective - well, it's in the opening section of Hands of the Emperor:

By the time he reached the bottom of the Spire he no longer felt like Cliopher Mdang, personal secretary to the Lord of Rising Stars, Secretary in Chief of the Private Offices of the Lords of State, official head of the Imperial Bureaucratic Service, unofficial head of the world's government, the Hands of the Emperor. He was, instead, merely everyone's Cousin Kip, the one who left.

He thinks of people back home as bafflingly insular, as unappreciative of anything outside of the ring, and he thinks that he doesn't rate highly enough to merit much from them - he's too much and not enough, as he says to Fitzroy in At the Feet of the Sun. He didn't find what he was meant to do at home, and he sees himself as without a place there. He assumes people a home barely think about him, and if they do it's trivial or negative. He doesn't doubt that they love him, and he doesn't think of them as bad people - but he doesn't feel seen or appreciated, and he's made his peace with that (well. he tells himself he has, anyway). He assumes they see him, fundamentally, as too foreign, and inadequate.

There is a lovely little microcosm example of this, when he is about to tell Buru Tovo (and his Radiancy, Rhodin, Conju, Ludvic) about his life. Kip feels the need to have a flame present in the room, even if it is only symbolic, so he gets the brazier:

He lit it with the fire-starter, knowing even as he did it that this showed a certain want in him. His great-uncle watched him narrowly, obviously noting the symbolic presence of the fire and the use of a Solaaran method of lighting it.

showed a certain want in him. Oof. But that's how he feels!

Now skip over to Portrait of a Wide Seas Islander, and there's this incredible, almost shocking shift in perspective. Because we can suddenly see what Buru Tovo can see - we can see past the snide little comments about Kip's clothes and how long he's been gone, and we can see the anxiety over his absence that drives it. Kip sees these things as people wanting to knock him down a peg, and that's not entirely untrue - but he has no idea of how much he is valued, back home. Both as a person (as we find out from Bertie's letters and some of the later scenes), and more broadly as the rising tana-tai - people care so much about what he does and what happens to him, and they are so bad at telling him that (Kip's perspective is entirely justified, given the information he has and the way people talk to him, and it hurts).

And going back to the microcosm, this is the part that always makes me pause, because look at the lighting of the brazier from Buru Tovo's perspective:

Tovo watched Kip light the fire in the velioi way, which had the merit of taking bare seconds. When the fire had caught - first try, of course it was first try -

Not only is Tovo entirely neutral on the method - he notes that it's foreign, and the pro is that it's quick, that's it! - he is immediately distracted by the fact that Kip did it on the first attempt, because of course he did, because Kip is just that good.

We don't dwell on this moment in the text, because it's immediately followed by Kip revealing to Buru Tovo that he's been practicing the fire dance, which is understandably a Big Deal. But! the contrast!! between the two versions of that moment!!! kills me every time. Kip, sunk in to the rut of his own belief in his own inadequacies, can only see a lack. He can only see something he could be doing better (as if Kip has ever done something worse than his best, I swear). And Buru Tovo, looking back at him, can only see just how brilliant he is.

Every time I come back to this I have to take a goddamn moment, so I thought I'd share. It's only a tiny moment, and of course it's a theme that the books return to at much greater length, but I really love the deft way this is done.

[wings-of-ink]

Since I'm feeling angsty after reading the "Why do you think I love you ask?" I came up with the following scenario (for Oswin alone):

So, MC learns they are not going to survive no matter what. And they should return home. By that point both Oswin's and MC's had confessed their love to each other. Yet, very much when they were about to reach MC's home so they could rest from the unsuccessful journey, MC falls from their horse.

Oswin, of course, goes to assist them. The fall, fortunately, didn't cause any damage. But even if it had, it wouldn't have changed anything. MC is about to die, and there is little to do now.

Oswin of course screams, so everyone can come. They are so close to home... Yet, maybe they won't reach them in time. Maybe Oswin alone would be the only one to be with MC when they eventually die.

MC stops Oswin with a gentle hand on his cheek. Their face, while sickly and full of sweat, somehow is as radiant as it could be. MC could be the sun, and Oswin was a simple planet orbiting around them. Their eyes, so calm, so loving. MC's voice is both tender and painfully weak as they say:

"Don't worry. It'll be fine. Could you just hold me? If there is anything in the other side... I want to go remembering your warmth... Your scent... Your embrace... Please Yarrow... Hold me, just once. I won't ask for more".

The childhood name had slipped from MC's mouth. Neither said a thing about it.

When everyone reaches them, MC is gone. A smile slowly fading from their face.

Ouch, Nony. You okay? This is rough. What makes it worse is that technically, if the curse does get the better of MC, this would happen on their 25th birthday. So yeah, that hurts a little extra, lol.

I don't have it in my soul to do a POV with this for poor Oswin (giving him a little break), but I can tell you some things he might do in response.

Not take it well, naturally. We're talking nuclear levels of not okay and unhealthy coping. It would take all his family and friends to keep him functioning and from working himself to death.

He'd change his name. No one can tell him no. If he was Yarrow in the end for MC, he will be Yarrow until the end of his days.

I don't think he could love again, not in the same way.

He'd quit is job and stay with his family, probably getting more obsessive over their care and well-being for a while. I am actually also thinking that Kip and Dov would be under this banner. I can honestly see Oswin moving in with them so they can be there for each other.

Grief would be a huge uphill battle for a tremendously long time. And it never is really over (grief never is) - time and space just lets him breathe a little easier. I think eventually he would meet some sort of peace, but it would take just so much time and working through. He would always look forward to meeting MC again in the hereafter. He secretly holds to the belief that their souls will be reincarnated together.

Thank you for the ask, Nony! We'll find something sweet today to go with this angst too. ^_^

Just a disclaimer: I don't have plans of killing off poor MC, not that life will be getting much easier for them or anything, lol. (I can't torture them if they're dead!)

[the-haven-keepers-collective]

local Piglin goes on unhinged rant /silly

aLRIGHT FUCKERS buckle up I'm gonna scream about exomemories, noemata, and Piglin culture and general Piglin fuckery. Some stuff about Enderfolk in our canon too, just a very small section.

Preamble real quick: Yes, we know some of these things in the "worldbuilding" of our noemata/exomemories are likely or even undoubtedly subconsciously inspired by Tumblr posts or media. If you notice it, we probably already know. Please don't comment on it, it kinda bothers us for reasons that are hard to articulate. Also, plz be mature about the bits that could be read as kink-coded. It's not a kink it's literally our version of marriage. Nothing against kink tho shout out to kinky alterhumans.

Oh also, post written by Techno. I am the local Piglin in question.

So for one, Nether culture is very cutthroat. "Learn fast or die" in the words of Avatar. It's home and I love it, but it's not the sort of place most people are able to get comfortable in. Comfort requires safety, safety requires resources, and resources are very few in the Nether. Survival is priority in the Nether; a lot of the culture within stems from that base fact.

Hair is super important to Piglin culture. It has nothing to do with hair itself and everything to do with the result of it- long hair is an easy handle in a fight, and sometimes a braid someone can get ahold of is the difference between life and death. It's the norm to keep your hair short; from maybe chin length to properly against-the-head levels of short. Long hair is considered to be a sign of a skilled warrior, since they're skilled enough to have an active hindrance for the sake of aesthetic. The longer the more of a threat they are. If you challenge a Piglin with waist length hair. Hairstyles have some significance too- high ponytails are the most dangerous to have with how much they stick out, so they're the "fuck you I'm a badass" of hair pretty much.

I've already mentioned this in a post before, but it's pretty common for teens to try and grow out their hair and end up with shitty, choppy haircuts from a fight. It's considered normal- kids get cocky and they're kind of assholes to each other. Everyone in the Nether knows this aspect of Piglin culture, so the danger isn't unique to fights with other Piglin, either- long hair as a Piglin makes you a well-respected individual at best, a potential target at worst. That's not as true in the overworld, where most people don't know about the hair thing. It's also not that uncommon for those with long hair to cut their hair before a battle as a sort of symbol for "going all in" so to speak. They're taking away the hindrance they've gotten used to- that means they're going to use all their force, all their skills, and typically means they're willing to die in this fight.

In source- skip this paragraph for source talk- my mother did this when helping me escape the Nether. Our village wasn't very fond of The Blood God, and for reasons that'd take up more space on an already very long (and not even near done) post, they went after me. Lemme tell y'all when a Piglin woman cuts her hair in front of a full village of people ready to kill her and grabs her axe, you motherfuckin' FEAR HER AND RUN. /silly

Alright hair aside! I'm finally done yelling about hair. Enderfolk! For one, they're called Enderfolk in our canon. They have zero concept of gender and frankly we just like the word better anyway. This is a tidbit that'd probably be better on our Enderfolk's post when/if they write it, but it's necessary context. Enderfolk, in our canon, are only creatures of the End. The End is completely closed off- which we'll get to in another post I'm sure, Kip can explain that one. Enderfolk aren't naturally found in any other dimension; They're "raptured" into the nether. Think, if you've heard of or seen the backrooms, how you just sort of clip into the backrooms. One step on seemingly solid ground and suddenly the world spins around you as you fall, and you're in another dimension. They appear, consistently, in warped forests.

The Nether doesn't naturally have warped forests either- they just started bleeding through, spreading, one day. It was one day thousands of years ago, to be fair, so most societies in my source memories had long since adjusted. We're not quite sure how much of Ender culture is even left for the Enderfolk in the Nether and overworld, since most of it is just reframed Piglin, Blazeborne, Pheonixkin, etc. culture. Most Netherborne are actually really fond and protective of Enderfolk nowadays because... I mean, really 99% of us have a memory of meeting one who was still adjusting and very clearly confused and stressed about losing their home/being plonked unceremoniously into a completely different environment. A lot of them take at least a year just to adapt to the temperatures, and the language barrier is... messy at best for a while. Gods forbid the village doesn't have a translator on hand.

Anyway; ROMANCE, HUH? Yeah we've got that too. I had forgotten until recently that Piglin do actually use the term 'mate' in our canon. I'm not sure there's a term equivalent for "dating" though? If there is I don't remember it. Which is kind of funny, because there is absolutely a major difference between being someone's spouse and being their mate. For a Piglin, at least, a mate is a much bigger commitment than a spouse. It varies from person to person obviously, but the general consensus as far as I remember was that a spouse spends their life with you. A mate makes a vow that a spouse does not in most situations; they will die for you. They will fight along your side to their last breath if they must.

Like I said earlier- a lot of Nether culture is based in the cutthroat nature of the dimension. The very act of the mating ritual- here's where my preamble about kink becomes relevant- proves that better than anything in my opinion. Piglin give each other weapons. A ring is shiny and sure gold is a huge deal, but most Piglin have already collected about five million of the things. A blade, or perhaps a bow on the rare occasion, is far more valuable in the Nether. In my Noemata, the blades are usually daggers and very ornate, but it depends on the culture of the area because it varies and just personal taste. Sometimes a useful but boring-looking weapon for their mate to fight with for life will be treasured far more than a fancy weapon that will ultimately never see any blood.

Anyway, the mating ritual is entirely about vulnerability; something that, in the Nether, gets you fucking killed. Funny, I use the word cutthroat to describe the Nether- that's literally what you do, though. Usually it's done in private because it has a borderline (or outright) spiritual tone to it, and the whole thing vulnerability that you don't want to be seen by anyone other than your mate or mates. The blade gifted to propose is used- and if their mate responded with a gift of their own that's used as well. The response gift is up to personal preference; some feel like it's too transactional, others feel it's about equal respect, others just want an excuse to give their mate a pretty knife. Throats are bared, and very gently ever so carefully blood is drawn. Dangerous? Yes. I'm genuinely not quite sure that the specific points in my mind could have blood safely drawn on a human. That's the point; the trust in each other to not be cruel or even just accidentally fuck it up is immense. This is not only trusting someone to stand by their vow to take their last breath for you if they have to, but trusting them to not take your last breath.

Some tidbits I couldn't fit in easily anywhere:

Proposal blades are purely meant to be for the tastes of one's mate, not for the one proposing. It's considered pretty rude to propose with a blade that's tailored more to your taste than theirs. Unlike wedding rings, no compromises have to be made- that knife is purely for ONE person. Hence why some Piglin prefer to give a blade in response.

TW FOR (IN-SOURCE) GENOCIDE AND DEATH, RELIGIOUS THEMES IG. Y'know the way we're REAL trigger-happy, attacking on sight if you don't have gold? Yeah there's a reason for that. Piglin are hunted. It's a clockwork sort of thing; done annually. Skywarden, in the words of the person who created them (we have permission to talk about them) are "Toxic Minecraft Christians." I'll get into their lore some other time maybe, if we do a chonky post on the mythology and history of our canon. Skywarden are, essentially, angels. For a species of empaths, they aren't very empathic. They have a white and gold theme- guess where they get all that gold. -_- Piglin are violent but we have good reason to be. Anyone that isn't clearly Netherborne (or Enderfolk) is shot on sight lol

OH MY GOD DID I MENTION PIGLIN ARE SORT OF COLD-BLOODED IN OUR CANON???? I DON'T THINK I DID. YEAH WE'RE COLD-BLOODED. Living near lava lakes will do that to you.

We have boats btw. Like fucking boats made of Nether brick type shit. I'm still not sure how the fuck that works I just know we had boats.

Most of the bit about mates is using monogamy as an example but monogamy isn't considered "the norm" and polyamory "a deviation" in Piglin culture. It's just sort of there. No one gives a shit.

ANYWAY HAVE ALL THAT get hit with a wall of text nerds. /silly

Feel free to ask questions if anyone has them! I don't expect any, but I also don't want anyone to feel like asking questions is bad. We actively want to delve into our sources and what we know or remember about our personal canons more. "Doubles" and such are welcome as well we don't care lol.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price takes Nikolai to a gig and gets more than he bargained for.

cw: sexual content towards the end.

Price stood on the outskirts in the standing area of Liverpool's Olympia stadium tracing back the decisions that had led him to this moment. He clutched half a pint of the worst lager he had ever tasted in one hand, his fingers bending the plastic inwards under a tense grip, while the other hand remained deep in the pocket of his jeans, turning his flat keys over and over.

Nik had thrown the flyer down on his desk about a month ago, and those big brown eyes had been turned onto their pleading setting immediately. Laswell likened them to the eyes of her barrel-shaped black Labrador; big, loyal, soft, irresistible. Price had asked her whether her wife knew there would soon be a third in their marriage and she'd thumped his arm hard enough to leave a mark. "Liverpool, this is where you live," Nik had said, stating rather than asking. "Can you help me book this?"

Nikolai could fix you a handgun in Liverpool no problem, replete with silencer and enough hollow point ammunition to create a very bad night for the Merseyside police force, but booking and attending a gig was apparently too much. Price had snagged up the flyer, squinted at the band name as if he had a chance in hell of recognising it, and then agreed.

Because why the fuck not? Brass were pressuring him to book some leave so they could tick the 'monitoring mental health and well being' box on his performance management, so it was as good excuse as any. You can kip on my sofa, he'd said, I can cook a better sarnie than the Premier Inn.

Nik's entire face had lit up. "Good! And you can come with me," a single beat of breath, "or I might get lost." There has been no time to argue the point because Garrick had knocked and entered, only to be scooped into a hug with a boomed, "Gaz, my brother, good to see you!" and the Russian-shaped whirlwind had disappeared.

So Price had done just that. He'd booked two tickets at the same time as his annual leave - three days should get them off his back - and put it out of his mind.

Not that there would have been much time to mull it over; they shipped out on a week long recon mission the following day, and the fallout that followed had taken up the rest of the time. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the train with Nik opposite, watching the British countryside sprint by in a blur of green and grey, drinking a beer and playing cards.

Being around Nik was easy. It wasn't just that he didn't take up energy to entertain, or require a certain mask from Price, it was more than that. Like he slotted into a part of Price's psyche built precisely for him, and Price felt happier when he was there. Laswell said it was like Nik removed the stick from Price's arse as part of his exfil service and Price had told Laswell to fuck off.

They had spent the afternoon mooching around Price's gaff. Not much to see really, but Nik had been fascinated by the dusty family photos on Price's wall and asked after every face; mother, father, sister, two nieces, a nephew, grandparents. He'd wanted to know about them all.

Then, with an hour and a half to go before Olympia's doors opened, they'd got changed for the evening. Price had thrown on the only shirt he owned that didn't come from the bargain bin of a Mountain Warehouse or the Army Surplus catalogue - a Ralph Lauren his sister has bought him one Christmas instead of the much preferred fishing-themed memorabilia - and stepped out to be confronted by Nik in a Slayer cut off tank that showed off the sides of his torso in a way that made Price feel hot under his designer collar.

"You look," Nik had said, studying Price carefully, head tilting to the side with a wry little smirk, "ill-prepared."

"And you look like Ozzy Osbourne took some steroids so I reckon it evens out." Nik had laughed at that and thumped Price's chest, and in the next moment they were sitting in the back of a taxi, Nik talking through the set list with the same excited gusto he did when pawing over a new bird in the hanger. Price was just glad he had remembered his Loop earplugs and couldn't help but smile along at Nik's excitement.

After drinking together through the support band and watching Nik grow gradually more and more restless, Price had sent him into the pit. He stood watching Nik from afar - "your shirt is too nice, captain, you stay here and finish your beer, I'll be back," - a man ten years his senior, orchestrate what the lead singer was calling a Wall of Death. More, more, further. Don't be a pussy! And then they sprinted at each other to the crescendo of a shredding guitar. Jesus fucking christ. Price lifted his lager to drink and then hesitated; he was pretty sure he'd felt something wet slosh over his face and shoulders, into his drink, and he couldn't be sure it wasn't piss, so he put his inordinately expensive and shit lager down on the nearby bar.

The last gig he had been to was at fifteen, a year before he joined the service. 3rd November 2000 at Wembley in London; the Smashing Pumpkins. He remembered it so clearly because of the hiding his father had given him for not only hitchhiking his way to London, but stumbling home off his head on cheap vodka the morning after. There hadn't been any Walls of Death at the time.

Nik stumbled out of the melee that had followed the wall's demise just as the song ended, and a line formed down the centre of Price's brow. A knot twisted in his belly, and a little further down, at the lumbering mess of a man that approached. His tank clung to the curves of his chest, darkened with sweat, his usually neat hair ruffled and erratic, the sheen on his arms and collar bones reflecting the strobe lights and drawing Price's eye. A shiver of something that felt far too fucking much like longing ran down his spine.

"You're bleeding," Price said dumbly, his throat tight. His gaze settled on the split in Nik's lip and the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.

"Eh," Nik huffed, wiping a smear of blood on the back of his hand. "The other guy looks worse." There was that feral little grin. The same grin Nikolai wore in the field when shit had gone Pete Tong but they had still come up golden through sheer grit, dumb luck and the precise application of violent savagery. It set a fire in Price's chest, made something feral and untamed rouse from slumber, and suddenly there was an itch beneath his skin.

"Damn fuckin' right," Price replied, reflecting Nik's grin back at him. A breath passed between them, something unspoken and wild as their eyes met. And then there was a strong hand gripping his jaw, another on his hip, pushing him into the wall behind him. His back hit home, knocking the air from his lungs, and his fists bunched in the sweat-soaked material of Nik's shirt as Nik's lips pushed to his. The coppery taste of blood mixed with cheap beer and cigar smoke, and every sane thought fell out of Price's head, replaced instead by a maelstrom of chaos centered around the feel of Nik's tongue, the softness of his lips, the demand of his teeth and the rock hard bulge that ground into Price's hips.

Price was sure his moan would have been audible but for the thump and scream of the music. Nik kept that grip on his jaw as he damn near plundered Price's mouth for what he wanted, but the other hand left his hip to push against the wall, clenched in a fist near Price's head. When they pulled apart, Price sucked in a strangled gasp of air and Nik pushed his face into the scruff of Price's beard. "Ty prekrasen," Nik breathed, "ya tebya hochu."

Price had been practicing Russian. He still couldn't read it, but even if he hadn't understood the words or the low growl in Nik's voice, the hunger in Nik's kiss on his neck would have communicated his meaning just fine. "Bloody hell," Price arched against the hard line of Nik's body, fists shaking. "Yeah. Fuck. Wait..." He shoved Nik away, just a fraction, but held onto his shirt with the same desperation. Caught in the conflict between what he wanted and another part of him that had been wounded once before. "I'm not your three a.m. shag, Nik. We clear? I don't do that. If this is--if this is what this is, then no, look at me, you hear?"

Nik let out a burst of a chuckle, eyes soft as he met Price's gaze. "John, you are and always will be my everything." He was drunk enough to struggle around the 'J' in Price's name, defaulting the zsho- inflection, but his eyes were clear as he said it.

"Fuck," Price responded, eyes wide, and Nik kissed him again, slower this time. When he stopped, Price was shaking.

"And you?" Nik breathed into his lips.

"Not here, not... I can't hear myself fucking think."

"Then home." Nik pulled him from the wall and soon they were navigating the corridors crowded with drunks and staff into the night. The cool air bristled over Price's skin, but it did little to cool the heat in his body, barely able to keep his hands off of Nik when they fell into the back of the cab. Nik sat contentedly, the backs of his fingers stroking up and down Price's forearm as he watched the city speed by.

Price's hands shook as he shoved the key in the door of his flat, and he turned just in time to be crowded across the threshold by Nik's chest. The door slammed shut and they tumbled onto the beaten up old sofa padded out with a spare duvet and pillow. Nik tore into Price's clothes remorselessly, thirty-ish quids worth of buttons skittered under Price's coffee table as the shirt was k.i.a. It didn't matter, because the feeling of Nik devouring his chest, scrubbing his stubble into sweat, hair and cologne with a deep, guttural groan, was worth every shirt Price owned and then some.

They fumbled and wrestled out of their clothes in search of skin. Nik worked his way down Price's body, wrenching his jeans and boxers over his thighs to lick a long stripe up the hard line of his prick before swallowing it in one. A strangled noise broke from Price's chest as he buried a fist in Nik's hair; the responding moan that vibrated in Nik's throat sent pleasure licking up Price's spine like tongues of flame. Nik kept him teetering on the brink, pulling away with a soft pop to work his way back up Price's body and squirm out of the baggy cargo shorts far enough to free his own cock. He took them both in one big hand and rutted forward, grabbing at the arm of the sofa behind Price's head for purchase.

Slicked by their precum and Nik's saliva, Nik fucked them both into his palm with enough pace and force to make the old sofa creak. He leaned down to kiss the moans and whimpers from Price's mouth in between growled pants of want, slipping in and out of Russian, English and some of the other eight languages he knew, like his brain had short-circuited and was spinning out. Fuckin' hot, is what it was. One of Price's hands joined Nik's, if only to feel the silky iron of his prick against another part of him. He squeezed tighter as his pleasure crested, balls pulling tight, and spilled between them.

Nik practically fucking purred with delight, thrusting against Price's spent cock until he grunted in discomfort before pulling away. No fucking way Price was letting him keep the upper hand; he snagged Nik's shorts and used them to yank him up until Nik's cum-slick cock hung over his face. His palm gripping one plentiful arse cheek, he sucked Nik into the back of his mouth, encouraging him to thrust in with a firm squeeze and low growl.

If Price had thought Nik had been loud before, the act of fucking Price's face had unearthed a whole new vocal range. Nik moaned, growled and panted like an animal, fisting Price's hair as his balls settled against the bristles on Price's chin. Price's throat spasmed, his chest ached, his damn eyes watered, but fuck he wanted Nik buried in him forever. His fingernails bit into the flesh of his arse, his spent cock flicking with interest across his belly, as Nik staked his claim. It took only a handful of deep thrusts before Nik hit his peak, buried to the hilt and spilling down Price's throat with a euphoric shout.

His grip loosened in Price's hair and he withdrew slowly, cock still twitching as it drew over Price's tongue. He replaced his prick with his mouth, kissing the taste of himself on Price's swollen lips with a bone deep moan, before lapping at the tear tracks on Price's cheeks.

At some point, Nik must have moved them to the bed, because Price resurfaced from his haze with his face on a thick, furry chest and a strong arm around his shoulders, the bedsheets draped up to their waist. Nik traced vague circles on Price's bicep, half lidded eyes unfocused as they stared at the ceiling. "I meant it," Nik said, clearly sensing Price's return from his post-fuck delirium. "Everything I said."

Price swallowed hard. How did you respond to that? Nothing in his life so far had prepared him for Nik's devotion. "I know," he murmured. "I... Me too. For a long time."

Nik shifted, rolling Price onto his back so he could look down into his eyes. "Then we make it work."

"Nik... Our lives, we... Shit could go upside down real bloody quick."

A finger pressed over his lips. "I specialise in upside down, captain."

"You just put your prick in my throat and you're still going with captain."

Nik shrugged, lopsided grin slipping back into place. "It is hot. Maybe I will fuck you in your uniform next time, hm?"

"Presumptuous, Nik..."

"Maybe over your desk." Nik sank down to kiss Price's neck.

"Cleaning lady would have somethin' to say about that."

"She is not invited. I do not share." A nip against his throat, and Price arched into Nik's chest.

"Fuck, okay... Mate, you're rabid."

"Hm, only for you."

Fuck. Only for you. Price closed his eyes as Nik's hand slid beneath the blanket. Yeah, fine, they could make this work. They could have this. They deserved it, this one thing, and fuck did Price want it bad.

[high-qualitymoron]

Deep Space Discounts trailer breakdown? i guess?

In celebration of episode 1 releasing next week! (can you believe it guys? dsd, just a week away! /reference) it’s really just my thoughts on stuff in order it appears. but there are quite a few thoughts so Long Post Warning!!

‘congratulations!’ from previous video, 'deepblueink gets blackmailed.' idk how i didnt notice that sooner lol

I assumed deedee's head was a robot head and they're a robot, but i also noticed that it has what seems like an opening around the neck, so it might be a helmet of some sort. idk

INCARCERATION ALTERNATIVE PROGRAM in all caps, obviously significant. i also have the thought that what if this is in universe. because i think it'd be funny

the scribbly thought bubble. deepblueink moment

deedee looks at camera when thought bubble says deep space discounts. idk if that’s important or anything but i noticed it!

Deedee is so suspicious. they are most definitely evil. However. they are also wearing a uniform. different than the others but still with the glowing armband which i assume is significant. So like, maybe they just work here too and have weird vibes?

walking scene. they all have different walks which show their personalities well and. augh i love the animation dbi did so good

shoutout to gub's arms moving more smoothly/wiggly-ly (??? in a wiggling manner) instead of normally like everyone else. because slime man

multiple shots of immy being stressed and doing weird stuff. idk what to say about this

another shot of the team walking, this time dancing! again, they all do it differently, with much personality! (except immy who is just walking normally/stressed)

but also where is clayre in the dance scene. i’m worried about them. and also who is this robot guy???

shots of characters doing stuff

clayre throws some guy across the room (good for them), gub is on drugs i think??, vee gets some sort of message from deedee and is sad after, and immy looks into space

voice actor reveals! if only i knew voice actors lol. anyway im going over all of them with the note 'its interesting that this is what they those to define the character'

immy is holding some kinda critter i think? we'll see them again later. vee is also there

vee is in... bed? to me it looks like they're lying down in bed with how they grip the thing in front of them, but its probably not. idk what it is

deedee talking to camera. guy (mannequin?) in front of deedee has 'i <3 dsd' shirt on. probably something they sell?

honestly idk what kip is doing. some weird hand motion

gub looks like they're whining about being told to do something. based on surroundings probably cleaning the bathrooms?

clayre is about to throw something again i think. they like to do that it seems

i was saying that deedee has a uniform and armband so i think they're less suspicious. yknow who doesn’t have a uniform or (visible) armband? xancis. they are also no where else in the trailer, and all they do is turn towards the camera. even more obviously evil than deedee

immy holding the weird creature-thing again. it moves a bit and others in the background have reactions. clayre and vee look pretty happy, but kip and gub seem upset

another walking loop, not on screen long enough for me to tell if it's the same one, and deedee winks at the camera

the end!

thanks for reading so much, and also sorry. my phone wasn't loading anything else one day and a whole class period with nothing to do but watch this on loop may have driven me a bit insane (positive). also um does anyone know these character's pronouns. do we have that officially anywhere? because i dont want to assume

[magebunkshelf]

I have a million questions abt Felis' sorry if I talk a bit too much, Respawn is just so interesting to me-

Does catnip work on Cay?

How similair are Felis' to cats? [ <- general question, some more specific questions abt this -> ]

Do they need to nap constantly like cats do? When they wake up do they do the big yawn/ stretch? Do they communicate with their tails/ ears/ etc? Is there a Felis cat language?!?! [Sorry if this is really picky or alot to answer-]

This was a fantastic question! I'm sorry for taking so long to respond x.x

Honestly I'd love to see Cay's expression if the User asked him all of this XD

So one rule I tend to use for demihumans (and similar - felis aren't technically demihumans since they are in different worlds) is to not give them 1:1 the same traits as the other animal half. They're a full sapient species, they just happen to have some traits similar to something else. So for instance an inu (dog-person) may not be allergic to chocolate. Felis probably don't have a draw to catnip, and would likely get offended at the suggestion! Similarly the moth had no draw to bright lights, I had to reference that one in the audio!

Felis won't need to nap constantly, though many still enjoy an afternoon kip. Heck yes to the stretch! They don't communicate with their ears and tail in the sense of like a sign language with antennae, but both ears and tail definitely play into expressing emotions, it's just an extension of body language; in the same way that a person my fold their arms which subconsciously communicates that they feel closed-off, a felis' tail may also wrap around their leg for the same reason.

Felis don't have their own language. While there are multiple languages in the Plane, felis were created too recently and mix with many other species to the point that they don't have a language of their own - most languages are more regional than species-wide, except for some older and more isolated species. Most felis just speak the common tongue (which I don't think I've ever named x.x), or for more distant places whatever language has become the most widely-spoken there. Felis Users may be more varied as a User's original spawn is random and only influenced by not being too far away from another sapient, meaning a User doesn't have to spawn near other members of their species.

[ratasum]

GW2 Ficlet - Ship In A Bottle

As the race to find the Aspects of Lazarus ramps up, Rhenn decides to reach out to his father for help. He may find, however, that the path he's chosen doesn't have what he truly needs... Warnings for implied past child abuse, manipulation, trauma. Related artwork: "...yes, Father."

“Kas, believe me, I appreciate the offer - and that you trust her - but considering my track record, I’m not exactly keen on trusting a shadowy organization that wants me to bend a knee to them.” Rhenn’s arms were folded tightly over his chest as he spoke, looking up at the human woman with a small, faint frown. “I have enough of that in my life already.”

Kasmeer’s brow furrowed at that, and after a moment, she shook her head. “Anise is nothing like the overseers in the Inquest, Rhenn. She’s offered her help… and deemed you worthy. Shouldn’t that be enough?”

Immediately, his shoulders tightened. “You’ll have to forgive me for being wary, considering how most of my meetings with her before now have gone.”

“And you trust your dad more?” Iuno’s ears pulled back. “You haven’t talked to him since…”

“Since Trahearne.” Rhenn’s tone was flat, and he glanced away from everyone, jaw tightening. “I haven’t talked to him, no, and I should check in. I’ve been doing that less and less. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see the progress we’ve made, besides.”

From where she was standing, Kippa made a soft noise. “...I don’t know, Rhenn. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

Her tone startled Rhenn out of his frustration, and he blinked a few times before glancing over at her, offering a faint smile. When she didn’t return it, he reached over to grab one of the strands of hair that curled up by her cheeks, giving a gentle tug. “Awh, I appreciate your concern, Kip, you know I do. But it’s just my dad. I’ve talked to him a million times. I only grew up with him, y’know?”

She just frowned a little deeper, but finally sighed, giving him a look as she lifted a hand to grab his wrist. “We can’t stop you, but at least promise you’ll reach out to us if something goes wrong?”

“I didn’t know you cared that much.” He sounded more like his usual self, lowering his hand as she pulled at his wrist. “But yes. I promise if something goes wrong, you guys will be first on my list. How is it you like to put it…? Cross my heart and hope to cry.”

Nearby from her perch atop Scruffy, Taimi gave an indignant little sniff. “I still think you should let me come with you. Not for Scruffy as extra protection, of course, but because I would love to see the inside of the Applied Maginetics lab! I mean sure yeah they’re all Inquest but your dad is a primo geneticist. What if I just, you know… borrowed some research?”

Snorting, Rhenn grinned, glancing over at her. “Borrowed. Right. My dad’s really dear about his research, smarty pants, and I’m not about to let you get hurt. Zojja’d tear herself out of that recovery suite in Rata Sum and take my head clean off with a yank of my ponytail and you know it. I’m not about to incur the wrath of Snaff’s Greatest Heir.”

“Boooo, you’re no fun!” Folding her arms and turning up her nose, Taimi tipped her head in his direction regardless. “Well in that case, I second Kippa. Make sure you let us know if something goes weird.”

“Honestly, you all worry way too much. This is my dad we’re talking about, and I know all the researchers there. Just wait. We’ll figure out how to find the aspects of Lazarus in no time.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Getting to the Applied Maginetics lab was the easiest part of the trip. He knew how to get to the Inquest Outer Complex, and it was just a short walk to the main lab from there. Swinging through the door, he waved at a researcher who was passing by, grinning at her when she gave him a startled look. “Hey, Marha! Long time no see! I see you sorted out those optical implants.”

“Rhenn?” She sounded genuinely surprised to see him, turning towards him fully. “I- well yes, they work quite well. I rarely have to turn on the lights now. But I didn’t realize you would be back. You didn’t send any messages ahead. Does the overseer know you were coming…?”

He shook his head, hooking his thumbs on his belt. “Nah, figured I’d make a surprise visit. I needed some help with some bookah we’re hunting down and knew if anyone would have some insight, it’d be him. Why? Is he working on a project?”

Marha stared at him for a moment then gave her head a quick shake. “No, no, he’s been going over some readings from your files. He wanted to make some adjustments, but isn’t sure if it would be worth the extra work, since people might ask questions if you were gone from your work with… the Pact for too long.”

“I think I’m doing just fine as is.” The statement puzzled him, but he shook it off. Experiments and work had been core to Rhenn’s existence since he was young- this wasn’t any different. “Is he in his lab?”

“Last I checked, but- oh! Overseer, I-”

At the word “Overseer,” Rhenn turned, straightening a bit when he saw his father standing there staring at him, halfway between frustrated and puzzled. He looked between Marha and Rhenn respectively, then cleared his throat and turned, expression sharpening. “You’re dismissed, Marha. Do keep me updated on the samples you’ve been working on.”

The woman nodded without a word, giving Rhenn an anxious look before scurrying off. After a startled moment, Rhenn turned to his father with a half grin. “Hey, Dad. Sorry I didn’t send a bird first.”

Prikk regarded him for a moment, then sniffed before gesturing for Rhenn to follow him, turning to head down a nearby hallway. “Your communications have been few and far between as of late regardless, Rhenn… this incident notwithstanding. I had begun to wonder what might have come over you, or if you were having… second thoughts.”

“Huh? Oh, no, nothing like that. I’ve just been busy.” Rhenn had to measure his steps to keep from overtaking his father, folding his hands behind his head as he walked. “The whole commander business, you know? Which is actually why I’m here. We’re trying to hunt down the aspects of this mursaat, Lazarus, to try to prevent him being resurrected. I wasn’t about to go along with this human woman’s scheme, so I figured you might have something we could use.”

For a few more moments as they walked, Prikk remained silent. It wasn’t until they were in his old lab, the door closed behind them, that he finally spoke again. “Perhaps. But first we need to address the matter of your… poor obedience.”

Rhenn blinked, glancing at him after his last few words. “My poor obedience? What are you talking about? I’ve been doing exactly what you told me to do.”

“Have you?” Prikk turned fully, then, holding up a small device in his hand. He gave his son a long look through his glasses, and then pressed the button embedded on the side. “Why don’t we discuss it.”

The instant Prikk pressed the button, Rhenn felt it. Searing, agonizing pain radiating out from his chest and into his limbs, pulsing into his head, burning through his veins like molten lightning. An electric shock, stronger than his body’s ability to cancel out pain, was able to keep up with. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, and he could barely choke out a high, pained grunt before crumpling to his knees, head bowed forward until it nearly touched the cold stone.

It wasn’t until the pain ebbed that he felt like he was able to breathe again, letting out a sharp breath before beginning to breathe heavily, ears pulled back, whole body shaking. “Dad, what the hell-”

Another sharp wave of pain overwhelmed him, cutting him off as he let himself collapse fully, curling in on himself to try to find some way to stop the pain, claws digging into his own arms. This time, when the pain began to recede, he realized Prikk had begun to speak. “You had very specific orders, Rhenn. I believe this farce is beginning to go to your head. You serve the Inquest’s interests, and you report back to me no less than once a week. You seem to have forgotten yourself.”

“I- I’ve been busy, I told you, I- NNH-”

Prikk shook his head as he pressed the button again, watching his son writhe in pain on the unforgiving stone before him. “That is no excuse. I have very high expectations for you, as you are well aware. You are the pinnacle of asuran evolution- the greatest our kind can achieve. But you did not become so without my guidance. Me, to whom you owe your very existence.” Quietly, he put the remote down on a nearby desk, not looking back at Rhenn as he spoke. “Now then. I am ready to put this whole messy business behind us, Rhenn, and really look into these “aspects” you're so concerned about. Do you promise to behave... son?”

For a moment, Rhenn was silent, shakily pushing himself up onto one knee, one fist planted as the other clenched tightly against his raised knee. Then, slowly, he glanced up, glowing eyes illuminating his pained expression, jaw tight, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. “...yes, Father. Anything you say.”

It was only then that Prikk gave a wry smile, turning to move further into the lab. “Excellent! Come then. Let us look into these… aspects and see what we might do to track them down without the need for those ignorant, short eared, small eyed buffoons.”

Slowly, Rhenn pushed to his feet, watching Prikk’s back as he moved away. But as he went to pass the desk himself, he reached out, quietly slipping the remote from the desktop into a hidden pouch within one of his bags. “...of course. Father.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

It was late into the evening when Rhenn finally returned to the camp, looking exhausted and still wincing every now and then as his muscles tensed, an unpleasant reminder of his father’s unexpected chokehold on him. Why had he done that? What kind of device had he implanted to hurt him like that?

Why would he hurt him like that?

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear Iuno speak to him, her tone and expression worried as she went to grab his arm. “Rhenn? You don’t look so hot-”

Immediately, the touch causing ripples of pain to echo across his skin, he jerked his arm away from her. “I’m fine!” Then, after a moment, he let out a breath. “Sorry, I’m- I’m fine. It’s okay. I have a device that should let us track down the aspects based on the information we already had. I want to have Taimi have a look to refine it, but we can work on that in the morning.”

“Rhenn… you look awful.” Kippa was moving over to him, her touch far more gentle when she reached out to him. “Do you need me to get you anything?”

It was all he could do not to jerk away from her touch as well, turning his head away. “I’m okay, I promise.” Reaching into his bag, he withdrew the remote he took from his father’s desk, tossing it up to where Taimi was lounging on top of Scruffy. “Here, small fry. Destroy this. I don’t care how you do it, but I need it to not work, at all.”

She barely managed to catch the device, turning it in her hands as she scrunched up her nose. “Piece of cake, but why? It’s just a remote. What does it even do?”

The realization of that comment caused Rhenn to whip his head around. “Wait, Taimi, don’t press it-!”

But he was too late. She pressed a finger down on the button, though she immediately jerked it back when Rhenn let out an agonized grunt, sinking to his knees and curling over, ponytail falling over his shoulder as he shook, muscles clearly spasming. Kippa got to him first, ripples of water magic swirling around her hands as she reached out to cradle his face. Taimi, to her credit, looked thoroughly horrified at his reaction. “Sorry! I’m so sorry, Rhenn, I’ll break it, I didn’t know-!”

“Not your fault,” Rhenn managed to wheeze out, voice rough. “Just… just make sure you get rid of the damn thing.”

She was nodding, and Kippa made a soft sound, smoothing her hands down Rhenn’s arms. “Iuno, Taimi, can you give us a few moments? I’d like to check him for burns or… or anything, really.”

Slowly, Iuno nodded, waiting for Taimi to drop into Scruffy’s cockpit before the pair headed out of the large tent, leaving Kippa alone with Rhenn. She was quiet at first, reaching out to help him out of his shirt. It wasn’t until she had the shirt fully pushed from his frame that she gasped, fingers lingering on the deep scars covering his arms and torso. “Rhenn, what-”

“These?” He shook his head slightly, sitting back quietly, whole body still trembling faintly. “They’re nothing. Surgical scars, from my dad’s experiments.”

Kippa stared at him as he spoke, green eyes going ever wider. “Surgical scars? Then the remote… did your father make that? To… to shock you like that? Rhenn, if he did, that’s- that’s awful; what father in his right mind would treat his own son like that?!”

Rhenn said nothing at first, glancing away as his brow furrowed. “I… he must’ve. Look, Kip, I’m really tired and I don’t- we have a lot of work to do to find the aspects. Can we talk about this later? When I’ve had some sleep and you’ve got some… whatever you need to put on me, on me?”

She didn’t seem convinced, but she did sigh, reaching into her bag to pull out a few jars. “Okay. Here, I have some aloe. There’s some burns from where the metal touched your skin… they’re healing quickly but this’ll help ease the pain a little bit.”

The pair fell silent for a long while after that, with Rhenn watching Kippa work and Kippa diligently smoothing aloe over his burns and another cream onto his twitching muscles, gently explaining everything she was doing as she went. He had to marvel for a moment at how gently she handled him, always with the lightest touch, never doing anything without telling him and waiting for him to agree. It was such a strange difference from how the researchers and his father handled him.

Maybe it was how badly his head ached from the repeated shocks. Maybe it was that gentleness he was marveling at. But as she was reaching out to check a burn mark on his shoulder, he lifted a hand to catch her chin, gazing into those jade green eyes for a few moments before he leaned in.

It had to be the light headedness talking, but he was locked in now.

The moment their lips met was electric, but different from those terrible jolts of pain. She tasted just like the cocoa scrubs she liked to use, and after a brief moment of tension, she leaned into him, and it was all he could do to keep from gathering her against him. A ward against the awfulness of the day.

But then, the moment was over. When the kiss broke, he sat upright quickly, watching as Kippa stared at him wide eyed, her hand coming up to press her fingertips lightly against her lips as Rhenn stammered out, “I- oh Alchemy I uh- I am so sorry Kippa I don’t know where that came from I- I need to go. Jump into the lake or something okay I’ll be fine, just… we’ll talk later, okay?”

He didn’t wait for her to respond, dragging himself to his feet before hurrying out of the space, leaving Kippa to stand shocked in his wake.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t take long for Rhenn to find a secluded spot to drop down into a sit, one hand running over the scars resting in a v shape up his chest. The kiss lingered in his mind, but so did her horror over the scars. The difference in how she treated him over his father’s cruel, dismissive behavior.

It was an uncomfortable feeling to sit in, and he found himself almost wishing he could slip back in where he’d left Kippa. She was such a warm, calming presence, and she cared. She worried. The feeling of her up against him felt right. On the other hand, the awful, uncomfortable feeling lingered in the back of his mind, one that had started to form as he glared at his father from his agonizing kneel back in the Applied Maginetics lab.

His hands pushed back through his hair, brow furrowing tightly as he glared at the ground beneath him. Arms lowering slowly, he looked over the scars that traced up to his shoulders. They’d been so briefly painful, but now he was looking at them with a new perspective. The very crystals in his body his father had told him would help him achieve their goals, able to control asuran-built tech with a touch… used to hurt him. He’d been shock collared by his own father, who had put him through excruciating pain with all the care he might’ve shown a workbench.

And for what reason? His jaw tightened, hot tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He’d never questioned his father’s motives, or the Inquest, but the sick feeling in his gut that accompanied the new feelings on all of it bubbling to the surface was enough to make him want to vomit. Was he not his father’s son? Had he not done everything he’d been told?

What had he done, other than forget to write for a few weeks, to deserve that?

Letting out a frustrated yell, Rhenn shoved to his feet and began to pace before slamming his fist into a tree. The sting was only brief, his highly modified body reacting quickly to stop the pain before it even had a chance to do more than itch.

Abilities his father had designed into him. He was meant to be the perfect asura, but what did that mean, in the end? Did his father see him as a son?

Or an experiment?

Shaking off the thoughts, he let out a breath, shaking out his hand before looking back towards the tent. He could see Iuno speaking with Kippa, who was worrying her hands anxiously. They couldn’t see him from where he was standing, even if he had a good vantage point on them. They were worried… worried for him.

Worried in a way his father hadn’t been.

Prikk was pragmatic, it was true, but this felt different, and he hated how it curled in his chest and spread icy fingers into his neck and shoulders.

But for now, he needed not to worry about it. They still had to find the rest of the aspects. He couldn’t let this affect his movements. He’d have to piece through it later. For now, Tyria needed the commander.

So the commander he would have to be.

[vodika-vibes]

Hey Pretty Girl

Summary: After the war, Echo picks up music as his hobby. And it wins him a girlfriend.

Pairing: ARC Trooper Echo x Reader

Word count: 896

Warnings: Fluff

Song: Hey Pretty Girl by Kip Moore

Divider by saradika

“Any new talent playing tonight?” You ask the bartender as you lean against the bar waiting for your drink.

The other woman laughs, “Of course we do! There’s a new guy who sounds a-maz-ing,” She gushes as she places your drink on the counter in front of you, “And he’s absolutely gorgeous.”

“Ooh. High praise coming from you,” You joke before taking a sip of your drink.

“Right? I mean most of the guys who come in here for these shows look, well, like trolls. But this guy…” She mock swoons over the bar, and you laugh. “If I wasn’t happily married, and, you know, very gay, I would climb him like a tree.”

You shoot her a look of amusement, “Well then, I’d better get a good seat.”

“I saved you a spot up front, baby doll!” She cooed to you, “You need a good man in your life. And your bed.”

“Wow. It’s tragic that you think you're funny.”

“Your love life is tragic, babe. Now, go catch yourself a man!”

You roll your eyes and head to the front of the club, easily finding the table that was saved for you. You settle on one of the stools and sip your drink as the club slowly fills.

Eventually the lights dim, and the music lessens, and the owner of the club announces the 22nd live artist show, and you settle in to enjoy yourself. 

The first few artists were okay. Not great, but not terrible. 

And then the third artist steps on stage. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with dark eyes and curly hair just long enough to bury your hands in. And he’s carrying a guitar.

The bar falls silent as he starts playing, and somehow, his gaze locks with yours. And he smiles, slow and lazy. And then he starts singing, “Hey pretty girl, won’t you look my way-”

You listen as he sings, and it feels like he’s singing directly to you.

And soon, too soon, the song is over and he’s leaving the stage, and you know, just know, that you have to meet him. So you down your drink as quickly as you can and you slip back towards the bar, intending to ask the bartender to get you a meet and greet.

But it was unnecessary, because he, apparently, had the same idea.

“Hi,” He greets, his gaze locked with yours.

“Hi,” Your mouth is dry and you feel like you should be nervous, but, somehow, you aren’t, “You’re a really good singer.”

He smiles at you, and your stomach flips, “Thanks. I needed a hobby when the war ended, and I chose music.” He offers you his hand, “Echo.”

You take his hand and introduce yourself with a bright smile, “Well, you definitely picked the right hobby.” You praise, and there is a thrill of delight when pink dusts across his cheeks.

“Thanks. It was my brother's idea, actually, for me to try this.” He gestures to the bar, “Do…would you like to go somewhere else? To just…talk?”

Your smile widens, “You know, I would actually.”

Echo shifts, almost nervously, “Maybe, we could go next door?”

“To the dance club?” You ask.

“Yeah. I like dancing.” Echo replies with an easy smile.

“As it happens, so do I.” You reply as you take a half step closer to him. 

“Good to know,” He lightly places his hand on the small of your back and guides you out of the club, and to the dance club right next door.

And as soon as you’re inside, he leans in so his mouth is right next to your ear, “Hey pretty girl, can I have this dance? And the next one after that?”

You blush, deeply flustered, but you favor him with a bright smile, “You can.”

He grins at you, and spins you onto the dance floor, pulling you close against him and holding you tight.

One dance turns to two. And then three.

You lose track of just how many songs you share with Echo, lost in his warm gaze, and the tight way that he’s holding you, like he’s afraid that if he lets you go, you’ll vanish into the night. 

You cling to him just as tightly though, so you’re not going to be too judgemental.

Slowly, like two stars caught in each other's orbit, his head leans in and you lean up, until your lips meet in a kiss that’s sweet and gentle and everything that you ever dreamed of in a kiss. 

One kiss turns into two, which turns into three.

And Echo drags you off the dance floor, to a slightly more secluded corner, where he kisses you over and over and over. And you lose yourself in him, but he loses himself in you at the same time.

“Pretty Girl,” He murmurs against your lips, “Can I walk you home?”

You press against him and kiss him again and again, “Yes.”

His gaze locks with yours, and his fingers are warm against the skin of your hip, “Oh, pretty girl,” He sounds adoring, “Can I stay with you?”

You trail your lips across his cheek and jaw, “Yes,” You murmur, “Please.”

And he smiles.

True to his word, Echo walks you home. And he stays.

And he doesn’t leave until noon the following day. Though by the time he leaves, you’re his girlfriend.

[kindheart525]

Dottieverse Fun Facts

Just a list of random fun facts about the Dottieverse cast! I've done separate posts on some of these tidbits but I wanted to put all the info in one place and add some bits that might not warrant posts on their own

I’ll keep editing this post as I come up with more fun facts! This isn’t complete by any means so keep checking back for more. Please feel free to suggest some too and maybe they’ll be added to the list!

Dottie Dompler

Her favorite drink is boba tea

Writes film reviews on Letterboxd in her free time

Doesn’t remember what she studied in college as she spent most of her time there picking up dudes

Keeps two diaries: One for general thoughts and feelings and another exclusively for documenting her love life in detail

Has an OnlyFans

Actually has some ex-girlfriends (one or two from experimenting in college and a few trans lady exes who presented as male when she dated them)

Kip Pimling

Is left-handed

Loves Chappell Roan and other similar artists

Used to do musical theater in middle school and still loves to do karaoke

Likes making glittery sensory ASMR videos

Started seeing a therapist as an angsty preteen and still goes regularly for mental health upkeep

Was a VERY colicky baby

Sucked her thumb to self-soothe until she was 5 years old

Now she fidgets with her hair when stressed

She and Dottie dressed up for the Barbie movie 30th anniversary theater re-release (in 2053)

Got her B.A. in psychology fully online so she could stay in her hometown and intern for Smiling Friends

Whenever someone is bigoted or just plain mean in her presence she donates to corresponding charities in their name (ex: meeting a queerphobe and donating to an LGBTQ organization for them)

Ell Pimling

Giorno’s nickname for her is “Slowpoke”

Fucking horrible at driving; always goes way over the speed limit

Owns a bulldog named Beef in her young adulthood

When she wants to talk to a tall person she just climbs them

Her taste in women overlaps with Giorno's so they often bond by gushing over attractive female athletes together

Nee Pimling

Has a small, persistent bruise on his bicep where he pinches himself every time his conscience “acts up”

Dur Pimling

Secretly skilled in graphic design; all of the advertisements for his and Nee’s laundromat were made by him

Blep Simpson

Multilingual in Wingon, Latin, American Sign Language, Hebrew, and English (which she never speaks but can understand)

Gola Simpson

Talks with Allan’s inflection and pronunciation style

Wore a wig as a teenager out of insecurity

Giorno Simpson

Ell’s nickname for him is “Twiggy”

His social media is mostly full of videos of him doing various workouts but he also has a "making fun of short people" series which has featured Suzy, Eep, Chad, and Ell

Secretly very good at singing but he isn’t super open about it

Glorp Simpson

Suzy Simpson

Owns a vast collection of hats to wear for every occasion

Is a horse girl; she owns a little pony named Rapunzel with a long mane that matches hers

Really wants to do coordinated Halloween costumes with Eep, but since Eep will never go out with her she does it with her niece Royal instead

Eep Simpson

Has a collection of hair bows much like Suzy’s hat collection; they share a literal “hats and bows” closet

Very prone to anxiety-induced stomachaches

Terrified of Halloween

Chad Simpson

Enjoys collecting fancy watches, and also has some silly kid ones from his sisters

Likes horses like Suzy does, but he doesn't like dirt so he bonds with her over sharing facts and watching races rather than riding them

Crawdad Crustacean

Has a southern accent that comes and goes

Chucky Dompler II

His Zodiac sign is Cancer (born in July)

Was born a full two weeks past his due date

Very skilled in Dungeons and Dragons

Pim “Beef” Pimling-Simpson II

Lost his legs from getting them tangled in holiday lights and falling down the stairs

When strangers in public ask him why he doesn’t have legs, he makes up different horrible stories about how he lost them to make them regret asking

Royal Simpson-Crustacean

Writes Y/N self-insert fanfiction

[egglygreg]

A while back I posted a list of Australian-isms I've been collecting for my story Strahliana, and, well, the list has grown quite a bit since then lol!

Here's what I've got so far with mostly no context:

Chucking a wobbly

Chucking a tanty

Bargey bum

Chin-wag

Going for a feed/have a feed

What a rip off

That's cooked

You'd better get a wriggle on

My dogs are barking (sore feet/toes)

Bloody beaut

You little beauty/ripper

Scarn on?

Cheeky mate

Flat out like a lizard drinking

Chook

Rock up

Tell him he's dreaming

Get decked

Howryagarn?

How ya travelling?

Too easy

Legend

Cheers mate

Darl' (darling)

Rubbish

Arvo

No drama

Snags

Swagman

Tah (thanks, give)

Sanga

Won't be a min

Far out!

She'll be right

Spruiking (promote, advertise, talk something up)

I'm deadset serious

Pull the other one

A few roos loose in the top paddock

Cool bananas

Heaps good

Crow eater

What are you on about?

Had a bit of a blue (a fight)

Derro, feral

Had a prang

Bucketing down

Old mate (derogatory)

Hard yakka

Onya

Go for ya life

Too easy

Whack it on

Cooee

Carrying on like a pork chop

Full as a goog

Cobber

Drongo

There ya go

What an absolute wombat

Silly galah

Bob's your uncle

3 dog night (it's bloody cold)

Absolutely rank (smelly)

Off like a bucket of prawns in the hot sun

Dunny

Stone the crows (surprise)

Spit the dummy

Have a kip

Brekkie

Oi!

No worries

Tucker

Have a gander

Agro

Cushie

Chuck a sickie

Cutting crook

Rug up

Stoked

D'ya reckon?

Shrapnel

Redback- $20 note

Whaler- $10 note

Fair crack of the whip

Have a whinge

My shout

Ripsnorter

Better than a kick up the bum

Pull the wool over their eyes

Spinning a yarn

Dodgy

Mosey- on

Billabong

On Ya Bronya

Brolga (long legs)

Bonza

Gone walkabout

Rightie oh

Ridgy-didge

Mucked up

Fair go

Crankie

Gnarly

Don't cross me mate

What a cracker

Dickie- on the blink

Not on your life

Top notch

Zonked

Dead as a door nail

Chockers, chock a block

Kicked the bucked

Daggy

Doozie

Nose out of joint

Browsing

Knock it off

Being fleeced

Done a runner

I'm rapt

I'm stuffed

Scrubs up well

Doona

Bluey (red hair)

Righty-oh

Dork

Dipstick

Fang it

Bushfire

Bum nuts

Shut ya gob

Spewing

Frumpy

Fossicking

Hooroo

Wouldn't know him from a bar of soap

Loose unit

Mrs Kafoops (bit pompous or self important)

Nark

Gronk

Cutting crook

Sesh (session)

Yonks

Bin chicken

Havin a sook

Chunder

Getting flogged

What a mad dog

You muppet

Munted

Me missus

Dobbing

(I'm not collecting true swearwords and really crude sayings, so none of these are particularly offensive. Also some of these may be words that are normal in the general English language but mean something else in Aussie English when used in a different context, and a few are way out of fashion and haven't been widely used since the 60s. Also some are regional!)

[blackjackkent]

A drabble dedicated to @rhysintherain because this has been living rent-free in my head since I posted yesterday about Rakha and Lae'zel going to shake down Zorru:

------

Karlach settles into camp quickly. She has spent a lot of time on the move as part of Zariel's army, and part of being a soldier is being able to make herself comfortable in any random bit of space big enough for a kip. Hells - having her own tent and space around it is practically palatial compared to the bunkroom full of cambions that was her primary resting place in Avernus.

Almost the first thing she does as soon as she's got her tent set up is sprawl out on the ground and stretch her arms and legs out as far as they'll go in all directions and let the sun beat down on her. It's not really home, not quite yet, but it's close. This is the happiest she's been in a long time.

She's halfway to dozing off for a comfortable nap when she realizes Rakha has wandered back and is just...standing there, staring at her.

Karlach opens one eye and peers up at the half-orc curiously. "Can I help you?"

She's already learning that her new friend is kind of a strange one, even without what she's been told about the other woman's memory loss and intrusive murder thoughts. Rakha doesn't always seem to know how to talk, and certainly not what normal conversation sounds like; she just says things, blunt and clipped, without concern for niceties. And she blinks just slightly too little, which makes her steady gaze a smidgen unnerving.

"I have a question," she says.

"Oh?" Karlach sits up slowly into a cross-legged position, jerks her head to indicate Rakha should sit down. "Well, let's hear it, then."

Rakha does not sit - does not, in fact, move at all. "Your race. Is it tiefling or teeth-ling?" she asks, with the same level of gravity she might have brought to ripping Karlach's head off.

Karlach blinks rapidly. "Sorry, what?"

"You are like those in the grove. The refugees," Rakha says. It's not a question, merely a collection of facts gathered for appraisal. "Gale called you tieflings, after we killed two rescuing Lae'zel. Lae'zel, however, pronounced it teeth-lings." She squints at Karlach intently. "I require your clarification."

"Oh." It's not really fair to laugh - and really, Karlach's amusement isn't at Rakha's lack of knowledge. It's the incredible seriousness of the demand, as if this question lies on par with all the unanswered ones about the worms in their heads. "Well, I can understand the confusion," she says, keeping her expression serious with an extreme effort of will.

"Yes." Rakha folds her arms. "Lae'zel would not mislead me, I think," she adds pensively after a slight pause. "She guided me from the nautiloid. She speaks with knowledge and without pretense."

"And Gale doesn't?" Karlach grins crookedly.

Rakha's expression twists with something like confusion. "I do not understand Gale," she admits slowly. "He knows much I wish to learn. But I feel foolish when he speaks."

"Too many words," Karlach agrees commiseratingly.

"Yes."

Well, it's almost an act of kindness, then, if that's how she feels about it, Karlach thinks to herself. A morale boost for her friendship with Lae'zel. It'd be doing her a favor.

But really, it's just the fact that it's the first time she's had the opportunity to do something funny in almost a decade, and she's not emotionally strong enough to resist that temptation.

"Well, I can tell you for certain, it's definitely teeth-ling," she says, serious as a funeral. "Lae'zel was right on top of it."

Rakha nods gravely. "Ah. Excellent." A pause. "Thank you."

She turns and walks away. Karlach crawls at once into her tent, curls into her bedroll, stuffs the pillow in her mouth, and howls with laughter.

-----

"This is your doing, isn't it?" Gale asks her several days later.

"No idea what you're talking about," Karlach says around a mouthful of the camp's latest attempt at "stew". It's a particularly unimpressive attempt tonight; the vast majority is carrots, and the rest is a very uninspiring cut of meat that is uncomfortably grey. And yet, somehow, it's still better than anything Zariel ever fed her.

"Rakha called Zevlor a teeth-ling to his face this afternoon."

Karlach lets out strangled giggle. "Oh, my gods. Seriously?" She drops her spoon back into her bowl with a clatter and gives him her full attention. "Tell me everything. What did his face look like?"

"Even my prodigious powers of description fail me on the subject. I think we may count ourselves lucky that he was too perplexed to be offended," Gale says dryly. "But most significantly to the point, any attempts to correct her afterwards have come to naught. She claimed that you were responsible for this particular crime against pronunciation and considered the matter irrevocably closed."

"Hmph," Karlach says cheerfully. "It was Lae'zel who came up with it. I just confirmed it."

He rolls his eyes. "You're enjoying this linguistic catastrophe, aren't you?"

"Listen, Gale - she's not hurting anyone, and the last time I had a little stupid harmless fun was 1481. Give me a break."

[ehlnofay]

The Founder!

the founder : foundations, community.

Old Lady Silda (who isn’t actually that old) is sitting cross-legged under a shop awning, ignoring Torr with all her might.

“Please,” Torr says, again. “I saw you. I know you can.”

The purse she’d lifted from a passerby’s hip, easy as anything, lies sedately beneath her knee. Torr’s sat back on his haunches with his feet flat on the ground. The snow hasn’t reached the spot under the awning yet, so he’s not getting wet, but it’s falling, feathery-soft. It doesn’t look likely to get bad, especially not this far into spring, but he told the kids to stick around the Grey Quarter alleys just in case, not far from the Cornerclub – Torr’s only been out here a few months, but already he’s learned that Ambarys is a better bet than most of the temples when it comes to begging for a roof over your head, which is a pretty damning indictment of the temples seeing as Ambarys is an utter prick. Which Torr means in the most graciously grateful way, of course. He doesn’t do charity, but as long as they’re able to scrounge up some way of paying for the privilege they’re okay. With the temples you have to beg and scrape and hope they’re in the mood to put you up, and Torr’s found, the last few months, that he doesn’t mind begging and he doesn’t mind scraping and he doesn’t mind lying or stealing or cheating but he can’t fucking stand waiting around hoping. Can’t stand trying and trying and not even knowing if anyone will listen.

Talking to Silda is proving difficult.

Not-really-Old Lady Silda looks at them now – hair threaded through with silver, only one eye focusing properly on their face – and she says, with her wobbly sort of impatience, “I’m not a schoolmarm. Go home, lad.”

Torr’s first thought (you go home!) is the kind of childish shit they can’t really afford, now, so they hunch over onto their knees to shield from the wet drifting wind and they make their cracking voice curt and serious and they say, “My parents died in Morning Star. I’ve got my sisters and my brother. Teach me how to pick pockets.” It seems like less of a production than housebreaking – which they’re no real good at in any case. They don’t know where to find the valuables, and they’re too antsy about being seen. If they got arrested they’d all be fucked.

A gaggle of people pass by, cloaked and chattering, stamping flat footprints into the snow. Torr looks at it, at the dirt in it.

“I’ll trade you,” he says.

Silda is watching the group of people go, but he still sees her raise an eyebrow. She asks, “Trade me what?”

How should Torr know what she wants? “Anything. Whatever.” They flick a hand, fingers stinging red in the springtime cold snap. Been ages since not having gloves bit this hard. “Whatever you want – I’ll get it to you.” They can’t imagine she could want anything so complicated they couldn’t figure it out. They kept the kids alive through the winter and the bitter slush of early spring – they’ve got a couple gigs running errands here and there – they’ve managed. They’ll manage.

(They’re meeting people; making connections. Ambarys – the washerwoman that pays them to do deliveries every other Tirdas – the people in the marketplace who’ll fork out a few coins for someone to help them set up and carry shit. Silda, omnipresent beggar and pickpurse who they’ve seen on street corners for their whole life, wouldn’t be a bad person to know, they think.)

“You’re a shit haggler,” says Silda, sounding vaguely pleased. Her left eye doesn’t quite focus on anything she’s looking at; it drifts upward, to the mould-edged canvas of the awning. Above that, the blank white sky. Is the snow slowing? Torr hopes the snow is slowing. With any luck they won’t even need to cajole Ambarys into letting them kip in the corner. (It’s almost impressive, the way he is; the sheer dedication of a quite nice sort of man, when you get down to it, to acting like an asshole. Torr wonders if Silda is the same way. She’s kind of talking like she’s making fun of them.)

“’M not haggling,” Torr says, anyway. He rubs his hands together. It doesn’t really help. His right little finger is always flushed these days, like permanent frostnip. “You help me, I’ll help you. That’s all.”

Silda says, “You’re a little boy.”

That grates, a bit. (Torr bets they’re as tall as her, as much as she slumps; Torr’s not little in any sense of the world. They threw all that out with the bathwater. He’s a little boy like a feral dog is a house pet.) He bites his cheek, teeth grazing the old marks of chewing there, and he shrugs, and he says, “The others are littler.”

A bit of snow falls off the edge of the awning to land on the ground with a poof.

Silda looks at him. There’s a faint scar on her chin. With finality, she tells him, “Ten gold.”

Ten gold – “Are you serious?”

“Proper minted,” she says, implacable. “None of that hack shit. Call it your first lesson – set a cap on what you’re offering.”

“I asked to learn to lift purses, not how to bargain.” Torr wraps their hand around their little finger; lifts their chin and sets their jaw. “And I said anything on purpose. Show me how and I’ll get the money to you.”

(Ten full gold is no small change, but if she teaches him right the whole endeavour will basically pay for itself.)

Silda wipes her mouth with a knuckle. Her teeth are small and yellow. “All right,” she says, something appraising in her face. Snow dribbles down from the awning again. She knuckles at her cheek. “And tell your sister to stop digging through my stuff. I keep seeing the dark-haired one messing with my spots.”

A blink. “I don’t have a sister with dark hair,” Torr says; she looks at him with scepticism, and he says, “I don’t. I don’t know where you keep your stuff. But if I see someone doing that I’ll tell them to knock it off.”

“Do,” Silda says firmly. The street has drizzled out to almost empty; with a quickness that belies the scabbed, quavering fragility of her hands, she takes the purse from under her knee and tucks it into the band of her skirt. The purse is blue. The skirt looks like it might have been too, once. Torr exhales their relief, and it crystallises in the air, pale as smoke.